The cupboard under the stairs was a tomb of shadows, its air thick with dust and neglect. Clark Kent stood in the wreckage of his awakening, his emerald eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight. The cracked mirror at his feet reflected a man, not a boy—Harry Potter's body, but Clark's soul, burning with reclaimed power. The Dursley house creaked around him, a prison he'd endured for years, its walls scarred with the weight of his past.
A deafening BANG shattered the silence, the wooden door exploding inward like a firecracker at a festival. Splinters flew, scattering across the floor. Heavy footsteps thundered, shaking the planks, as a massive figure stormed into the cramped space.
Vernon Dursley loomed, his face purple with rage, sweat gleaming on his forehead like a monsoon sheen. His fists trembled, veins bulging, his pig-like eyes blazing with fury. Behind him, Petunia hovered at the staircase, her thin robe clutched tight, her sunken eyes wide with dread. Her lips quivered, barely holding back a scream.
Vernon's gaze swept the chaos—overturned furniture, a shattered lamp, the cracked mirror glinting in the corner. His rage boiled over, spit flying as he roared, "You think you can wreck my house? Do whatever the hell you want, you freak?"
Clark moved, a blur too fast for Vernon's sluggish mind to track. In a heartbeat, his fist sank into Vernon's gut—a single, precise strike, controlled but devastating. The air whooshed out of Vernon, a wet, gurgled gasp escaping his lips. His tiny eyes bulged, his knees buckling as his massive frame folded like a cheap umbrella.
THUD. Vernon hit the floor, the impact rattling the house like a market brawl gone wild. His fingers clawed at his stomach, his wheezing breaths barely audible, his face drained of color. For the first time, Vernon Dursley—bully, tyrant, tormentor—looked fragile, a broken man at Clark's feet.
Clark's heart pounded, not with fear but with a dark satisfaction. Years of abuse flashed through his mind—locked in this cupboard, starved, mocked, treated like dirt. The boy Harry had suffered, and Clark carried those scars in his soul. Now, the tables had turned.
A sharp gasp cut the air. Clark's head turned, slow and deliberate, his glowing eyes locking onto Petunia. She stood frozen, her frail frame trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her bony hands clutched her robe, her chest heaving with panicked breaths. Her sharp cheekbones and thin nightgown gave her an eerie elegance, but her wide eyes screamed prey.
"You… you little monster," she whispered, her voice shaking, barely audible.
Clark tilted his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Monster?"
He stepped forward, his boots heavy on the creaking floor. Petunia staggered back, her shoulders slamming into the wall, nowhere left to run. Her breath hitched, her lashes fluttering as fear consumed her.
"No, Aunt Petunia," Clark murmured, his voice smooth as silk, laced with a chilling edge. "You haven't seen a monster yet."
Memories surged—Petunia's sneers, her sharp slaps, her cold neglect. She'd called him worthless, a burden, while Vernon's fists enforced her scorn. Clark's Kryptonian power hummed, free from the World Will's chains, begging to be unleashed. But he held back, savoring her terror.
Clark's hand shot forward, his fingers gripping Petunia's chin, firm but not cruel. She gasped, her skin cold, her pulse racing under his touch. Her eyes darted, searching for escape, but Clark's presence was a wall, unyielding and absolute.
"All my life, you treated me like garbage," he said, his voice low, dangerous, cutting through the silence. "Like I was beneath you."
Petunia's lips trembled, her knees buckling. She tried to look away, but Clark's grip tightened just enough to hold her gaze, a reminder of her powerlessness. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her pale skin, his eyes burning with restrained fury.
"Now," he whispered, "it's your turn to feel small."
Petunia shuddered, her body sinking, her frail form crumpling to the floor under the weight of his words. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her elegance shattered, her control gone. For the first time, she was nothing—nothing but fear.
"P-Petunia… don't…" Vernon wheezed, his fat fingers twitching, his voice a pathetic croak from the floor.
Clark didn't glance at him. His boot pressed down on Vernon's chest, slow and deliberate, pinning him like an insect under glass. Vernon's face paled, his gasps turning frantic, his bravado crushed under Clark's strength.
"You're lucky I don't kill you," Clark said, his voice cold, his eyes dark with promise. Vernon's strangled whimper was his only reply, his body trembling under the weight of his own helplessness.
Clark's gaze shifted back to Petunia, still huddled against the wall, her eyes wide with terror. A cruel smirk touched his lips, sharp and unyielding. "Oh, how I'll love breaking you," he murmured, the words dripping with menace.
Petunia's throat bobbed, her mouth opening to plead, to deny—but no sound came. Her eyes said it all: she knew. This was the moment their world flipped, the moment power changed hands. For once, she and Vernon were the ones with nothing—no control, no pride, no hope.
Clark stepped back, his smirk fading, his power a quiet storm waiting to erupt. The Dursleys were broken, but this was only the beginning. A new life, a new world, lay ahead—and Clark Kent, Harry Potter, would carve his own path, starting now.