Chapter 24: A New World
The morning sun barely pierced the grimy windows of Number Four, Privet Drive, casting a dull glow over the Dursley house. The air was warm and heavy, like the stillness before a monsoon, charged with the weight of Clark Kent's new reality. The Hogwarts letter, tucked in his pocket, was a spark of destiny, a key to a world where he, Harry Potter, would rise unchallenged. His Kryptonian power hummed, free from the World Will's grip, a quiet storm ready to reshape everything.
A sharp knock cut through the silence. Clark's lips curled into a dark smirk, his emerald eyes glinting with anticipation. The Dursleys froze—Petunia at the kitchen counter, her hands trembling as she clutched a teapot; Vernon in his armchair, his jowls quivering over a newspaper; Dudley slouched by the stairs, his piggy eyes darting nervously. Clark strode to the door, his boots heavy on the creaking floor, his presence a shadow over the house he'd broken.
The door swung open, revealing Bathsheda Babbling, the 25-year-old Hogwarts Professor of Ancient Runes. Her heart pounded, audible to Clark's enhanced senses, her light brown skin glowing faintly in the sunlight. Deep chocolate eyes flickered with nerves, jet-black hair tied in a neat bun. Her grey skirt hugged her slim waist and round hips, ending just above her knees, with black tights tracing her long, toned legs. A white blouse, snug under a grey blazer, hinted at her curves, professional yet captivating.
"Oh, Merlin, why me?" she muttered, her voice a soft sigh, unaware of Clark's sharp hearing.
Clark leaned against the doorframe, his gaze sweeping over her, a predator sizing up a puzzle. She was stunning—full lips parting slightly, blouse accentuating her generous chest, stockings outlining her elegant legs. His thoughts darkened, a primal hunger stirring from his dominance over the Dursleys, but he kept his composure, his smirk sharp and controlled.
"Hello," Clark said, his voice smooth, laced with charm. "Harry Potter."
Bathsheda blinked, her cheeks flushing as she met his piercing emerald eyes. "Bathsheda Babbling," she replied, her smile small but warm. "Professor at Hogwarts."
Clark stepped aside, gesturing with a casual wave. "Come in."
She hesitated, her fingers tightening on her satchel, then stepped inside, her heels clicking on the worn floor. The Dursleys watched, their tension palpable. Petunia's teapot rattled, Vernon's newspaper crumpled, and Dudley's sneer faltered under Clark's glance. Bathsheda sat on the sagging couch, smoothing her skirt with trembling hands, unaware of how her graceful movements drew Clark's gaze. He sat across from her, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense, drinking in her nervous charm—the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips, the spark in her eyes.
Vernon cleared his throat, his voice gruff, a forced attempt at authority. "What's this nonsense about, then? Harry's no… wizard." He spat the word like a curse, his jowls trembling, but his eyes avoided Clark's, betraying his fear.
Petunia chimed in, her voice shrill, her hands twisting a dishrag. "We've raised him properly, none of this freakish business! He doesn't belong with… your kind." Her words were bold, but her trembling lips and darting glance at Clark told a different story.
Dudley snorted, crossing his meaty arms. "Yeah, Harry's just a nobody. Send him to a normal school."
Bathsheda's brow furrowed, her gaze shifting between the Dursleys and Clark, sensing the undercurrent of tension. Clark's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. The Dursleys' public facade—disapproval, normalcy—was a fragile mask, hiding their private submission, their fear of the power he'd unleashed in this very house. He let them play their part, savoring the contrast.
"My dear Harry," Bathsheda began, her voice warm despite the awkwardness, sending a jolt through Clark—not of nerves, but of desire. "I'm here to tell you about Hogwarts."
Clark arched an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. "Hogwarts?"
She nodded, her enthusiasm cutting through her nerves. "Hogwarts is a school for witches and wizards. You, Harry, are a wizard."
Inside, Clark's mind roared. A wizard. The word was a flame, igniting visions of power beyond his Kryptonian strength. Magic was a weapon, a crown, and he'd wield it to reshape this world. He kept his expression neutral, but his eyes gleamed with ambition, a hunger the Dursleys' feeble protests couldn't touch.
"Yes, Harry," Bathsheda continued, relaxing as she saw his interest. "I'm here to explain everything and answer any questions about Hogwarts."
Clark leaned forward, his gaze locked on hers, his voice low and deliberate. "Good. I don't know anything about it."
She smiled, relieved by his calm reaction. "Hogwarts is Britain's premier school for witchcraft and wizardry. It's where young wizards learn to control their magic—spells, potions, charms, all of it."
Clark tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes. "So, we can just… make magic?"
Her laughter was rich, like a melody at a wedding, sending a shiver down his spine. "That's the definition of magic, Harry."
He hummed, his gaze lingering on her full lips, a spark of desire flickering. "And how does one make magic?"
"Study and practice," she said patiently, her eyes bright with passion. "You'll learn to harness your potential over time, like any skill."
Clark frowned slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Not being instantly perfect at magic stung his pride, a faint echo of the World Will's past chains. But the challenge thrilled him—magic was power, and he'd bend it to his will, just as he'd broken the Dursleys. Vernon's scoff and Petunia's nervous fidgeting only fueled his resolve.
Bathsheda stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, her graceful movements drawing Clark's eyes to her hips. "We should get going," she said, her voice firm despite her nerves. "There's much to do before term starts."
Clark rose, his movements slow, deliberate, his height and presence filling the room. He stepped closer, catching the faint scent of her perfume, like jasmine after rain. "Lead the way," he said, his voice a low purr, his smirk hinting at more than agreement.
Petunia hovered nearby, her voice trembling as she spoke up, maintaining the facade. "You can't just take him! He's… he's ours!" Her eyes darted to Clark, betraying her fear, a silent plea for his approval.
Clark's gaze turned cold, his smirk sharp as a blade. "I'm going," he said, his tone final, silencing her. Vernon opened his mouth, then closed it, his courage crumbling. Dudley glared but stayed silent, his meaty fists clenched but unmoving. Bathsheda watched, her confusion growing, but she said nothing, sensing the unspoken power in the room.
Bathsheda led Clark outside, the morning air warm and heavy, like the promise of a storm. He walked beside her, his gaze shamelessly tracing her form—the sway of her hips, the elegance of her legs, the way her blazer hugged her curves. Desire stirred, a dark current beneath his control, but he held it in check. Power came first—Hogwarts, magic, a world to conquer.
Bathsheda glanced at him, her brow arching as she caught his stare. "Harry, are you alright?"
He flashed a disarming smile, his eyes gleaming. "Just… excited."
She nodded, her smile warm but wary, sensing the intensity behind his charm. "We're almost there."
Minutes later, they reached a dingy pub, its sign faded: The Leaky Cauldron. Bathsheda led him through, ignoring the curious whispers of patrons, and out to a brick wall in a courtyard. Clark watched, his senses sharp, as she tapped the bricks with her wand. The wall rumbled, parting like stones at an ancient mandir, revealing a bustling street alive with color and chaos.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Bathsheda said, her voice tinged with amusement as she watched his reaction, her eyes sparkling with pride.
Clark stepped forward, deliberately brushing against her arm as he passed, the brief contact sending a spark through them both. The alley was a bazaar come to life—wizards in vibrant robes haggling, owls hooting from cages, shop signs glowing with enchanted light. Cauldrons bubbled, broomsticks gleamed in windows, and the air buzzed with magic, like static before a lightning strike.
"Wow," Clark whispered, his voice low, his eyes locking onto Bathsheda's. "This is… incredible."
She chuckled, her nerves easing, unaware of the hunger in his gaze. "You haven't seen anything yet."
Clark's smirk deepened, a promise etched in his eyes. Oh, I know. Diagon Alley was a spark, Hogwarts a flame, and he'd set this world ablaze—starting with the witch beside him.