Chapter 34: A Slytherin's Welcome
The Great Hall buzzed like a grand banquet hall, golden plates brimming with roast beef, chicken, lamb chops, and buttered potatoes. The air carried savory warmth, mingling with students' laughter and chatter. Floating candles cast flickering light across the four long tables, their glow a beacon in the enchanted night sky above.
Clark Kent, seated among the Slytherins, smirked, his sharp senses scanning his new housemates. Draco Malfoy, beside him, rambled about Quidditch, his aristocratic swagger undimmed. Pansy Parkinson, practically glued to Draco, shot Clark furtive glances, her haughty smirk wavering. But it was the blonde across from him who drew his focus—Daphne Greengrass, her icy confidence a quiet storm, her playful eyes meeting his with a spark.
"You should've been in Gryffindor," Daphne mused, sipping pumpkin juice, her tone teasing but probing.
Pansy scoffed. "Isn't it rude to start a conversation without introducing yourself?"
Daphne arched a brow, her polite smile sharp. "Daphne Greengrass." She turned back to Clark. "And you're Harry Potter." Her gaze flicked to Hermione Granger, arms crossed, her guarded unease clear. "And you are?"
Hermione snorted, her mood sour, unimpressed by the posturing.
Clark chuckled, his voice smooth, commanding. "Forgive her attitude. This is Hermione Granger. And yes, I'm Harry Potter." He took Daphne's hand, offering a polite nod, his eyes locked on hers, a calculated charm.
Daphne's smirk widened, intrigued. "Charming," she murmured, her cool facade unshaken.
Hermione's eyes narrowed, Pansy rolled hers, and Draco's amusement flickered. Clark's grin was predatory—each reaction a thread in his web.
Daphne leaned closer, her voice low. "I knew you'd be in Slytherin. There was a bet going around."
Clark's interest sharpened, his tone teasing but edged. "Oh? And?"
"I bet on Slytherin. And I won."
"How much?"
"100 galleons."
Clark's smirk deepened, his voice silk over steel. "Then I get 50."
Daphne scoffed. "No way."
He leaned in, his gaze piercing. "You used my name to win, didn't you? I deserve compensation. That's how betting works."
Daphne hesitated, her sharp mind weighing his words. She sighed. "Fine. I'll give you 25 galleons when I have them."
"I don't take money," Clark said, his tone mischievous, his eyes holding hers, a silent challenge.
Hermione and Pansy kicked him under the table, their glares sharp. Clark winced but grinned, savoring their jealousy. Daphne's cheeks flushed faintly, but her composure held, her smirk defiant.
A chill pricked Clark's senses, a malicious gaze cutting through the warmth. His expression unchanged, he scanned the hall, his Kryptonian perception locking onto Professor Quirrell at the staff table. The man's trembling hands and absurd turban hid a darker presence—Voldemort, lurking beneath the surface, watching.
Clark's smirk was cold, dismissive. Not yet, he thought, turning away, his nonchalance a calculated mask.
As the feast rolled on, ghostly figures glided through the walls, their translucent forms silencing the chatter. The Hogwarts ghosts materialized, floating above the tables like ethereal knights and ladies.
The Bloody Baron emerged near the Slytherin table, his tattered robes stained with silver blood, his hollow eyes radiating quiet authority. A chill swept the first-years, his presence a weight. "Slytherins," he intoned, his voice a whispering wind, "may you bring honor to our house and claim the House Cup for the seventh year in a row."
Hermione, ever curious, spoke up. "Why are you called the Bloody Baron?"
Draco scoffed. "Idiot. Just look at him."
Hermione frowned, but the ghost's gaze darkened, a storm brewing.
Clark intervened, his voice smooth, commanding. "Apologies, Baron. She's just curious." His tone was polite but firm.
The Baron nodded, drifting away, his chill lingering. Clark's smirk was faint—he'd defused the tension, earning a sliver of respect.
Dumbledore rose, his arms wide. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! A few words: Nitwit. Blubber. Oddment. Tweak."
Silence, then applause erupted. The school song followed, a chaotic blend of tunes, Clark chuckling at the discord, his mind already plotting.
Slytherin prefects, led by a stern fifth-year with a pinched face, barked orders. "First-years, follow us!" Clark joined the procession, his eyes scanning his housemates. Draco strutted, his pride a beacon; Theodore Nott trailed quietly, his sharp eyes calculating; Hermione walked stiffly, her unease palpable. The castle's torchlit corridors unfolded like a labyrinth, stone walls etched with centuries of magic. Moving staircases creaked, shifting underfoot, their steps a puzzle Clark memorized. Portraits whispered, their painted eyes tracking the group, some offering sly nods to the Slytherins.
The air grew damp as they descended into the dungeons, the warmth of the Great Hall fading. Cold stone and flickering green torches lined the passage, the scent of moss and earth thick. Clark's senses caught faint magical pulses—wards, secrets, power.
The prefect stopped before a blank stone wall, muttering a password—"Pureblood." The wall slid open, revealing the Slytherin common room, a cavernous chamber of dark wood and green velvet, lit by silver lanterns shaped like serpents. A massive window showed the lake's depths, fish gliding past, their shadows dancing. The room hummed with ambition, a fitting throne for Clark's plans.
The prefects directed the first-years to their dormitories, boys and girls splitting off. Clark bid Daphne, Pansy, and Hermione goodbye with a charming nod, his eyes lingering on Daphne's smirk, a spark to stoke later. He followed Draco and Theodore down a narrow corridor, stone walls cool to the touch, each door marked with a silver nameplate.
Inside his private room, Clark shut the door, the lock clicking with finality. The chamber was small but grand, a castle chamber with a four-poster bed draped in green silk, a desk of polished ebony, and a window showing the lake's murky depths. His trunk sat by the bed, Hedwig's cage atop it, the owl asleep.
With a flick of his fingers, Clark reached into his pocket universe ring, the familiar hum of power tingling his skin. A shape tumbled onto the bed—Petunia Dursley, her thin frame trembling as she gasped, disoriented from days in a timeless void. Her eyes, wide with fear, met his, her submission a mirror of victory.
Clark smirked, his voice low, commanding. "Missed me?"
Petunia swallowed, her silence deafening, her fear a testament to his control.
The night was just beginning.