Chapter 39: Seeds of Influence
Potions class ended early, the dungeon's acidic air lingering as students scattered to dorms or the library. Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson headed off, their voices fading into a debate over Transfiguration. Clark Kent lingered in the Slytherin common room, sprawled on a plush, dark green couch, flipping through his potions notes with casual precision. Across from him, Daphne Greengrass sat cross-legged in a velvet armchair, twirling a quill, her icy blonde hair catching the glow of enchanted green flames.
The fireplace's eerie light danced across stone walls, shadows twisting like serpents, the room a cavern of ambition. Clark's Kryptonian senses caught the faint hum of the lake beyond the massive window, its depths a mirror to his plans. This was his domain, and every interaction a step toward control, just as he'd broken Petunia's will in his pocket universe ring.
The clock chimed, and Clark stretched, rising with a lazy grace. "Library," he said, rolling his shoulders. "Study date with Hermione."
Daphne froze, her quill nearly snapping. Her piercing blue eyes betrayed a flicker of envy, quickly masked. "You're not jealous, are you?" Clark teased, his smirk sharp.
She scoffed, tossing her hair. "Jealous? Of that mudblood?"
Clark's grin faded, his voice low, commanding. "Don't be jealous." He stepped closer, pressing a brief kiss to her cheek, his touch calculated, a seed planted. Daphne's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing pink, her cool facade cracking.
"You should know by now—I don't care about blood supremacy," he murmured, his emerald gaze locking hers. "To me, there are only allies and enemies."
Daphne held his stare, then exhaled, looking away. Clark's smirk returned—her prejudice wouldn't shift overnight, but he'd sown doubt, a lever to pull later.
Navigating Hogwarts' labyrinthine corridors proved a challenge, even for Clark's sharp mind. Staircases shifted, portraits smirked, and a smug knight in a painting offered cryptic directions. After dead ends and muttered curses, he reached the library's massive double doors, the scent of parchment and aged leather washing over him.
The library was a cathedral of knowledge, wooden shelves soaring to an enchanted ceiling where floating candles cast a golden glow. Hermione Granger sat at a secluded table, her bushy hair spilling over her shoulders as she scribbled furiously, books piled like battlements.
"You're late," she said, not looking up. "I thought you forgot."
Clark dropped into the chair across her, chuckling. "How could I, when the great Hermione Granger summoned me?"
She rolled her eyes, undeterred. "What are you studying?"
"Potions," he said, pulling out his notes, their edges worn from use.
They traded ideas, Hermione's methodical precision clashing with Clark's instinctual flair. Her quill paused as she studied him, a smirk forming. "You're not here to study."
Clark leaned back, his green eyes twinkling. "Oh? Then what am I here for?"
Footsteps interrupted. Draco and Pansy appeared, her arms folded, eyes sharp. "What are you doing here, Potter?" Pansy asked, her tone accusing.
Clark's smirk was lazy, defiant. "Just studying."
Draco's glance flicked between Hermione and Clark, his smirk knowing. "You're really good at this, aren't you?"
"At what?" Clark shot back, his tone a challenge.
Draco didn't answer, pulling Pansy away before her glare could ignite. Hermione shook her head. "Slytherins are impossible."
Clark grinned, his voice low. "We are Slytherins too, you know."
Hermione's lips twitched, a reluctant spark. Clark's mind raced—she was his to shape, her brilliance a tool, like Petunia's submission, forged through fear and awe.
The school grounds buzzed with excitement as first-years gathered for flying lessons, the emerald field stretching wide, framed by swaying trees and the castle's distant spires. The sun blazed, its golden light warming the grass, the air alive with anticipation.
Madam Hooch strode in, her silver hair sharp against her stern face, her yellow eyes scanning the students like a hawk sizing up prey. Her commanding presence silenced the chatter, her whistle gleaming in her hand.
"Stand beside a broomstick!" she barked.
Students scrambled, lining up beside worn school brooms, their chipped wood and frayed twigs a far cry from Clark's dreams of soaring without aid, his Kryptonian flight a memory of boundless skies. He eyed his broom with mild disdain—crude, but a tool to master.
"Hold out your right hand and say 'Up!'"
"UP!"
Results varied. Clark's broom leapt to his hand, Pansy's followed suit, her smirk smug. Draco's rose on his second try, his confidence unshaken. On the Gryffindor side, chaos reigned—Neville Longbottom's broom rolled away, defiant, while Ron Weasley's wobbled, flipping sideways.
Clark sighed. Some were born to fall.
Madam Hooch's keen eyes swept the line. "Those who summoned their brooms, well done. The rest—practice."
Hermione, her broom barely twitching, bit her lip, frustration etching her face. She caught Clark's stare and scowled. "Not a word."
His smirk was teasing. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Good."
After persistent tries—Neville still failing—Hooch pressed on. "When I blow my whistle, kick off, rise a few feet, and come back down. Understood?"
Nods rippled through the group, but tension hung heavy. The whistle shrilled, and chaos erupted.
Neville, panicking, shoved off too hard, his broom rocketing upward. "NEVILLE!" Hermione shrieked, her voice piercing.
The class watched, horrified, as Neville flailed, his grip slipping. His broom bucked, and he plummeted, crashing onto the grass with a sickening thud. Dust rose, students gasping.
Madam Hooch rushed over, her face grim. She knelt, examining him. "Broken wrist," she muttered, clicking her tongue. "I'm taking him to the hospital wing. No one flies until I return."
She led a sniffling Neville away, his head bowed. Clark's smirk was faint—Neville's failure was a lesson in weakness, a contrast to his own control, forged through dominating the Dursleys' fear.
To be continued.