The dim light of dawn barely reached the depths of the Slytherin dormitory, where shadows clung to the walls like silent sentinels. The enchanted green flames flickered in their sconces, casting an eerie glow that bathed everything in a soft, ethereal haze. The underground chambers carried a cool dampness, a constant reminder that they lay beneath the Black Lake.
Nestled in the luxurious four-poster bed, Harry stirred awake, stretching lazily beneath the silk sheets. The smooth fabric slid across his bare chest as he smirked to himself, recalling the events of the night before.
His fingers idly traced through Petunia's golden locks, his grip tightening slightly as he guided her motions. Her lips moved with deliberate intent, slow and teasing, sending shivers down his spine. A deep groan escaped him, his hand resting against the back of her head, urging her further. The warm flickers of candlelight illuminated her flushed cheeks, the glistening evidence of her devotion catching in the glow.
She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, the sight making his pulse quicken. His smirk widened, voice husky as he whispered, "Just like that."
A satisfied sigh left his lips as he finally pulled her up, tilting her chin so their eyes met. Breathless and dazed, she rested against him, her fingers lingering over his chest. He brushed his thumb over her swollen lips, amusement flickering in his gaze.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice laced with approval.
A sharp knock at the door disrupted the quiet, pulling them both from the moment.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet. "Oi, Potter! Get up!" Draco Malfoy's voice, impatient, cut through the door. "We're heading to breakfast together!"
Clark rolled his eyes, his role as "Harry Potter" a mask he wore with ease. With a flick of his wrist, Petunia vanished back into the ring's void, her absence seamless. He rose, muscles flexing as he dressed in his Slytherin robes, the emerald and silver fabric gleaming in the low light. His tie knotted with effortless elegance, a contrast to his calculated indifference.
The door swung open, revealing Draco, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini, their impatience palpable. "Finally," Draco huffed. "You take longer than Pansy."
Clark's smirk was cold, teasing. "Beauty takes time, Malfoy."
Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's go before the food's gone."
Their footsteps echoed on polished stone as they strode through the dungeon corridors, the damp air thick with moss and mystery. The Slytherin common room, with its dark wood, green velvet, and serpent-shaped lanterns, lay silent, the lake's depths glinting beyond the massive window.
The Great Hall buzzed like a grand banquet hall, its enchanted ceiling a swirl of gray clouds pierced by golden sunlight. The aroma of fresh pastries, roasted meats, and warm pumpkin juice filled the air, mingling with students' chatter. Clark's gaze swept the room, locking onto Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson at the Slytherin table, their contrasting auras—Daphne's icy confidence, Pansy's haughty sneer—a puzzle to unravel.
He strolled over, hands in pockets, his confidence a quiet storm. "Daphne," he drawled, stopping beside her, "about our bet… I deserve a reward."
Daphne blinked, her feigned innocence sharp. "Oh? And what do you want?"
"A favor," Clark said, his voice smooth, his smirk hinting at deeper intent.
Pansy nearly choked on her pumpkin juice, her glare venomous. Before Daphne could retort, a sharp pain shot up Clark's shin—Hermione Granger, appearing from nowhere, had kicked him.
"Shameless!" she scolded, arms crossed, her bookish intensity blazing.
Clark grinned, rubbing his leg, his tone teasing. "Ouch, Granger. Keep acting jealous, and I'll think you like me."
Hermione's face flushed, her huff barely hiding a flicker of embarrassment. "In your dreams, Potter!"
Pansy sneered, her voice dripping. "You let a Muggle-born touch you?"
Hermione, oblivious to the insult, kept scolding Clark, her words a flurry. Daphne, sipping her goblet, hid a smirk, her sharp eyes noting Pansy's venom.
Clark's grin didn't waver, his voice light but edged. "Careful, Pansy. Rage doesn't suit your charm."
Pansy huffed, crossing her arms, silenced. Daphne's amusement flickered, her composure a challenge Clark relished, his ambition to sway her growing.
The trek to class was a nightmare. Hogwarts' moving staircases twisted like living serpents, their steps shifting underfoot. Clark muttered, "Without Hermione, I'd be lost every damn time."
Hermione smirked, smug. "You're welcome."
Portraits whispered as they passed, their painted eyes tracking Clark. "That Potter boy's a charmer," a plump witch cooed. "Teasing the Greengrass girl? Scandalous!"
Clark rolled his eyes, Hermione giggling beside him. Then Peeves the Poltergeist zoomed through, cackling as he lobbed ink balloons. "PEEVES!" Filch's raspy bellow echoed, Mrs. Norris glowering like a judge.
"Filch takes his job too seriously," Clark muttered, dodging the chaos, his patience thinning.
In Greenhouse Three, humid air thick with damp soil and blooming plants greeted them. Professor Sprout, her kind eyes warm, introduced Devil's Snare, warning of its deadly grip. Hermione answered every question, her precision earning Slytherin 20 points. Other houses glared, their whispers sharp. Clark's enhanced hearing caught each one, his smirk cold—he'd remember those faces for later.
Astronomy was a slog, star charts blurring under Professor trelawney droning. "I don't believe in fate," Clark muttered, flipping pages lazily, his mind elsewhere.
History of Magic was worse. Professor Binns, a ghostly monotone, lulled half the class to sleep. Draco's head lolled, his fight for wakefulness lost. Daphne, to Clark's surprise, took notes beside Hermione, her focus a quiet strength he noted.
"Merlin, even in death, he won't shut up," Clark whispered.
Hermione elbowed him. "Shh! This is important!"
Charms was lively, Professor Flitwick nearly toppling from his book stack in excitement at Clark's name. Clark sighed, his fame a weight. Hermione earned more points, her wandwork flawless, drawing jealous glares.
Transfiguration was different. Professor McGonagall's strict presence commanded the room, her emerald robes sharp, her intelligence a beacon. Clark listened, but his eyes drifted to Daphne, her poised focus a spark he'd stoke. Hermione noticed, hissing, "Why are you staring at her?"
Clark smirked, leaning closer. "Jealous?"
Hermione's cheeks reddened. "As if! You're being creepy."
"You're cute when you're jealous," he teased, his voice low.
Hermione swung her book at him, huffing. "Shut up before I kick you!" A tiny smile betrayed her.
Draco, Daphne, and Pansy watched Clark from afar, their whispers a low hum. "What's he doing with a Muggle-born?" Pansy muttered, her annoyance sharp.
Draco smirked, teasing. "It's love."
Daphne's glare was swift, icy. "I-It was a joke!" Draco stammered, backtracking.
The words lingered, unspoken thoughts swirling, their gazes tracking Clark's every move.
The night was just beginning.