The morning air was crisp, but the Transfiguration classroom buzzed like a stage before a performance, students shuffling into seats with half-hearted diligence. Their eyes flicked to the vacant professor's desk, whispers rippling through the rows. Clark Kent, seated near the front, ignored the empty chair, his emerald eyes glinting with amusement as they locked onto the tabby cat perched atop the desk, its tail flicking with impatience. His Kryptonian senses caught the faint pulse of magic beneath its form—Professor McGonagall, playing her dramatic game.
Clark leaned back, smirking. She's got a flair for theatrics, he thought, his confidence a blade honed by breaking the Dursleys' scorn, Petunia's submission sealed in his pocket universe ring.
Hermione Granger, beside him, buried her nose in A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, her brow furrowed. "We should revise," she hissed, glaring at the class's chatter. "McGonagall won't tolerate distractions."
Clark's chuckle was low, teasing. "Who said she's not here?"
Hermione's confused glance met his smirk, but before she could press, the door burst open with a BANG. Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom stumbled in, breathless.
"We made it!" Ron panted, doubling over. "Can you imagine McGonagall's face if—"
The tabby cat leapt, its form twisting mid-air, fur melting into emerald robes as Professor McGonagall materialized, stern and commanding. The classroom froze, jaws dropping.
"That," Ron blurted, "was bloody brilliant!"
McGonagall's lips thinned, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps I'll transfigure you into an alarm clock to ensure punctuality?"
Ron gulped, sinking into his seat. Neville shrank, his round face pale.
McGonagall's gaze shifted, pinning Clark. "Potter, you recognized me. How?"
His smirk deepened, his tone smooth as silk. "Simple. Only seven registered Animagi in Britain. I know their names."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, then approval. "Impressive. Five points to Slytherin."
Murmurs rippled, Slytherins smirking, Gryffindors frowning. Hermione shot Clark a look—irritation laced with grudging respect. Clark shrugged, his amusement hidden. Movies gave him the edge, but he'd never admit it.
McGonagall flicked her wand, a teacup morphing into a sleek tabby kitten, its golden eyes blinking. Another flick, and it reverted to porcelain, drawing gasps. "Transfiguration is complex," she declared, her voice a conductor's baton. "Sloppiness will not be tolerated. Today, you'll transform matches into needles. Do not disappoint me."
Students scrambled for wands, the room humming with effort. Clark flicked his wand lazily, his match shimmering into a gleaming silver needle, its point razor-sharp. His intent was clear, his magic a precise tool, unlike the Dursleys' futile attempts to cage him.
McGonagall's eyebrows lifted. "Excellent, Mr. Potter. Twenty points to Slytherin."
Hermione scowled at her untransformed match, her wand trembling. "Having trouble?" Clark whispered, his smirk teasing but calculated, testing her pride.
She glared, exhaling sharply. "The spell's correct, but it won't change!"
"You're stuck on words," he said, voice low, commanding. "Magic bends to intent. Picture the match as a needle, feel it shift."
Hermione's lips pursed, but she tried again, her wand steadying. The match wavered, morphing into a crude, bent needle. Her eyes widened. "I did it!"
Clark's grin was predatory—she was his to mold, her success a thread in his web. By lesson's end, they'd earned over fifty points, Hermione smug, Clark reveling in the ease. McGonagall's stern nod fueled his ambition—this classroom was his stage, and he'd master it.
Defense Against the Dark Arts was a stark contrast, the room dim, air heavy with unease. Professor Quirrell stood at the front, a faltering actor in a turban, stammering through a lecture on curses. His hands twitched, his voice cracking when Pansy Parkinson coughed loudly, her smirk cruel.
Clark barely listened, his focus on the wrongness around Quirrell. His Kryptonian senses caught a sickly-sweet disturbance, a shadow beneath the man's skin. Voldemort, coiled like a serpent, his presence a hum against Clark's magic, a warning of power and rot.
He knew. The Dark Lord was here, watching, waiting.
Clark's fingers tapped his desk, his mind racing. One spell could end it—one decisive strike, and Voldemort would be dust, at least for this year. His wand felt warm, eager, a tool to crush the threat, just as he'd crushed Petunia's defiance.
But a slow smile curled his lips. Too easy.
Killing now lacked satisfaction. He wanted to watch Voldemort squirm, to see him claw for power only to fail, his plans unraveling under Clark's gaze. This was a game, and Clark played for dominance, not quick victories.
Leaning back, his smirk was cold, predatory. Quirrell's nervous glance met his eyes, and Clark let his stare linger, a silent challenge. The professor flinched, his turban tilting, and Clark's grin widened—he'd rattled the host, sensed the shadow's unease.
For now, he'd watch, a hunter stalking prey. When the time came, Voldemort wouldn't see it coming.