Chapter 25: The Boy Who Lived
The Leaky Cauldron's heavy wooden door creaked as Clark Kent stepped inside, the dim light casting long shadows across the worn floor. The air hit him like a wave, thick with the scent of old parchment, frothy butterbeer, and something faintly burnt, like overcooked pakoras at a roadside dhaba. His emerald eyes scanned the room, sharp and predatory, his Kryptonian senses catching every detail—the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices, the pulse of magic humming beneath it all. Bathsheda Babbling walked beside him, her confident strides cutting through the crowd, her grey skirt swaying with each step.
The bartender, Tom, a grizzled man with a toothless grin, perked up as he spotted Bathsheda. "Professor Babbling! A pleasure, as always. Care for a drink?" he called, already reaching for a dusty bottle.
Bathsheda shook her head, her polite smile warm but firm. "Not today, Tom. I'm on Hogwarts business."
Clark watched silently, noting her ease in this strange world. She belonged here, navigating its chaos like a dancer at a festival, while he was just stepping onto the stage.
His lips twitched, a smirk forming as he prepared to ask her about the pub's odd vibe, but the room shifted before he could speak.
The Leaky Cauldron fell silent, the chatter dying like a snuffed candle. Every witch and wizard turned, their eyes locking onto Clark, wide with awe and disbelief. The air grew heavy, charged with their stares, as if he were a relic unearthed from a temple.
A plump wizard by the fireplace gasped, his tankard trembling in his hands. "Merlin's beard! It's Harry Potter!"
The words shattered the stillness, unleashing chaos. The crowd surged forward, a tide of robes and eager hands, swarming Clark like shoppers at a bazaar. Voices overlapped, a cacophony of worship and wonder.
"Harry Potter!" an elderly witch cried, her eyes glistening with tears, her gnarled hands reaching for him. "It's an honor to meet you!"
"Can I shake your hand, Mr. Potter?" a young boy pleaded, his voice shrill with excitement, pushing through the throng.
Others didn't ask—they grabbed, fingers brushing his arms, shoulders, even tugging at his messy black hair. A woman's hand grazed his jacket, another clutched his sleeve, their touches desperate, reverent, invasive.
Clark's jaw tightened, his smirk vanishing. The audacity burned, a spark of rage flaring in his chest.
He fought the urge to shove them back, his Kryptonian strength humming, begging for release. They saw "Harry Potter," a legend, but he was Clark Kent, not their idol.
Before the crowd could overwhelm him, Bathsheda acted, her professor's instincts kicking in. She grabbed Clark's shoulders, her grip firm but gentle, and steered him through the throng, ignoring their protests. "Excuse us!" she called, her voice sharp.
They burst into the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, the heavy door slamming shut, muffling the crowd's murmurs. The cool air hit Clark's face, a relief after the pub's stifling worship. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off their unwanted touches, his jaw still tight.
Bathsheda turned to him, her chocolate eyes soft with concern. "Are you alright, Harry?"
Clark ran a hand through his hair, his emerald eyes narrowing, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "What the hell was that?"
Bathsheda sighed, crossing her arms, her blazer hugging her curves. "I should've expected that. You're famous, Harry."
His brows furrowed, his voice low, edged with suspicion. "Famous? Why?"
She hesitated, her gaze searching his, then took a deep breath. "Because you're 'The Boy Who Lived.'"
Clark tilted his head, feigning confusion, though his mind was already racing. "The Boy Who Lived? Lived through what?"
Bathsheda's voice softened, her empathy clear as she leaned closer, unaware of how her proximity stirred Clark's hunger. "A dark wizard—Lord Voldemort—terrorized our world over a decade ago. He was the most powerful Dark Lord ever, feared even by the bravest wizards."
Clark listened, his face carefully neutral, though he knew the truth better than anyone. His Kryptonian instincts had rewritten that night's story, a secret he guarded like a weapon.
"He killed your parents," Bathsheda continued, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes glistening with sympathy. "But when he tried to kill you… something happened. His Killing Curse rebounded. He vanished, leaving you untouched. No one knows how or why—but ever since, you've been a symbol of hope."
She gestured toward the pub, where the crowd's murmurs still echoed. "To them, you're a legend."
Inside, Clark smirked, a dark thrill coursing through him. The truth was sharper, deadlier. That night, as Voldemort's wand aimed at him, Clark's infant body had reacted on instinct. A blast of heat vision, raw and unstoppable, had burned the Dark Lord to ash before the Killing Curse could touch him. Voldemort hadn't "vanished"—Clark had obliterated him, his Kryptonian power a force no wizard could match.
But then, a new realization hit, sharp as a blade. If Voldemort never cast the Killing Curse, if Clark's heat vision stopped him first, then Lily Potter—his mother—might not have died. The story was wrong. She could be alive.
A predatory grin threatened to break across Clark's face, his emerald eyes glinting with a hunger that went beyond magic.
Lily Potter, alive. The thought was a spark, igniting plans, possibilities, power. He needed to find her, to confirm it, to claim the family the Dursleys had tried to erase.
He reined in the grin, forcing his expression into one of shock, his voice soft, calculated. "I… I don't know what to say."
Bathsheda's smile was reassuring, her hand hovering as if to comfort him, then pulling back. "It's a lot to take in, Harry. But you don't have to worry—you're safe now."
Clark hummed, his smirk hidden behind a neutral mask. Safe? The word was laughable. He wasn't the one who needed protecting. The Wizarding World, with its legends and secrets, was his to conquer, and he'd start with the truth about Lily.
Bathsheda gestured toward Diagon Alley, her voice brightening. "Come on, we've got shopping to do. Hogwarts awaits."
Clark followed, his boots crunching on the cobblestones, his gaze lingering on her swaying hips, a spark of desire mixing with his ambition.