Harry Potter Returns
A Harry Potter/Superman Returns Crossover
Chapter Four
Rich Man, Bar Man, Wandmaker, Thief
Updated 11 June 2010
It was well after midnight Saturday morning by the time Harry and Professor Dumbledore arrived in the country lane that would lead them to the Burrow, Harry's second favorite building in the world. Apparition hadn't been too bad this time — Harry had been expecting it when they'd left Budleigh Bubberton, but it was still an unpleasant experience, as if he'd been pushed through a rubber tube.
As they stepped through the gate, Dumbledore touched him lightly on the shoulder (which Harry almost missed — he hadn't felt the professor's hand, but had glimpsed the motion) and said, "Before we go inside, Harry, I'd like a few words in private with you, if you don't mind." He pointed to a run-down stone outhouse which the Weasleys used as a broom shed. Harry nodded and followed the headmaster inside, into a space not much larger than his old cupboard-under-the-stairs, back on Privet Drive. It had been a long time since he'd been forced to sleep in there, thankfully!
It was dark inside the shed, but Harry's enhanced vision allowed him to see everything as clearly as if it were broad daylight, even with the door closed. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, dazzling Harry for a moment, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the new light level. He and Ron had been in the shed before, but only briefly — Harry now saw (and heard) numerous spiders moving along the walls and ceilings of the shed. Ron was deathly afraid of spiders, he knew.
Curious to try something, Harry extended his eyes' focus beyond the walls of the shed. They became nearly transparent, so that he could see the gate they'd just passed through, and the Burrow a dozen yards away in the opposite direction. At the same time, he tried to keep a normal view of the headmaster — but it was difficult to do. Harry kept catching glimpses of Professor Dumbledore's internal organs and skeleton, which was unsettling, to say the least! He quickly returned to normal sight as Dumbledore began to speak.
"I hope you'll forgive me for mentioning this, Harry," Dumbledore spoke, smiling gently down at him, "but I am quite pleased and a little proud at how well you are coping after everything that happened at the Ministry two weeks ago. Please permit me to tell you that I believe Sirius would be proud of you."
Harry hadn't thought much about that day since it happened. The conversation with Dumbledore, afterwards in his office, had been almost as traumatic as seeing Sirius fall through the veil, and he'd been dreading the moment when the headmaster brought it up again. But instead of chiding or scolding him for his behavior, as when Harry had done his best to destroy quite a bit of Dumbledore's office, before being told about the his reasons for not explaining about the prophecy sooner, here Dumbledore was actually commending him! Harry swallowed, feeling unable to say anything, just as he'd said nothing when his uncle Vernon asked, "His godfather's dead?" or had questioned about his belongings and house, and when Horace Slughorn, whom they'd just visited so Dumbledore could ask him to rejoin the Hogwarts staff, casually mentioned Black had died a few weeks ago.
"It was a cruel turn of fate," Dumbledore continued, softly, "that you and Sirius knew each other for such a short period of time. It was a brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship."
Harry nodded, not looking up at the headmaster, but keeping his eyes fixed on a small spider that had fallen onto Dumbledore's long white hair. "It's just hard," he finally said, in a low voice, "to think that I'll never — never get a letter from him again." It hurt to think about it, even now, but while Sirius was alive he felt that someone in his family was thinking good things about, that there was someone out there who actually cared for him. He might never have that feeling again, now that Sirius was gone.
Except for Clark.
"Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before," Dumbledore said, gently. "Naturally, the loss is devastating."
"But," Harry continued, "After I got home from school, and saw some object falling out of the sky and went after it, to see what it was, and found Clark exposed to kryptonite and dying, I realized that if I had retreated from everything, had shut myself up in my room like I wanted to after I got home, he would probably be dead now as well. It would be awful if Superman died just because I was sitting in my room feeling sorry for myself! And Sirius wouldn't want me to hide myself away."
Dumbledore nodded gravely in agreement. "It is often difficult to reconcile the death of others when we make decisions that may contribute to those deaths. Both Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance were following Order instructions — my orders — when they were killed by Death Eaters. I believe Amelia was killed by Voldemort himself."
Harry stared at him, horrified by this news. "I — I hadn't heard… I'm — I'm sorry, Professor."
Dumbledore placed a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Thank you, Harry. I'm sure you know how keenly the death of ones close to us can affect us."
Harry nodded, angry now that Death Eaters had begun operating so openly in just the few weeks he was gone. "Professor, I promise you — if they come for me, I'm going to take as many Death Eaters with me as possible, and Voldemort as well, if I can!"
"Ah! Spoken like your mother and father's son, and Sirius's true godson!" Dumbledore exclaimed, giving Harry's shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Now, on a related subject," the professor went on, "I surmise from your reaction to Amelia and Emmeline's murders that you have not been reading the Daily Prophet these past few weeks, have you?"
"No," Harry said, wondering what the Wizarding world's newspaper had been saying.
"They have provided some excellent grist for the rumor mill," Dumbledore went on, "including some interesting hypotheses concerning you and your friends' activities in the Hall of Prophecy."
"Oh, I'll just bet they did!" Harry looked scornful. "I suppose now everybody knows I'm the one who has to —"
"Actually, they do not," Dumbledore interrupted him. "Only two people in the whole world know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing here in this smelly, spidery broom shed." He smiled, a bit wryly. "However, many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you."
Dumbledore held his wand a bit higher, looking carefully at Harry. "Now, am I correct in assuming that you have told no one of the contents of the prophecy, not even Clark?"
"No," Harry shook his head.
"Nor even that you know the contents of the prophecy?" Dumbledore persisted.
"No," Harry said again.
"A wise decision," Dumbledore nodded. "Although I think it would be fine if you were to include your friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger in that knowledge." Harry looked started, and the headmaster added, "I think they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something this important to them."
"I didn't want to worry them —" Harry began.
"Yes, or frighten them," Dumbledore interrupted, staring at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "Or perhaps to admit that you yourself are worried or frightened. You need your friends, Harry. And as you so rightly pointed out earlier, Sirius would not want you to shut yourself away."
Harry looked thoughtful for several moments. "What about my new powers, sir?" he said. "If you think I can trust them with the prophecy, why shouldn't I tell them about those?"
Dumbledore almost seemed to sigh. "Harry, I imagine you are fairly bursting to tell someone about your new powers, but —"
"They are my best mates in the whole world, sir!" Harry said, imploringly.
"But," Dumbledore continued, "I do not see how you can tell them you have abilities like Superman, from America, without jeopardizing Clark's secret if he visits Hogwarts in the fall, to study magic. I assume it was his and your intent to do that."
"Something like that," Harry said, scratching his head, trying to think. "But Superman is quite different from Clark, he told me. Clark is very, well — 'meek' was the word he used. I don't think anyone would be able to tell they're the same person, even without the Fidelius Charm you made to hide it."
Dumbledore scratched the tip of his nose. "I am not entirely convinced it is prudent, Harry. However, the final decision to tell them, or not, must be up to you. I will leave it in your capable hands. Now, on a different subject, yet still related to Hogwarts, I wish you to take private lessons with me this year."
"W-what?" Harry blurted, completely surprised. "Private lessons — with you?"
"Yes," Dumbledore smiled at Harry's reaction. "I think I should take a greater hand in your education."
"Um, what would you be teaching me, sir?" Harry asked, curious.
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Dumbledore replied airily. Harry waited for him to continue, but the headmaster did not elaborate.
Harry had another thought. "If I'm having lessons with you, sir, does that mean I don't have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape anymore?" he asked.
"Professor Snape," Dumbledore corrected him. "And no, you will not."
"Good," Harry breathed, relieved, "because those lessons were —" he stopped, not sure how the headmaster would react if he said what he was really thinking.
"— a fiasco?" Dumbledore finished the sentence for him, however, smiling.
Harry grinned. "Well, something like that, yes. I guess that means I won't see much of Professor Snape from now one," he commented, "since he won't let me keep up Potions unless I get an 'Outstanding' in my O.W.L.s, and I'm pretty sure I didn't."
Dumbledore gave him a knowing look. "Don't count your O.W.L.s before they're delivered, Harry," he said, cryptically. "Oh, and by the way," he added. "I believe you may expect them sometime today." He reached into his robes, bringing out his pocket watch, the one with twelve hands and little planets that moved around the edges of the face. "I see it's getting quite late," he noted. "I've but a few more things to discuss with you, before we go inside.
"Firstly, I would like you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times — even within Hogwarts itself." At Harry's puzzled look, he added, "Just in case. Do you understand me?"
Harry nodded.
"Also, the Burrow has been placed under the highest security possible, now that you are here. This has resulted in some restrictions on the Weasleys — Arthur and Molly's posts are now screened by the Ministry, for example. I tell you this, Harry," Dumbledore went on, looking at him carefully. "Not because they have complained — indeed, they are very glad to have you here! — but because it would be poor form for you to put yourself at risk while staying with them."
Harry nodded again. "I agree, sir," he said. "But things are a bit different, now that I have these superpowers. And my magic seems to be more powerful than before, as well."
Dumbledore considered this. "I understand you may feel well-nigh invulnerable, Harry — but please remember, even with super abilities you are still susceptible to magic, just as Superman is. However," he pondered silently for a few moments. "Perhaps it would be best if we became more proactive with Clark concerning his new magical abilities."
"How so, sir?"
"I think it would be useful to procure a wand for Clark, in preparation for his magical training," Dumbledore advised. "If you can get in touch with him, Harry, you and he should travel to Diagon Alley and purchase one for him. As soon as you can, in fact — with Voldemort operating in the open once again, and the recent attacks in London, I do not know how long establishments such as Ollivander's will stay open."
"Why would Voldemort care about a wand shop?" Harry wondered.
"I am only speculating, Harry," the headmaster said. "But Voldemort will seek to make it more difficult for the Wizarding world to operate normally, and wands, of course, are quite important to its normal operation. Therefore, I adjudge that Ollivander's will be on the list of shops he will eventually force to cease operating in Diagon Alley."
"I will get in touch with Clark as soon as I get settled in the Burrow," Harry agreed.
"Good!" Dumbledore gave him a hearty smile. "Also, I think it would be useful for the two of you to come see me at Hogwarts — but after your birthday party at the end of this month, Harry — I would not want you to miss that, nor deprive Molly and her family the pleasure of having it."
Harry smiled; his birthday last year had not been memorable — he'd spent the day crawling around under his aunt and uncle's living room window, trying to listen to the news without getting caught, since Vernon and Petunia did not approve of teenaged boys doing things like listening to the news, especially Harry. His uncle was quite sure Harry had some ulterior motive for doing so, and had not allowed Harry to sit with them to watch the newscasts, prompting Harry's sneaking around behind their backs.
"I wish Clark could come to my birthday party," Harry said, wistfully. When Dumbledore looked at him doubtfully, Harry shrugged and added, "I know, that probably would be going too far — nobody would believe that someone like Clark Kent would just show up at my birthday party without a reason."
"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore agreed, but then added, brightly, "But you and he will see each other again right after, at Hogwarts — I should begin thinking of a way for him to start learning magic quickly. He pushed open the door of the broom shed, and he and Harry exited it. "Ah, I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you look."
=ooo=
An hour later, Harry was lying in bed in Fred and George's old bedroom, a room filled with stacks of cardboard boxes containing an assortment of half-finished joke items, folders bulging with parchment documents of all kinds of things, from old owl-order forms from when the twins were running their joke shop out of the Burrow, to business plans envisioning a half-dozen Weasley's Wizard Wheezes shops spread across Britain and Europe. Harry knew this because he'd had a look through all of the boxes in the room as he lay in his bed, bored and unable to sleep.
Most of his inability to sleep was due to excitement over his anticipated trip to America later that morning, to see Clark. Harry had been mulling it over, and decided the easiest way to contact Clark was just to fly over there — it should be an easy matter to locate Smallville, Kansas, once he was in America, and from there the farmhouse where his mother lived. Clark had shown him on a display in the Fortress how to pick out landmarks he could use to find the small town in north central Kansas, and an aerial view of the countryside surrounding his farm. It would be a doss.
In fact… Harry sat up, wondering whether he should consider going to Smallville now. He certainly wasn't going to get any sleep lying here anticipating the trip, that was for sure! On the other hand, he had just promised Professor Dumbledore he wouldn't do anything risky while he was here at the Burrow. Harry dithered a moment, unsure what to do… but the temptation to get out and fly was just too strong.
In a second Harry was up, out of his pajamas, and back in jeans, a dark T-shirt from his drawer of clean clothes, and trainers. He would have to be back within a few hours, no later than seven a.m., to be sure of being back in bed in case someone came up to wake him for breakfast. He made a quick X-ray sweep of the house, making sure that everyone was asleep. Below him, on the first floor, he saw Ginny and Hermione, both asleep in Ginny's room. His gaze lingered a moment on Ginny, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept. Hermione was snoring softly — Harry smiled, wondering how he might tease her about that.
As his eyes swept the remainder of the first floor, he saw someone sleeping in the bedroom next to Ginny's — a girl! But what a girl! Even sleeping, she seemed to radiate an aura of beauty and glamour. Harry realized after a moment who it was — Fleur Delacour! He hadn't seen her since the Triwizard Tournament during fourth year. What was she doing sleeping here at the Burrow?
Well, he would sort that out later. Looking upward, two floors above him, was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's bedroom. They had turned in for the night, he saw, but were talking quietly about the events of the day. Harry let his vision move further up in the house, to the fifth floor and Ron's room, where Ron was lying, asleep and pretty much dead to the world. Tonks had left earlier, just as he and Dumbledore arrived, but Harry wondered if there were other Aurors stationed around the Burrow — the enhanced security the professor had mentioned. However, a quick check around the perimeter of the house in the immediate vicinity revealed nothing and no one to either his enhanced sight or hearing — he'd thought to use his hearing in case someone was under an Invisibility Cloak like his.
Opening the window enough to allow him to slip through, Harry let his flying power carry him straight up into the air, rising until he was a couple of miles above the ground. He laughed, enjoying the exhilaration of being in the air again under his own power, then took a deep breath and shot upward, out of the atmosphere.
It was only a matter of a few seconds' flight across the Atlantic and over the United States. Harry stopped approximately over where he thought Kansas was. Things might get a bit tricky from here on — he knew that Smallville was located northwest of Concordia, Kansas, near a river that flowed along the outskirts of the town. The Kent farm was north of the town, nestled between the river on the west and a railroad spur that ran along its eastern boundary. A county road also ran along the eastern border, and there was a driveway from it up to the farmhouse and barn. Clark had pointed out the mailbox, clearly marked "Kent" on its side, at the edge of the driveway. It had all seemed very simple and easy when Harry had been looking at it on the display in the Fortress. Now, he just hoped he could find it without too much trouble!
Concordia was north of highway Interstate 70, along U.S. highway 81. With his super-vision, Harry finally located that junction, and then followed 81 north until he found Concordia, a smallish town he judged was about the size of Little Whinging. Going to the northwest, he located the river and followed its winding path until he found another small town, less than half the size of Concordia, and the county road 9 5/10 (a strange name for a road, Harry thought, though it reminded him of Platform 9 ¾). He examined the few mailboxes he found until he came across one marked "Kent," then flew down quickly to land next to it.
There was six hours time difference between Smallville and the Burrow; it was a bit after 8 p.m. here, Harry calculated; the sun was low in the west, but there would still be sunlight for a while. At the far end of the drive, perhaps a quarter mile, was the Kent farmhouse, and perhaps fifty yards away, the barn. Harry had no idea how big the actual farm was, but he hoped Clark was somewhere near the house or barn, or he might have to take to the sky again, to get a better view so he could find him.
But after only a few seconds of searching, Harry located Clark working in the barn, replacing old pieces of wood in the walls and shelving. Harry watched for a few seconds as Clark fitted a board by trimming it with his heat vision, then blew off the burnt edge with his breath and put it in place, pushing nails through the board with his thumb. He was working at a leisurely pace, Harry realized, considering how fast Harry knew he could move, if he wanted to. Harry started up the drive, walking at normal speed but, realizing it would take several minutes to walk the distance at that rate, switched to super-speed and appeared at the door of the barn a moment later. "Hi, Clark."
Clark looked around. "Harry!" he smiled, putting down a board he'd picked up and walking over to where his young friend was. "I thought you would be by sometime tomorrow morning, after you'd been at your friend's house for a while."
"I got bored," Harry shrugged. "But also, I talked to Professor Dumbledore again and he suggested we get you a wand before the wand shop in Diagon Alley gets shut down."
"Shut down?" Clark repeated. "Why would it be shut down?"
Harry hadn't said much to Clark about Voldemort or the war that was now brewing in the Wizarding world in Britain. While he'd been in the Fortress learning about his new abilities, it seemed like all of that was remote, far away. Not thinking about it had also kept Harry from thinking about his godfather, Sirius Black, who he would never see or talk to again, because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, especially Bellatrix Lestrange, who'd caused Sirius to fall through the archway in the Death Chamber, killing him. "It's a long story," Harry finally replied. "But basically, this bad wizard wants to take over Britain, and kill me."
Clark looked concerned. "You mentioned him before — Voldemort, I believe you called him."
"How'd you remember —" Harry smiled. "Oh, yeah — super memory."
"You've only mentioned him once," Clark said. "I thought this was something that happened in the past."
"Well, it did," Harry said, not really wanting to get into it. "But he's still around, trying to build up his power again and take over Britain."
Clark glanced toward the house. "You can tell me more about this later," he said, softly — his voice was barely a whisper. "For now, I'd like you to meet my mother." Harry looked around, seeing an older, gray-haired woman walking toward them from the house, carrying two glasses.
"Good evening!" the woman called. "I see you've met my son, Clark." She stopped in front of the two of them. "I'm Martha Kent. I don't think I've seen you before, Mister —"
"I'm Harry Potter, ma'am," Harry said, politely.
Martha Kent gave her son a look. "Harry Potter? Well, I guess you know Clark already, then," she said. She held out both glasses toward them. "Would you like some iced tea, Harry?"
Clark had already taken one glass, thanking her. Harry nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am," taking the glass. Iced tea? He sipped at the drink, finding it not as bad as expected, since he'd heard Americans like tea this way, especially in the summer — in fact, it was quite refreshing, better than the lukewarm tea he'd had to drink at the Dursleys, because they couldn't be bothered to keep it hot for him, when he was finally allowed to eat. "Thank you," he added, smiling at her, and she smiled in return.
Martha folded her arms and gave him a shrewd look. "So what brings you out here to Kansas, Harry?"
"Uh, well —"
"I've told Mother about you, Harry," Clark interjected. "She knows what you are, and what happened to us when I arrived on Earth."
"And I'm very grateful to you for saving Clark's life," Martha added, looking at Harry seriously. "I've missed him these past five years."
Harry's head was nearly spinning. After the big deal Clark had made out of his secret, he'd just gone ahead and told his mother all about who and what Harry was —! But, she was his mother, after all, Harry realized — and if she could keep secrets about her son's identity, she could surely do so about wizards living in Britain. "I, um — I can understand that," he finally replied. "I suppose the whole world has missed him as well," Harry added, making an oblique reference to the fact that he knew Clark was Superman.
"Well," Martha smiled at him, giving Clark another look. "Why don't you boys come inside — I still have some apple pie left, unless Clark has been sneaking slices."
"I just had three slices for dessert, Mom," Clark protesting, grinning. "I haven't touched any since!"
"Well, come on inside, then," she said, turning toward the house. "This heat is beginning to get to me." She started walking back.
"It doesn't feel that hot," Harry said softly to Clark, as they followed his mother back toward the farmhouse.
"It's about 92 degrees right now," Clark said, just as softly. "Your invulnerability keeps you from feeling hot or cold temperatures — you won't even perspire anymore."
Harry nodded, digesting this. Perspiring hadn't been a problem while they were in Antarctica! "Your mum's nice," he said, nodding toward her.
"Yes she is," Clark agreed, smiling wryly. "Except she's already got me meeting an old friend of mine and her son this weekend — I'm not sure when I'll be able to get away to make that trip with you, to Diagon Alley."
"We should really go tomorrow," Harry suggested. "As soon as we can."
"Are things that serious?" Clark asked. "Is this Voldemort causing that much disruption in your lives over there?"
Harry thought about Fleur Delacour, sleeping in the bedroom next to Ginny's room. He had no idea why she'd be at the Burrow — unless, like his own parents, something had happened to her parents. Maybe the Weasleys were helping her because something had happened to her family. Harry hoped he was wrong, but… "It's — complicated," he said, still reluctant to bring Clark into his problems. They had enough of them to deal with already! "But it won't take us long to fly over and get you a wand, and I can try to explain more then."
"Okay," Clark said. They'd arrived at the house, and he opened the screen door for Harry. "Now, have you ever had apple pie before, Harry?"
"I dunno," Harry shrugged. "Is it like apple tarts?"
Clark smiled. "Maybe, but I think you'll enjoy it more with a big scoop of ice cream on top."
It had been a while since Harry had any ice cream. "I suppose I could have a go at that," he grinned. He glanced at his watch. "But I've got to head home before one a.m., so nobody'll miss me."
"Don't worry," Clark said, as Harry sat down at the kitchen table, watching Martha Kent cut two large slices of apple pie, leaving a smaller slice for herself. "Mom goes to bed with the chickens — we'll have you out of here long before then!"
"Oh Clark!" his mother chided him. "Don't exaggerate! I'm up sometimes as late as ten o'clock!" She got a carton of ice cream out of the freezer. "You wanted some ice cream on your apple pie, right Harry?"
"Uh, yes ma'am," Harry said, eyeing the pie expectantly. It did smell delicious.
=ooo=
Lana Lang pulled into the driveway of her rental home on the south side of Smallville just as it was getting dark. The trip from Concordia to Smallville didn't take long — it was a mere ten-minute drive, though she had to navigate a number of country roads between the two small towns. But it had been a very long day, at the end of a very long week, and Lana was exhausted. She slowly walked inside, mentally preparing herself to be cheerful in front of Ricky and his sitter.
The two of them were sitting on the sofa in the living room as Lana entered the house, watching a DVD. "Hi," Sarah, the sitter said, looked around as she heard the door open. "Your mom's home," she nudged Ricky, and he jumped up, running around to greet her.
"Hi, sweetie," Lana smiled, hugging him as he ran to her, throwing his arms around his mother. "How was your day?"
"Okay," Ricky said, sounding bored. "Sarah and I played catch this afternoon."
"Did you get your chores done?" Lana asked.
"Yes," Ricky said immediately. After a short pause he added, "Most of 'em."
"Hmm," his mother said, giving him a stern look. "Most of them, huh?"
"He helped with the dishes tonight, too!" Sarah added, brightly.
"Yeah!" Ricky agreed. "I can get the rest of 'em done tomorrow, okay?"
"We're going out to Mrs. Kent's tomorrow," she reminded him. "You'll have to do them when we get back."
"Okay," he shrugged. "I got a book at the library today," he announced. "I'm gonna go read it." Lana nodded, and Ricky tore off toward his room.
Lana sagged a bit, but smiled at Sarah and said, "Thank you for staying this late. My boss had a hundred things for me to do, and they all had to be taken care of before next week."
"No problem," Sarah demurred. "Ricky's a great kid, it's fun to sit for him. Especially in the summer," she added, "I don't have any homework to worry about." She suddenly yawned. "Oh, excuse me! I must've woke up just before you got home. Ricky can really wear you out sometimes!"
Lana laughed. "Don't I know it! It's nice to get him out on the Kent farm, where he can run and play to his heart's content. I just wish there were more kids in the neighborhood his age for him to play with." Ricky was nearly eleven; his birthday would be coming up early next month.
"Yeah," Sarah agreed. "He nearly wore me out playing catch, earlier — he's got some really wild moves he can put on a baseball, let me tell you! It was hard for me to catch some of them. I think he's going to be a pitcher when he gets older."
"I'm sure that would make his father happy," Lana said, a trace of sarcasm in her voice. Ricky's dad, her ex, was a jock who'd never graduated from high school, mentally speaking. She glanced at a nearby lamp table. "Oh, what happened here?"
The lamp on the table was lying on its side. Sarah stared at it, puzzled. "I don't know! It was standing up the last time I saw it today. Maybe the cat knocked it over."
"We don't have a cat," Lana said, standing the lamp upright again.
"Oh," Sarah said. "I thought —" she stopped, looking guilty and confused.
Lana looked at her. "What?" she asked.
"Well, " Sarah answered, slowly. "Ricky plays with a cat we see outside sometimes. He usually asks for an extra slice of bologna at lunch, to feed it. I thought it was yours, sorry," she said, contritely. "It's a gray tabby."
"Mmm," Lana said, wondering why her son had never mentioned it before to her. "I'll have to ask him about that." She reached to pick up her purse from the chair she'd dropped it in, then remembered. "— Oh drat! Sarah, I'm sorry, I worked so late tonight I didn't get by the bank today! Can I pay you tomorrow afternoon, after we get back from the Kent farm? I'll go past the bank on the way there tomorrow morning."
"Sure," Sarah nodded. "No problem." She yawned again. "Oh! Sorry!"
"Do you want a ride home?" Lana asked, a bit concerned. "Ricky must have worn you out!"
"No, I'm fine," Sarah insisted. "It's just —" she looked around the room, an anxious expression coming over her. "It just seems like I have weird dreams whenever I'm in this house, lately."
"Weird dreams?" Lana asked. "Like what?"
"Oh, doors opening and closing by themselves," Sarah said, looking around again and shivering a bit, even in the evening heat. "Furniture moving itself. Stuff like that." She laughed, nervously. "I asked my dad if he ever heard of this house having a poltergeist, and he just laughed. He said that an old lady named Phyllis Potter used to live here, years ago, and that her husband — I forge his name, but it began with a 'P,' too — worked for the government as a research scientist.
"Dad said, when they moved out, it was sold to Mr. Dolan at the bank, and he's been renting it out ever since. Nothing weird about that, is there? Well, I'll give you a call tomorrow before I come over, to pick up my sitter money, okay?"
"Okay, Sarah." Sarah waved and walked out the door, to walk the half-mile to her parents' home.
Lana sat down in the chair she'd dropped her purse in, reflecting for a moment on the coincidences one experienced living in a small town. Now, at last, she realized why this house had seemed familiar to her from the day she returned to Smallville and the rental agent had shown it to her — she'd been here before, years ago, when she was very small.
Her aunt and uncle, Phyllis and Phineas Potter, had lived here many years ago. She remembered Phyllis as a smiling older version of her mother, though Phineas was actually her mother's brother. She barely remembered him, though — he was seldom home, as the work he did for the government took him on extended trips to various locations across the country. Living in a central location such as Kansas made it easier for him to make trips around the United States. Phyllis had passed on decades ago, while Lana was still in elementary school, but her uncle was still alive, somewhere, though she hadn't thought of him in years. As for Mr. Dolan, the banker — well, the less Lana thought about him, the better.
Even stranger than these small-town coincidences, however, was the strange things going on around this house. Sarah had thought she was merely dreaming, but Lana had experienced some weird occurrences in the two years she'd lived here, most of them in the past year — knocking sounds, doors opening and closing by themselves. Having seen movies like Poltergeist and The Amityville Horror, Lana wondered if such things could be true — could there really be a poltergeist in this house?
Lana shook her head tiredly. Perhaps she was just thinking crazy thoughts because she'd been working so hard. A good night's rest would probably fix her right up, she decided. And maybe she could chat with Martha, tomorrow, and see if she had any ideas on what might be going on — after all, Martha Kent had lived in Smallville for most of her life. Lana got up, going into the kitchen, to make herself a bowl of soup and a sandwich before going to bed. She would figure it out later—for now, she was too tired to do anything other than eat and sleep.
=ooo=
After dressing (for the second time that morning), Harry came downstairs to find Hermione sitting in a chair, still in great agitation over her imminent O.W.L. results, as Mrs. Weasley tried unsuccessfully to lessen her resemblance to half a giant panda. The black eye Fred and George's trick telescope had given her was still glaringly visible around her right eye.
"I can't understand it," Mrs. Weasley was saying anxiously, as she poured over a copy of The Healer's Helpmate, open to the section titled "Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions." "This has always worked before!"
Ginny, who was sitting at the table watching the drama unfold while the corners of her mouth kept twitching, said, "It'll be Fred and George's idea of a funny joke, making sure it won't come off."
"But it's got to come off!" Hermione said, shrilly. "I can't go around looking like this for the rest of my life!"
"Don't worry," Ron, who was also watching, his face kept carefully neutral, said. "Fred and George'll have something to take it right off, most likely."
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Weasley added soothingly. "We'll find an antidote for it, never fear."
Fleur, who had taken over making preparations for lunch while Mrs. Weasley looked after Hermione, said serenely, "Bill told me 'ow Fred and George are very amusing." At least, Harry thought to himself, the reason why she was here was good news — she and Bill were getting married next year!
"I can hardly breathe for laughing," Hermione snapped, sarcastically. She jumped impulsively to her feet, walking around the room, twisting her fingers together in agitation. "Are you sure no owls have come this morning, Mrs. Weasley?"
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Weasley said patiently, putting down the book. "I'd have noticed. But it's barely after nine, there's plenty of time…"
"I know I messed up Ancient Runes," Hermione was muttering distractedly. "I'm sure I made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. Transfiguration went all right at the time, I thought, but looking back on it —"
"Enough, Hermione!" Ron snapped at her. "Harry and I are nervous about our O.W.L.s, too, you know! Just wait, you'll get your ten 'Outstanding' O.W.L.s and —"
"Don't, don't, don't!" Hermione cut him off, waving her arms frantically. "I just know I've failed everything!"
"Don't be daft, Hermione," Harry said, trying to reassure her. "You couldn't have failed anything! You're way too smart for that!" Hermione smiled at that, though she shook her head, disagreeing.
"At Beauxbatons," Fleur was saying, "we 'ad a different way of doing things — we sat our examinations after six years, not five, and then —"
"Oh, LOOK!" Hermione screamed, pointing through the kitchen window. Three black specks were clearly visible in the morning sky, growing larger by the second. Harry, with his enhanced vision, magnified the specks until he could see three tawny owls, each with a large, square envelope attached to its leg. Tempted to look through the envelopes and be the first to learn what their results were, Harry nevertheless resisted that impulse, joining Ron and Hermione, who had both raced impulsively to the window.
"They're definitely owls," Ron said, as the specks got closer.
"And there are three of them," Harry added, unnecessarily.
"One for each of us," Hermione whispered. She seemed terrified. "Oh, no…oh, no…"
Ron leaned back, looking at Harry. "You'd think they were three Grims, the way she's acting," he said quietly. Harry grinned.
"Open the window," Mrs. Weasley said. "So they can come in." Harry and Ron pushed up on the window, opening it, as Hermione wrung her hands nervously.
The three owls soared through the open window and landed on the kitchen table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs, offering the envelopes attached thereon. Looking at the other two, Harry stepped forward first.
He could see his name written on the envelope of the owl in the middle. He quickly untied the string holding it as Ron and Hermione stepped forward as well, undoing the strings holding their results. Hermione's fingers were so unsteady that her whole owl seemed to tremble.
The kitchen was silent as Harry took a letter opener, handed to him by Fleur, and slit open his envelope. He slipped out the parchment sheet inside and looked at it. He had failed Divination and History of Magic, both as expected. He'd passed everything else, Astronomy with an Acceptable grade, but Exceeds Expectation in every other subject except Defense Against the Dark Arts, where he saw an "O" — Outstanding! He heaved a sigh of relief.
Looking up, he saw that Hermione had her back to him, but Ron was holding up his own parchment, beaming delightedly. "Only failed Divination and History of Magic," he said happily, "and who cares about them? Here — swap!"
He and Ron exchanged results. He looked down through Ron's grades. No "Outstandings" there, he saw…
"Look at that, knew you'd be top at Defense!" Ron said, punching Harry in the shoulder. "Ouch!" he said, pulling his hand back and shaking it. "Must've held my wrist wrong," he muttered, but Harry realized he'd been distracted and hadn't "given" with Ron's punch. He would have to be careful about that in the future — Ron tended to punch people, though not hard, especially when in a good mood or sharing good news.
"Well done!" Mrs. Weasley was looking at Ron's results. "Seven O.W.L.s — that's more than Fred and George got, combined!"
"Hermione," Ginny said tentatively, and Harry looked up. She still hadn't turned around to face them. "How did you do?"
"I — okay, I guess," Hermione answered, in a small voice, sounding unconvinced by her own words.
"Right," Ron said. He strode over and took her results out of her hands. "Let's see —" He looked up at Harry. "Nine 'Outstandings' and one 'Exceeds Expectations,' in Defense Against the Dark Arts!" He turned to Hermione, incredulity on his face at the dour expression she wore. "You're actually disappointed, aren't you?"
Hermione shook her head, but Harry could see her face now, and it plainly showed her disappointment. He laughed.
"Well, we're N.E.W.T. students now," Ron said, grinning. He looked at Mrs. Weasley. "Mum, are there any sausages left?"
Harry looked down at his own results, pleased with them. The only, tiny regret he had was that the "E" in Potions meant the end of his ambition to be an Auror — Snape would never let him into N.E.W.T. Potions with an "Exceeds Expectations," and he would need five N.E.W.T.s, including Potions, to become an Auror. It was ironic that a disguised Death Eater had first suggested that he'd make a good Auror, but the idea had grown on Harry, and now he couldn't really think of anything he'd rather do.
But, with the abilities he had now, if there was no way to transfer them back to Clark, perhaps being an Auror was too shortsighted a goal. If he could do the kinds of things Superman could do, he could be a lot more useful to the world once they sorted out Voldemort. In fact, Harry wondered, what was to keep him from finding Voldemort right now, and hauling him up before the Ministry, or even dispatching him straightaway? After all, Harry realized, he could probably break through any magical protections Voldemort had on him, and with his super-speed he could hit him a hundred times before he even knew Harry was attacking him! It was tempting…
But, before he did that, perhaps he should discuss it with Clark, Harry decided. It almost didn't seem fair, given the vast power he had now, to just decide he should kill someone. Clark had always warned him that his powers could easily be abused — perhaps this is what he was talking about. If he really was the Chosen One, however, he was supposed to kill Voldemort! The whole situation was a lot more complicated now than he'd expected it to be, when Dumbledore first told him the entire prophecy.
Harry glanced at his watch. He had agreed to return to Smallville around three p.m. that afternoon, when it was about nine a.m. there, and bring Clark to Diagon Alley to find him a wand at Ollivander's. He'd already promised to tell him more about the fight against Voldemort — he could find out what Clark thought then.
=ooo=
After a huge lunch, which they'd eaten early since Mr. Weasley had skipped breakfast after coming home so late the evening before, Ron had suggested they play a two-a-side game of Quidditch out in the Weasley's orchard. Ginny agreed enthusiastically, Hermione a bit less so, though she was clearly hoping for something to distract her from that one "E" she'd received. They chose up sides — Ron got Ginny and Harry, Hermione. They were about evenly matched, as Ginny was good and Hermione played dreadfully, though she did seem to enjoy herself.
It was strange flying on a broom again, Harry realized, once they'd gotten the orchard and started a few practice sweeps around it. He still enjoyed riding a broom, but he could maneuver much more quickly and precisely on his own now — using a broom was almost like a handicap to him! Still, he would have to get used to flying one again if he was going to play Quidditch at school this year. Ironically, he was using one of the old brooms from the Weasley's broom shed, so they'd all be evenly matched. But even his Firebolt was slow compared to how fast Harry could now fly unaided!
Each side had won a game, and they were in the middle of their third and deciding one, when Harry glanced at his watch and cursed silently. It was ten minutes past three! He was late to go get Clark for their trip to Diagon Alley! Harry quickly landed, feigning an injury to his shoulder.
Ron landed beside him. "What's wrong?"
"Twisted my shoulder, I think," Harry said, putting a grimace on his face.
"Let Mum have a go at it with her book," Ginny suggested. She and Hermione had landed beside them right behind Ron. "She should have you back flying in a minute — unless that's one of Fred and George's trick brooms," she added, with an evil grin.
"No," Harry shook his head. "I think I need to lie down for a bit, is all. You three can keep playing."
"Harry, I can't play alone!" Hermione protested.
"Keep your pants on," Ron said, complacently. "You can have Ginny — me against the both of you."
"Confident, aren't you, brother?" Ginny sneered at him. "You're on!" She and Hermione took off again. Ron looked at Harry.
"They're gonna pulverize me," he said, resignedly, and flew up again as well. Harry waved (with his "uninjured" arm) and walked back to the broom shed, placing his broom inside. He glanced around, quickly making sure nobody in the house or in the orchard was looking his way, then shot straight into the air, faster than the eye could follow.
Within a few seconds he'd left the atmosphere, then stopped, looking around to orient himself for the flight to America. He found the correct direction and was about to accelerate again when he felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. Glancing around behind him, he flinched as he saw Superman floating beside him, smiling.
"You scared me!" Harry blurted, releasing the breath he'd been holding for his out-of-atmosphere flight.
"Sorry," Superman said. "When you didn't show up at nine I thought I'd come over and check to see why you were delayed." He looked down. "That's an interesting game you were playing — what's it called?"
"Quidditch," Harry said. "Normally it's played with seven players per side — three Chasers, two Beaters, a Keeper and a Seeker. I play Seeker," he added. "We were just playing two-a-side, for a bit of fun and something to do."
Superman nodded. "You'll have to tell me more about it sometime," he said.
Harry suddenly realized where they speaking to one another outside the atmosphere. "Hey, he said, "How come we can hear each other when there's no air around us?"
"Because I'm gripping your shoulder," Superman said, giving a squeeze to remind Harry of his hand. "We're hearing each other through the vibrations our vocal cords are making, and our inner ears are picking them up."
"Brilliant!" Harry grinned. "Hey, how about showing me how to fly supersonic in atmosphere? You promised you would, you know."
But Superman was shaking his head. "I would, Harry, but we've got less than an hour before Lana and her son are due to show up at the farm, and Mom expects me to be there."
"No problem," Harry said. He glanced at Superman's red and blue uniform. "Um — did you bring anything else to wear? That suit might be a bit conspicuous, even among witches and wizards."
"Don't worry," Superman said. "I've got my regular clothes with me as well. I'll change after we've landed, if we can find a secluded area wherever it is we're going."
"London," Harry said, "on Charing Cross Road. There are a lot of smaller streets around there, we should be able to find something."
A few moments later they were hovering several miles over London, as Superman scoped out a likely spot to change near where they were going. He finally found an old phone booth several blocks away, and pointed it out to Harry, who smiled. "That's the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic!" he told Superman, grinning. "Funny that you'd pick that spot to change clothes in!"
"Well, any port in a storm," Superman shrugged. "It will only take me a second. When I come out, I'll check the area again and give you a thumb's up. Then you speed down and land next to me. Sound good?"
Harry nodded, and Superman vanished. When he glanced down again, Clark Kent was stepping out of the phone booth, looking around as if getting his bearings. Harry wished he could move that fast, especially in atmosphere. He was going to have to get Clark to show him how to avoid sonic booms and other disruptions when moving supersonic though the air.
Clark gave a thumb's up gesture and Harry shot downward, landing next to Clark. There was a cracking sound, and Harry looked ruefully down at the sidewalk — his abrupt landing had broken it in several places. "Sorry," he said softly. Clark gave him a practice-makes-perfect look, and they started walking over to Charing Cross Road.
As they passed in front of the book store, Clark saw the grubby little pub nestled between it and the record store on the other side. "This is the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked, looking at Harry. "It's not very big, is it?"
"It's bigger inside," Harry replied. When Clark gave him a quizzical look, Harry just said, "You'll see. Come on. And let me do the talking in here for now. Tom knows me."
"Tom?"
"The barkeep," Harry nodded.
"Aren't you a bit young to be going into bars?" Clark inquired, his voice turning stern.
"Nah," Harry disagreed. "I first came here when I was eleven." Clark looked startled, and Harry added, "I didn't have anything to drink then, though. You'll see," he said again. "Besides, it's not that big a deal — lots kids my age drink, and loads more'n I do." He walked inside, with Clark following him, shaking his head.
The pub was rather empty this early in the afternoon, but some of the regulars were still there. Harry nodded at Doris Crockford, who smiled and gave him a cheery wave with her glass, sloshing it a bit. As Clark and Harry watched, she made a tching noise, then tapped the spilled liquid with her wand. It sloshed back into her glass, and she sipped at it again, beaming happily. Harry gave Clark a grin and the two of them walked up to the bar.
Behind it, as usual, was Tom, the pub's proprietor, a bald, middle-aged wizard. He gave Harry a toothless grin.
"Afternoon, Mr. Potter," he said, and nodded at Clark. "Fancy a bottle of butterbeer today?"
"Hi, Tom," Harry greeted him. "Maybe on the way back through. We're on our way to Diagon Alley." He gestured toward Clark. "This is my friend, Clark Kent. He's visiting from — out of town."
"Pleased to meet yer, sir," Tom said, reaching across the bar to shake Clark's hand. "Any friend of Mr. Potter's is a friend of ours!"
"T-thanks," Clark said. Harry noticed he acted less sure of himself, more timid, than when they were alone. "It's really nice to be here in London."
"Hope you have a pleasant visit, Mr. Kent," Tom said, cordially. "Hope to see you later, Mr. Potter," he added, grinning toothlessly again.
Harry waved, then led Clark through the pub into the courtyard in the back. "Here's how we get in." He pointed to a particular brick above the rightmost trash can. "See this one? It's three up and two across from the lid of this dustbin." He tapped it three times with his wand. The brick quivered, then wiggled, then it and the other bricks near it began turning and twisting as a small hole appeared in the middle of the wall. The hole widened, becoming an archway, and a several bricks merged into a capstone over its top, with carved letters appearing on it that read,
Diagon Alley
Clark was staring at the archway in silent amazement, and Harry wondered if that was how his face looked when Hagrid first brought him here. "Welcome to Diagon Alley, Clark!" he said, and they stepped through.
The street was more subdued than the last time he'd been here. Harry realized why — with Voldemort operating openly, people were much more wary, more cautious, than they had been when he was just a name that no one spoke, of a man presumed dead by most. Clark, however, was getting his first real glimpse into a way of life he had never imagined before. He stared, fascinated, at the shops they passed — the cauldron shop just inside the archway entrance, with its copper, brass, pewter and iron cauldrons stacked beside the front door; at Quality Quidditch Supplies he peered through the window at the Nimbus series brooms displayed there; nearby was Eeylops Owl Emporium, and Harry explained that his own owl, Hedwig, had come from there when he first started going to Hogwarts, and that his friend Hagrid had bought it for him.
"Oh, damn," Harry suddenly said, smacking himself in the forehead.
"What's wrong?" Clark asked, tearing his eyes away from the sights of Diagon Alley to stare at Harry.
"I forgot to bring any money," Harry said, in a vexed tone. He reached into his pocket, but came up with only a Galleon and a couple of Sickles. "We'll have to stop at Gringotts and pick some up."
"What's Gringotts?" Clark asked.
Harry pointed. "That's Gringotts," he said. Clark turned and stared at the towering ivory building that loomed over all the other nearby shops. "It's a bank, run by goblins." Clark gave him a bemused expression, as if he'd never expected to hear those two statements spoken together.
"It's where most wizards keep their money," Harry added, walking toward the entrance. "It'll only take a couple of minutes," he added, then nodded to the goblin that opened the door for them, bowing. Clark nodded as well, staring a bit longer at the goblin than was polite. The goblin stared back at him sharply, as if to say, What are you looking at, human?
Inside was a second pair of doors, silver ones this time, with words engraved on them. Clark quickly read the words, then remarked, "They sure make it plain no one should try to steal from them, don't they?" The two goblins standing in front of the doors opened them and bowed Harry and Clark inside, to a vast marble hall where dozens of goblins were seated behind a long counter, engaged in various activities. There were a few other witches and wizards there as well, doing business.
"Yeah," Harry said. "Not like that has stopped someone from trying."
"Who would try to rob a place like this?" Clark wondered aloud.
"Voldemort would," Harry answered. "He tried it later the first day I was here, on my eleventh birthday, but the thing he was trying to steal had already been removed."
"What was he trying to steal?"
"That's another long story," Harry sighed. They approached the counter, where a clever-faced goblin eyed them warily. Harry realized they were both dressed in Muggle clothes. "Hi," Harry said. "I need to get into my vault. Harry Potter."
"You have your key, sir?"
"Oh, damn," Harry said again, grimacing. "I didn't think I'd need it!"
"No key, no vault," the goblin said. "No exceptions."
"It's half-past three already," Harry said to Clark. "I don't know if I'll have time to get back home and back here to make it to Ollivander's."
"Maybe you could just pick one up for me?" Clark suggested.
Harry shook his head. "No, for best results, you need to pick out your own wand."
"Perhaps I could open an account?" Clark suggested, looking at the goblin.
The goblin looked at him, an expression of near amusement on his sharp little face. "Perhaps you could," he agreed. "If you have anything of value to put in it. We charge a one percent fee for all monies deposited in our standard vaults."
Clark considered a moment, looking around. He turned back to the goblin, pointing to a small stove and bucket standing nearby. "What's in that bucket?" he asked.
The goblin looked around, perplexed by the question. "Coal," he said, giving Clark a dubious look. "What else would be sitting next to a stove?"
"May I have a piece of it?" Harry blinked. What in the world —? he thought.
The goblin regarded him shrewdly for a second. "What do you offer?"
Clark looked taken aback for a moment, but took it in stride. "What do you ask?"
The goblin was silent a moment, twirling his slender beard thoughtfully. "One piece of coal, one Galleon," he said at last.
"A Galleon?" Harry exclaimed. "You're joking!"
But Clark nodded. "I'd like the largest piece, please."
"That is acceptable," the goblin agreed.
"What?" Harry said, utterly flabbergasted by the conversation.
"I'll pay you back, Harry," Clark said, holding out his hand. Harry, not really knowing what was going on but deciding to trust Clark, dropped the Galleon in his hand, which was in quick order traded for a decent-sized lump of coal.
"A pleasure doing business with you, sir," the goblin said, and Harry though he detected a trace of smugness in his voice. The foolish wizard just paid a whole Galleon for a lump of coal! "Is there anything else I can do for you today?"
Clark had turned away, cupping the coal in both hands. Harry thought he saw Clark's arms strain for a moment, as if he were exerting tremendous pressure. When he turned around, however, he was holding a lump of clear, glittering material. "Yes, I do," he said. "Do you have any way of assessing the value of this?"
The goblin sucked in his breath for a moment, taking the lump carefully from Clark's hand. "Amazing," the goblin said, his voice an awed whisper. "I have never seen a diamond so large, so flawless…"
"I would like to exchange it," Clark said. "For gold, for my first deposit to my new account. The goblin's jet-black eyebrows shot up.
"Yes, sir," he said quickly. "I'll have one of our top gemologists appraise it for you." He jumped down from his stool and quickly ran out of sight.
"What did you do?" Harry whispered, as soon as the goblin was gone.
Clark looked at his hands, then spoke as softly as Harry had. "It was a little harder than the last time I tried that — I guess my strength is down a bit, though. I turned the coal into diamond."
Harry shook his head in disbelief. "You can do that?"
"Yes," Clark said. "While I prefer to earn my money by working for it, like most people, this situation called for quick thinking, since this may be our only chance to buy a wand, from what you've said. And you still have to tell me the situation with this Voldemort character —" there was a small commotion as several nearby goblins reacted to Clark saying the name. "Especially when no one seems to want to hear his name."
"Everyone is really afraid of him," Harry explained. "Some people think that he hears it every time someone says his name."
The goblin reappeared, carrying the diamond. Hopping back up on his stool, he looked gravely at Clark and said, "I am authorized to offer you ten thousand Galleons for this."
Clark glanced at Harry, who was blinking rapidly, in disbelief. But still, that didn't sound like enough to him. He shook his head slightly. Clark turned back to the goblin. "I think it's worth about fifty thousand," Clark said, calmly.
"FIFTY THOUSAND?" the goblin sputtered. "Preposterous! Outrageous!" He fell silent for a moment. "I cannot go higher than twenty thousand," he finally said, looking unhappy.
"I can perhaps drop my price to, say, thirty thousand," Clark said, looking unhappy as well.
"Twenty-two thousand," the goblin offered.
"Twenty-six thousand," Clark countered. There was several moments of strained silence.
"Twenty-five thousand," the goblin said finally, almost choking on the words.
"Deal," Clark said.
"Very good, sir!" the goblin grinned, his whole demeanor changing now that the transaction was completed. I will be back shortly with your key. I assume a standard vault will be sufficient, sir?" Clark nodded. "And, how much gold would you like to take with you today, sir?"
Clark shrugged. "A hundred Galleons should be enough. Right, Harry?" he asked. Harry just nodded, dumbstruck by what he'd just witnessed. Clark had just turned one Galleon into twenty-five thousand Galleons in less than a minute!
The goblin disappeared, returning a minute later with a tiny gold key and a bag that clinked loudly as he dropped it on the counter in front of Clark. "I took the liberty of changing ten Galleons into smaller coins, sir," the goblin told him. "After our usual deposit fee, your vault now contains twenty-two thousand, four hundred Galleons. Here is the key to your vault, number 313. Have a pleasant day, sir."
Clark thanked the goblin and he and Harry walked out of Gringotts. Harry was still shaking his head in wonder. "That was brilliant, Clark! Even magic can't create wealth — but you can!"
"It was an emergency," Clark replied. "By the way, Harry, how much is a Galleon worth, in human money?"
"The exchange rate is held at one Galleon equals five British pounds," Harry said. "My friend Hermione told me that, once. But I don't know what that would be in American dollars."
"I can find out," Clark said, looking around the for several seconds as they walked down the Alley. "Ah, there we are. One British pound exchanges for $1.55 American."
"How d'you know that?" Harry asked, looking around the street they were walking along. "Where'd you see that here?"
"Not here," Clark said. "One of the nearby banks had the exchange rate posted."
"X-ray vision," Harry grinned. "Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?"
"It comes with a little experience, Harry," Clark patted him on the shoulder. "You'll learn." He looked around, noticing that few people had come this far into Diagon Alley, and that several shops they'd passed were empty or boarded up. "I just hope that this Mr. Ollivander is still safe, so that we can warn him he may be a target for this Voldemort character."
They continued down the cobbled street until they came to one of the last shops in Diagon Alley — a narrow, shabby store with peeling gold letters above the door that read, "Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." Harry led the way into the shop, looking around. A bell tinkled somewhere as they stepped inside. There was no one up front, but before Harry could use his vision powers to search the rest of the shop an old man stepped out of the back room, giving each of them a smile and a nod. For a moment Harry wasn't sure it was Ollivander but a look at his wide, pale eyes, eyes Harry remembered from his first time in this shop, confirmed his identity.
"Harry Potter," Mr. Ollivander said, in his soft voice. "Nice to see you again. Your wand — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple — how has it been working well for you?"
"Er — fine," Harry said. He gestured toward Clark. "I — I brought someone in who needs a wand. This is my friend, Clark Kent."
Ollivander smiled graciously at Clark. "Mr. Kent, a pleasure to meet you." Clark took a step forward, offering his hand, but the old man shook his head.
"Please excuse me, Mr. Kent — I don't shake hands with potential customers. I've found that it can affect the wand selection process." He reached into his pocket, asking, "Which is your wand arm?"
"I'm right-handed," Clark said.
Ollivander nodded absently. "Hold your arms out to your side, palms forward." He stepped up to Clark, then smiled. "You are a bit taller than most of my first-time customers, Mr. Kent — how tall are you?"
"Six foot, four inches," Clark replied, as Ollivander measured his arm at various places, then from his shoulder to the floor and several places in between.
"As Mr. Potter may have mentioned," Ollivander spoke as he measured. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. Of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand. Hmm, curious," he said at last, stepping away from Clark and regarding him with evident interest.
"What is it?" Clark asked, curious himself at what the old man meant.
"You pose an interesting problem, Mr. Kent," the old man said. "I pride myself on always having the right wand for any customer, yet I cannot seem to get a proper 'reading' from you as to the types of wands you might respond favorably to. Quite curious. What type of wands have you used before?"
"Er —" Harry began, trying to head off Clark's response, but it was too late.
"I've never used a wand before," Clark said. "This is my first one."
"Indeed?" Ollivander seemed intrigued. He looked at Harry. "Did you know this, Mr. Potter?"
"Er —" Harry said again, but Ollivander waved off any further reply.
"No matter, no matter," he said, squinting at Clark and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I enjoy a challenge. You may be my trickiest customer since Mr. Potter himself came into my shop five years ago, Mr. Kent." Ollivander went to his shelves and after a few moments of scanning them, took down three boxes.
"Let's start with these," he said, handing the first wand to Clark. "Walnut and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, very sturdy. Just give it a wave."
Clark took the wand and waved it a couple of times, but nothing happened. "What's supposed to happen?" he asked, but Ollivander simply plucked the wand from his hand, replacing it with another. "Mahogany and unicorn hair, eleven inches, pliable. Go on, go on, give it a wave."
But Clark had barely finished waving it the first time when Ollivander took it from him as well. Ironically, he was smiling quite happily after these first two failures. "Well, we'll find something, never fear, Mr. Kent." He handed a third wand to Clark. "Oak and phoenix feather, thirteen inches long, quite sturdy. Give it a go."
Clark waved the wand, which suddenly burst forth with a shower of red and blue sparks, momentarily lighting up the entire shop. "Wow," Harry breathed excitedly — Clark's wand had responded even more intensely than his own had, five years earlier.
"Excellent!" Ollivander crowed. "Bravo, Mr. Kent! An unusual combination, too, much like yourself, I sense. It should serve you well."
"How much for it?" Clark asked, holding up his bag of money.
Ollivander looked mildly abashed. "I regret to say that business has dropped off, lately; I have been forced to raise my prices accordingly. Ten Galleons," he said, almost apologetically. Clark counted out ten gold coins and handed them over. He glanced at Harry, giving him a small go-ahead-tell-him nod.
"One other thing you should know before we go, Mr. Ollivander," Harry said. "Professor Dumbledore thinks Voldemort —" Ollivander closed his eyes momentarily, but did not flinch "— is targeting certain shops in Diagon Alley, to make it more difficult for the wizarding world to go about its normal business."
"That is unfortunately true," Ollivander agreed. "The Dark Lord's followers have already closed several shops here, and you can see that not as many people are out shopping as before, even at the end of the week."
Clark had been examining his wand. He looked up as Ollivander finished speaking. "But what can be done to stop him?"
Ollivander turned his great silvery eyes toward Clark. "Nothing can be done, I'm afraid, Mr. Kent — except perhaps by the Chosen One."
"And who is that?" Clark asked.
Harry and Ollivander looked at each other for a moment. Harry almost expected the old man to point at him, but Ollivander merely said, "Only the Chosen One himself knows, and thus far, he has not spoken on the matter."
"Just who is this 'Chosen One'?" Clark persisted.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter, and thank Professor Dumbledore for the warning," Ollivander said to Harry, ignoring Clark's question. "But I will continue to sell wands until it becomes impossible for me to do so. Enjoy your new wand, Mr. Kent." Without waiting for a response, Ollivander turned and walked into the back of his store.
Harry and Clark looked at each other. "Well, that's that," Harry said, shrugging. Clark didn't look very happy, but he nodded and left the shop with Harry. They began walking toward the exit.
"I've got about ten minutes to get back home," Clark said, glancing at Harry's watch. He handed the box containing his wand and his bag of Wizarding money to Harry. "Will you hold on to these for me, Harry? It would be hard to explain either of them if my mother or Lana happened to see them, and the simplest way to keep them out of sight is to leave them with you."
"Sure," Harry said, pleased that Clark trusted him enough to hold both his money and his wand. "I'll put them in my school trunk. They'll be safe there until we can visit Hogwarts. Oh —" Harry had just remembered Dumbledore's suggestion. "My headmaster asked if we could visit the school sometime after July 31, to talk to him about getting you started with magic. That was why he wanted you to get a wand."
Clark nodded, thinking. "That's in a few weeks. I think that will work — I'll be staying at the farm for a while, to catch up on things with my mother, before I go back to work in Metropolis — assuming my boss wants me back, that is. By the way," he added, curiously. "What happens on July 31?"
"Oh," Harry shrugged. "It's my birthday."
"Really?" Clark said, interested. "Congratulations! How old will you be?"
"Sixteen," Harry replied. He smiled wryly. "They're going to have a party for me at the Burrow. I think it's supposed to be a surprise, but Professor Dumbledore let the cat out of the bag."
Clark smiled. They passed through the archway into the courtyard behind the Leaky Cauldron, then into the pub itself. Harry waved at Tom, saying "Gotta run!" as he and Clark passed by the barman. Tom smiled and waved in return. They stepped out onto Charing Cross Road and began walking briskly toward the Ministry of Magic's visitor entrance. Harry was silent, almost brooding about Clark leaving. He wouldn't see him again for over two weeks. Clark seemed preoccupied with getting back to America before Lana and her son were supposed to arrive at the farm.
"Well, Harry," Clark said, as they approached the booth. "Thanks for helping me get into Diagon Alley, and I hope you have a wonderful birthday party —"
"Too bad you can't come to it," Harry said, impulsively. "Last year I didn't even have a party — I was at my aunt and uncle's house, and they never bother with it." Well, he wasn't above trying a little guilty persuasion of his own.
Clark looked taken aback. "Well, I don't know, Harry — did you mention this to your professor?"
"Yeah," Harry said, disappointed that Clark had asked that question. He didn't want to lie to him. "He didn't think it was a good idea."
Clark took that in stride. "Did he say that you visiting me was a bad idea as well?" he asked.
"Well — no, I guess not," Harry replied. "In fact, he seemed to expect it."
"Well, if you don't mind meeting an old friend of mine, and her son," Clark suggested, "you could drop by later this afternoon at the farm. They'll be there helping my mother with a few things around the house, and I'm sure they'll stay for supper. I can introduce you as the son of some people I met while traveling around the world over the past five years — that's what Clark Kent was supposed to be doing while I was exploring Krypton. What are your aunt and uncle's names?" he asked.
"Not them," Harry shook his head emphatically. "You would not like meeting the Dursleys. My real parents were James and Lily Potter."
"James and Lily Potter, then," Clark agreed. "I'll tell Mom you may be dropping by, and let her know what your background is. She knows not to mention anything else about you." Clark glanced around the nearby surroundings, checking for anyone who might be in the area. Now take a step back," he warned. "I'll be moving pretty fast when I leave the booth."
"You still have to show me how to do that," Harry reminded him. "Traveling subsonic in the atmosphere is such a drag." He grinned at his pun.
"Very funny," Clark said, deadpan. "First chance we get," he promised. "See you later, Harry." He stepped into the booth, and a blur of blue and red seemed to flash by Harry's eyes, even though he was watching carefully.
"Wow," Harry said to himself, still awed by the speed Superman could attain without breaking windows out of nearby buildings, or causing huge backwashes of air. He slipped the bag of money into a pocket, holding on to the box with Clark's wand in it, then leapt into the sky as well, faster than human eyes could follow, traveling in a westward arc at just below sonic speed that would take him home to the Burrow.
=ooo=
It had taken several weeks of travel, but the Gertrude was finally within scanning distance of the northern shores of Antarctica. Luthor had spent the time painstakingly going over the satellite readings Stanford had taken, as well as enjoying some of the finer amenities he had brought along from the Vanderworth mansion.
But pool had gotten boring after a few weeks of smoking the other men at rotation, eight-ball and nine-ball (though Brutus had eked out a few wins against him, surprisingly), and Luthor's repertoire on the piano was limited to classical pieces, which he could listen to on his collection of vinyl records, audio tapes, or CD's whenever he wanted. Kitty was content to read her murder mystery and gothic romance novels, and the others all had their various pointless pastimes. Luthor was relieved when Stanford called him up to the control room to announce that the northern shore of Antarctica was in radar range.
"Good," Luthor said. "Any contact on the other equipment?" The "other equipment" was Stanford's enhancement to the radar system that would locate the peculiar crystalline structure of Superman's Fortress; it had been Luthor's design but Stanford had worked out the actual engineering. Once again Luthor congratulated himself on finding the young Indian-American.
"Not yet," Stanford shook his head. He pointed to a graphic of the Antarctic continent on a view screen. "It was approximately in this region here —" his finger circled an area about the size of Connecticut "— but we'll have to get closer to pinpoint it any closer than that."
"Keep on it," Luthor ordered, and Stanford nodded. "How long will the overland trip take, do you think?" he asked.
Stanford thought for a few seconds. "Best case," he replied, "if it's closer to shore and we can use the snowmobiles the entire way, about a day's travel. Worst case —" he looked at Luthor, a little concerned. "About a week," he finished. "That means carrying two weeks' worth of water and rations, each, not to mention any other equipment we'll need, Mr. Luthor."
"I'm well aware of that," Luthor said, absently. "I'm willing for you all to make the effort," he smiled at Stanford, who smiled nervously back, pretty sure his boss wasn't joking about that.
"But we'll cross that ice bridge when we come to it," Luthor said, turning to leave. "For now, I'll have Brutus and the others begin breaking out equipment and supplies for the trip."
After contacting his lead henchman, Luthor made his way back to his study, the converted grand ballroom of the yacht, finding it deserted. Kitty was probably off somewhere, bored and eating something fattening. Luthor settled into a comfortable chair with one of his favorite books on advanced chemistry, including proposed transuranic elements and where they fit into the periodic table. The authors were numbskulls but they did have a few flashes of insight, Luthor admitted. What he knew about such elements — one in particular, a glowing green element with an odd metal-crystalline structure — would have made them gasp in wonder.
Of course, it wasn't like he'd ever write a peer-reviewed paper on it, or expect that anyone in the scientific community would give him the time of day, ever again, but he was too wealthy now to care about scientific recognition. Soon the entire world would recognize him — as its leader.