Clark Kent drifted in an endless void, a sea of darkness where no light, no sound, no time existed. His consciousness hung by a thread, flickering like a diya in a storm, trapped in a nothingness that felt both eternal and suffocating. It was like a yogi's trance, deep and disorienting, but without peace—only chaos. Voices haunted him, sharp and relentless: a man's furious screams, a woman's desperate sobs, a child's broken cries. They looped, over and over, fragments of a life just out of reach, taunting him with their familiarity.
He tried to move, to scream, to wake, but the void held him, its grip unyielding. Panic surged, his thoughts spiraling. Was this death? Had the bullet from the MCU attack claimed him? Had Kara's scream been his end? He clawed at the darkness, desperate for something—anything—to anchor him.
Then, a piercing scream shattered the silence, a jolt that ripped through the abyss like lightning.
Clark's eyes snapped open, his mind slamming back into reality. Pain flooded him—sharp, raw, grounding. His head throbbed, warm blood trickling down his forehead, stinging his skin. His body ached, every muscle stiff, but it was real. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt.
His senses roared to life, overwhelming in their clarity. The cold, hard floor pressed against his back, its chill seeping through his clothes. The air carried dust, sweat, and the faint tang of mildew, like a neglected storeroom. A candle flickered in the corner, its weak light dancing on peeling walls. He gasped, his lungs burning as if he'd forgotten how to breathe, each inhale a battle won.
He was alive. But where? And who?
Clark pushed himself up, his limbs heavy but responsive. The room was small, cramped, a cupboard under a staircase, its walls scarred with scratches and faded crayon marks. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, its surface clouded but reflective. He crawled toward it, his heart pounding, dread and curiosity warring within him. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
The reflection stole his breath. A lean, powerful frame, broad shoulders filling a worn shirt. Raven-black hair, messy and long, framing a sharp jaw. Piercing green eyes, bright with an unnatural glow, stared back. A lightning-shaped scar marked his forehead, a stark reminder of a night long past. He wasn't a baby, not even a child. He was a man—adult, strong, alive.
"Harry," he whispered, testing the name. But inside, he was Clark Kent, the soul of a Kryptonian reborn in a wizard's body. The truth hit like a tidal wave, both exhilarating and disorienting.
His mind reeled, grasping at fragmented memories like pieces of a shattered pot. The MCU flashed vivid—the terrorist attack, his heat vision erupting, the bullet tearing through his chest. Then, the white gate, pulling his soul into the Harry Potter world. He'd merged with baby Harry Potter, his Kryptonian instincts obliterating Voldemort with a blast of golden light. The effort had drained him, his infant body too frail to sustain such power. Then—nothing. A void, a hibernation, his consciousness locked away.
Fifteen years had passed, he realized, piecing it together. His body had grown—raised as Harry Potter, living a life he hadn't witnessed—but his mind had slept, dormant from the energy he'd unleashed. He'd been a passenger, unaware, while the world moved on. Anger flared, hot and bitter. Fifteen years stolen, years he could've shaped, controlled. The Will of the World, that cosmic force that suppressed him, had kept him caged, even here.
But now, he was awake. And he was done being held back.
Clark stood, his fists clenching, power surging through his veins like a river unleashed. His Kryptonian strength hummed, no longer muted—muscles taut, ready to shatter steel. His senses sharpened, catching the creak of floorboards above, the distant hum of a streetlamp outside. He tested his speed, a flicker of movement that blurred the room, faster than thought. His eyes warmed, a faint glow hinting at heat vision ready to ignite. The Will's grip, once a vice, had weakened, its suppression fading in this new world.
He was whole. Not just Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He was Clark Kent, a force no universe could chain. His lips curled into a smirk, defiance burning in his chest. Whatever life Harry had lived, Clark would reclaim it, reshape it. He'd never be powerless again.
The moment of triumph shattered with a violent BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The door to the cupboard rattled, each pound unnatural, laced with rage and impatience. Dust fell from the ceiling, the candle flickering wildly. Whoever—or whatever—was on the other side wasn't here for a chat. The force shook the walls, like a festival drum beaten by a giant.
Clark's emerald eyes narrowed, his body tensing, power coiling like a spring. The door splintered, bursting open in a spray of wood. Shadows loomed in the hallway, their intent dark and unmistakable. Clark's smirk widened, his heart racing—not with fear, but with anticipation. This was his new life, his new world. And he was ready to meet it head-on.