Chapter 38: Brewing Ambition
Friday dawned crisp, the last school day before the weekend, and anticipation crackled in the Great Hall for the shared Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class. At the Slytherin table, Clark Kent sat among Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass, their breakfast plates piled with eggs, bacon, and toast. The hall hummed like a bustling tavern, students' chatter blending with the clink of goblets.
A flutter of wings silenced the din as hundreds of owls swooped through the arched windows, delivering letters and parcels. Hedwig, Clark's snowy owl, glided down with grace, dropping a small package before him—his daily newspaper, delivered faithfully despite her absence since his Hogwarts arrival. Clark unfolded it casually, his emerald eyes scanning the headlines, his Kryptonian senses attuned to the table's dynamics.
Daphne leaned closer, her voice sweet but probing. "Harry, will you teach me Potions today?"
Clark's smirk was amused, his tone teasing. "Oh? And why's that?"
She pouted, a calculated charm. "I'm not great at Potions. I always mess it up."
He chuckled, low and confident. "As if a Muggle-raised boy knows more than you?"
"Surely not! You're Harry Potter," she said, her playful glint meeting his gaze, a spark he could stoke.
Pansy, nearby, turned to Draco, her fiancé, her voice sharp. "Draco, I'm not great at Potions either. You'll help me, won't you?"
Draco nodded indifferently. "Okay."
Pansy's face soured—her fiancé's apathy stung. Clark's lips twitched.
Daphne, undeterred, leaned toward Clark and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, her grin mischievous. "Debt repaid!" she called, dashing off before he could react.
Clark blinked. "What the hell…?"
Pansy huffed, grabbed her books, and stormed away, her frustration a storm cloud. Clark shook his head, turning to Draco. "Now you've done it. Pansy's in love with you, you know?"
Draco's lazy smirk was unconcerned, his arrogance a mirror to Clark's own.
Clark leaned back, smug. "See me? I've got Hermione on one arm, and Daphne will soon be on the other."
"Who's in your arms, Harry?"
Hermione's voice, sharp and sudden, chilled his spine. She stood behind him, her presence unnoticed until now. Her eyes narrowed, arms crossed.
Clark chuckled awkwardly, recovering fast. "Just a joke! A joke!"
Hermione's glare softened, her tone shifting. "Anyway, thanks for yesterday's Transfiguration help. I learned a lot from what you said."
He waved it off, his charm effortless. "No need to thank me."
"So, what do you want, then?"
Clark leaned forward, his tease calculated. "A kiss—"
Hermione's hand twitched toward his neck, and he pivoted mid-sentence. "—A complete set of notes for the year!"
She raised an eyebrow. "What? No way. Do your own work."
His grin was wolfish. "That's all I need."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We can study together, if you want."
"Oh? Like a date?"
She turned, walking away, her glance flicking to his lips, a subtle hint. "Library. After school. Take it or leave it."
Clark chuckled, her challenge a thread in his web, his confidence forged from breaking the Dursleys' scorn.
The Potions classroom, deep in the dungeons, was a cold, dimly lit cavern, its stone walls lined with shelves of jars—eyeballs, roots, and unnameable things floating in murky liquids. The air carried herbs, burnt residue, and a sharp, acidic bite, like a chemist's lair gone wrong. Students filed in, Slytherins and Gryffindors eyeing each other warily, the tension thick.
Professor Severus Snape swept in, his black robes billowing, his presence a storm cloud. Without a word, he began roll call, his voice a low drawl. At "Potter, Harry," he paused, his dark eyes lingering, a flicker of disdain before moving on.
Snape faced the class, his tone cutting. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I can teach you to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses, bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death… if you aren't a bunch of dunderheads."
Silence gripped the room. Hermione sat rigid, hands folded, drinking in Snape's words like sacred scripture, her intensity almost endearing. Clark's smirk was faint, her zeal a tool he'd shape, just as he'd molded her in Transfiguration.
Daphne, beside him, muttered under her breath, her cool facade unreadable. Clark noted her tension—Potions was her weakness, and he'd exploit it to bind her closer.
"Weasley!" Snape's voice snapped.
Ron flinched, his freckles stark against his pale face.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Ron's panic was palpable, his mind blank. Hermione's hand shot up, eager.
Snape ignored her, his sneer sharpening. "Clearly, fame isn't everything. Five points from Gryffindor."
Hermione's hand stayed up, undeterred. Snape turned to Clark, his gaze a challenge. "Potter."
"Draught of Living Death," Clark said, his tone smooth, unshaken.
A flicker—irritation?—crossed Snape's face. "Correct. Though I expected nothing less from someone raised outside the wizarding world," he said, sarcasm dripping. "15 points to Slytherin."
Hermione, finally called, rattled off a thorough answer, earning another 15 points for Slytherin. Her smug glance at Clark was a spark he'd fan later. Snape's disdain shifted to Ron, whose fumbled responses cost Gryffindor more points, his misery almost pitiable. Clark's pity was fleeting—weakness was a flaw to exploit.
Clark paired with Daphne as agreed, their cauldron simmering with precision. He guided her subtly, his instructions sharp, his intent clear—her success would tie her to him. Their potion gleamed, flawless, its surface a mirror of their skill.
"Excellent work," Snape said, his rare praise awarding 10 points to Slytherin.
Daphne beamed. "See? You're a great teacher."
Clark's smirk was smug. "Of course I am."
The lesson hummed—until a hissing broke the focus. Neville Longbottom's cauldron bubbled violently, then melted, its blackened sludge seeping across the floor, reeking of decay. Students coughed, recoiling.
Clark stared, genuinely impressed. How do you even melt a cauldron?
Snape's fury was icy. "Longbottom, you absolute imbecile!"
Neville shrank, his face ashen, teetering on collapse. Ron, beside him, took collateral damage—Snape docked Gryffindor points for his failure to intervene, his scowl murderous.
Clark sighed, his voice low. "Maybe Neville really does have the IQ of a monkey…"
To be continued.