Harry Potter Returns
A Harry Potter/Superman Returns Crossover
Chapter Five
The Jackpot
Updated 2 July 2010
Saturday afternoon dragged by for Harry, anxious as he was to return to Smallville and spend some time with Clark. He'd slipped back into Fred and George's room through the second-floor window, hiding Clark's wand and his bag of gold in the bottom of his trunk. A book in there caught his eye, Indispensable Spells for Quidditch Broom-Smiths, about spells used to enchant brooms for Quidditch-playing; seeing it jogged an old memory of a spell he might be able to use for his backwash problem. He pulled the book out of the trunk and flopped onto his bed just as he heard the sound of feet tramping up the stairs. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Harry said, and Hermione and Ron walked into the room, both looking windswept and flushed from their Quidditch section in the Weasley orchard.
"We won!" Hermione said brightly, and Ron gave Harry a shrug of feigned indifference.
"Well done, Hermione!" Harry said, then added, "Sorry, Ron."
"I let 'em win, of course," Ron said, loftily. "No way two girls could've really beat me —"
"Oh, you liar," Hermione sniffed, but she spoke teasingly. "So how's your arm, Harry?" she asked, looking at it with some interest.
"Better," Harry said, rubbing his shoulder once again. He pointed to the book next to him on the bed. "I've just been reading a bit."
"You feeling alright, mate?" Ron asked, with mock concern. "You must be coming down with something! Imagine — reading during summer holiday!"
"I read all the time in the summer!" Hermione pointed out, a bit miffed by Ron's comment.
"I know," Ron replied, with a grin. "But I've always thought you were a bit mental."
Hermione glowered at him a moment, but she shrugged off the comment as a side effect of Ron being irritated over his loss. "Anyway," Harry said, showing them the book. "It's about spells used on Quidditch brooms. There's spell in here somewhere, a charm that keeps you from generating too great a backwash when you're flying —"
"The Fletchley Calming Charm," Hermione said at once. "What about it?"
Ron was staring at her. "How the bloody did you know that?" he asked incredulously.
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Language, Ron! Do you remember the book, Harry? I gave it to you for Christmas last year — I knew Umbridge couldn't keep you off the Gryffindor team forever, and I thought you might like to know something about how your broom works."
"Er —" Harry hadn't thought about it, but now that she mentioned it, he remembered the book among his Christmas presents from fifth year, the year he, Fred, and George had been permanently banned from Quidditch after getting in a fight with Malfoy, who'd been taunting them after their win over Slytherin. It had been a hectic time, then, with Mr. Weasley being bitten by Voldemort's snake outside the Department of Ministries just before the Christmas holidays. The Quidditch-themed title of the book had caught his attention, but the fact that it was about magic rather than Quidditch itself made it more like a school book; that had cooled Harry's interest down to merely scanning the pages once or twice. "Well, I remember the talking diary you gave me —"
"So you never even read it?" Hermione looked scandalized. "It's a good thing I had a read through it before we came back from holiday, then! To think it's been lying there in your trunk all this time, unread…"
But it was being read now, as Harry skimmed through it, finding the page with the Fletchley Calming Charm described in it, along with a drawing of a person on a broom, showing normal air flow and how the charm reduced it to almost nothing. If he couldn't get Clark to show him how to fly at supersonic speeds without creating backwash, maybe this spell —
"So what d'you need with that spell anyway, Harry?" Ron asked, his voice becoming anxious. "Did something happen to your Firebolt?"
"Uh, no," Harry shook his head. "Just curious how that worked, is all."
After dinner with the Weasleys, Harry yawned, remarking that he'd had long day and was heading to bed. It prompted looks of surprise from Ron and Hermione,.
"Are you sure you're feeling alright, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, concerned. "I think I have some Pepper-up Potion around here somewhere —"
"No, it's okay," Harry said, hastily. He was going to have to become a little more imaginative in his excuses. "I'll see you all in the morning."
Going upstairs to Fred and George's bedroom, Harry closed the door, casting Colloportus on it. Finally, a chance to try out that Calming spell for himself! Hermione had discussed it at length earlier — her memory for spells was excellent, to Harry's good luck — and she pointed out it couldn't be cast on a person or living being; it had to be on an object like a broom or carpet, something that would build up wind resistance while moving fast through the air. It didn't have to be a broom, however; Harry found out from Hermione, who had read the entire book, that Snitches had the enchantment on them as well.
Harry expressed an interest in seeing the spell performed, but Hermione balked at casting spells out of bounds until Harry related the conversation between him and Dumbledore (though not the circumstances of that conversation!) about the Trace. Her expression grew flinty as he explained that the Trace enabled the Ministry to know when spells were cast in the vicinity of underage wizards like Harry and herself, but not who was casting the spell. "And they never bothered to tell us about that?" she demanded indignantly.
"Well, I suppose not," Harry replied, matter-of-factly. "That would ruin their ability to spy on us, wouldn't it? I'm not sure why Dumbledore even mentioned it to me," he pondered.
"You know what this means, don't you?" Hermione said excitedly. "It means we can perform magic when we're around adult witches and wizards, and they won't know who's doing it!"
"Right in one," Harry, who'd already sorted out that detail, agreed.
"And haven't Fred and George been performing magic for years up in their room?" she went on, a bit shrilly. "And they were never caught out? How could I have missed that?"
"Well," Harry shrugged. "Sometimes the most obvious things happen under our noses and we never notice."
"Well, then," Hermione said, taking out her wand. "Let's just see about that spell!"
She rummaged through Fred and George's boxes of joke items to find something to use the spell on, smiling at what she came up with. In fact, it was the brass telescope that had given Hermione her black eye earlier that morning. Casting Fletchley's Calming Charm upon it, she then took a grim delight in identifying the various spells laid on it with Scarpin's Revelaspell — including the Calming Charm, which cast a faint, yellow glow when identified.
"It's quite ingenious, really," she said afterwards, referring to the telescope itself. She touched the blackened skin under her eye. "I just wish I hadn't been the first one to find out what it did!" she added, ruefully.
Now, having watched Hermione perform both the charm and a revealment spell on an object enchanted with it, Harry was ready to try it himself. He cast it on the T-shirt, jeans, and trainers he planned to wear when he visited Clark later that evening. He then cast Specialis Revelio on each item, seeing the yellow glow that confirmed the enchantments had succeeded. With the extra power his magic now seemed to have, he'd pretty much expected success.
Of course, Harry grinned to himself, there was only one way to test them.
He checked his watch. It was about twenty minutes before nine p.m., making it just before three p.m. in Smallville. He didn't know how long he'd be gone — he hoped Colloportus on the door would discourage anyone from bothering him. Well, there was one other thing he could do, to create the illusion he was asleep in bed.
Rummaging through his trunk, Harry found a small box containing several items he'd gotten from Fred and George last year, before they'd left Hogwarts. One item, Harry recalled, had been a small hornlike object that you could place in your bed (say, under the pillow), tap it, and it would produce a snoring sound. He dropped it on his bed, tapped it with his wand, and covered it up with a blanket to muffle the snoring somewhat, as if he were snug under the covers.
A few seconds later he had changed into his enchanted clothes, slipped the window open, and soared up into the sky. He darted upward, heading toward the upper edge of the atmosphere, but not out of it this time — he wanted to see how well the Calming spell worked. Harry added speed until he was going transonic.
He frowned. Something wasn't working correctly — he could feel the buildup of air pressure in front of him, indicating a shock wave was forming. His clothes had been enchanted successfully — Harry had to conclude, disappointingly, that the Calming Charm wasn't meant to handle speeds approaching that of sound. Of course not — no one would try to build a broom that could go that fast!
Soon he was flying over Kansas. Harry dove downward, aiming for the county road that went past the Kent farm. A sudden idea occurred to him, and he angled his descent so that he landed on the railroad track that led out of Concordia, about a mile outside the town. When he'd come here before, he'd run the quarter-mile or so from the Kent driveway up to the barn at super-speed. This railway track, he knew, ran along the eastern edge of the Kent farmland, according to what Clark had told him. If he ran, instead of flying the rest of the way there, Harry figured that he could get a better picture of how well the Calming Charm would work at lower speeds, and how fast he could go before it could no longer handle the volume of air he was displacing.
Harry took off, running along the right-of-way of the track, close to the fences along either side, where there were various types of grain growing that would let him see how much backwash he was generating. Harry glanced over his shoulder at the passing stalks of grain — so far, so good! His speed was about 150 MPH, the maximum speed of a Firebolt, yet the grain was hardly swaying as he passed! He accelerated, doubling his speed, but the grain remained steady as he passed. At these speeds, Harry knew, he would be little more than a black and blue blur to normal people.
The field he was running along came to an end, and Harry found himself running up an incline — he'd come to a road crossing the railway tracks! As the road leveled off his momentum carried him upwards into the air. He had just gone ballistic! For a moment Harry considered flying back down, but instead let his arc continue, looking around at the fields on either side of him as his leap took him higher and higher, then leveled off and he began heading toward the ground again. Interestingly, air resistance was slowing him down now, but he still landed, a quarter of a mile from the road, going almost 200 MPH. Wanting to really pour on some speed, he ran up to the railway tracks and continued running between the rails, to avoid the dips and bumps of crossing roads. Accelerating again, this time up to just below sonic speed, Harry felt the buildup of air resistance once again that signaled the limit of the charm's effectiveness. It looked like any speed up to the speed of sound would be handled by the spell, but no faster. It was a bit of a disappointment for Harry, because he needed the charm to work at speeds greater than the speed of sound, not below it!
Glancing around to see where he was, Harry realized that, once again, he'd overshot his destination — the fields and farmland he was passing by were no longer familiar at all. He began slowing, then realized how long it was going to take him to brake down by slowing his pace and switched to flying, lifting his feet momentarily and willing himself to halt. That was much quicker, he found — he decelerated from 500 MPH to naught in a fraction of a second, just as when he flew down from the sky at speed until just above the ground, then landed.
Retracing his path at a more leisurely speed (around 300 MPH) Harry kept looking to his right, until he saw the now-familiar Kent farmhouse and barn, roughly a mile to the west of him across a section of farmland. He knew there was a crossroads a miles or so further south, but it would be easier to cross the field directly. And it would give him another chance to observe the Calming Charm in action.
Cutting in his flying ability for a moment, Harry made a hard right turn into the field, which looked like it contained half-grown stalks of corn. Speeding down between two rows at 300 MPH, Harry glanced behind him, seeing that the stalks were hardly swaying. He smiled, knowing that if he could run this fast without disturbing plants, he would be able to do the same thing in the halls of Hogwarts, if he needed to. That could prove very interesting if he needed to be somewhere else in a hurry. One might not be able to Apparate within the school or grounds, but there was nothing to keep him from running, or flying, just under the speed of sound!
As he neared the edge of field, seeing the road beyond it an the drive leading up to the Kent house, Harry suddenly realized it might look strange if he suddenly appeared at the farm with no discernable means of transportation. That was going to be a problem — his Muggle friends, the lady and her son that Clark had talked about — might wonder how he got there. Harry had no idea what kind of story might sound reasonable to them. So what to do?
Making a snap decision, Harry made a hard left at the far end of the field, running parallel with the road to his right, until he came to the edge of the field about a mile south, where another road crossed 9 5/10. Harry stopped there for a moment, to think of a cover story for his appearance. He checked his watch — it was about five minutes after three. He was a little late, but it couldn't be helped. And he was going to be even later unless he came up with a plausible story for showing up at the Kent farm. Was it reasonable for him to walk from Smallville to the Kent farm? It wasn't more than four or five miles north of town, after all.
The sound of an automobile attracted his attention. Harry turned and watched as the vehicle made its way toward the intersection. Harry could see the driver was looking at him, and he used his enhanced vision to get a better look at her. The driver was a red-haired woman, pretty, who looked to be in her early to mid-thirties. In the seat next to her Harry saw a young boy with brown hair, who he judged to be ten or eleven years old. The boy was staring at him too, his eyes just visible in the car window.
The car was slowing down, and Harry was suddenly self-conscious. Had he drawn attention to himself somehow? Suddenly realizing where he was — on the edge of a field of corn in the middle nowhere in the Kansas countryside, he probably did stand out a little! The car pulled to a halt, and the red-haired woman looked at him through the side window.
"Young man," she called. "Are you all right?"
"Uh, yes ma'am," Harry said, looking around as he walked up the side of the road toward the car. "I was just —"
"Are you hurt?" the lady asked. "You look like you fell down."
"He looks like he fell a lot," the boy added.
Harry looked down at himself and stifled a gasp. His T-shirt was ripped and torn in several places. His jeans had numerous small tears and looked much more worn than when he'd put them on, just twenty minutes ago. And now that he was paying attention to his appearance, he could smell a faint odor of burnt rubber coming from his trainers. The Fletchley Calming Charm had worked, but not well enough — it had cut down the air backwash, but hadn't prevented air friction and small flying objects from tearing holes in his clothing. "Er — well, I…"
"I'm going over to a friend's house, she lives about a mile away from here," the woman interrupted him. "I can take you there — I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you needed to call someone."
"The Kent farm?" Harry inquired, by now pretty sure this was the friend Clark had referred to, and her son.
"Yes," she said, surprised. "How did you know that?"
"Well, actually," Harry said, "I was on my way there as well."
The woman blinked. "You know Martha Kent?"
"Well," Harry hedged. "I know her son, Clark. I was coming to see him."
"Really?" the woman seemed quite surprised and interested to hear this. "He's there now?"
"He should be," Harry nodded.
"Well, why don't you hop in," the woman suggested. "I can have us there in a minute or two. Oh," she added, as he opened the back door to get in. "I'm Lana Lang. This is my son, Ricky." She indicated the boy in the front seat with her.
"Hi," Harry nodded to her and Ricky. "My name is Harry Potter."
Lana turned around and gave him a very curious look. "Harry Potter?"
Ricky had turned around in his seat as well, and was staring. "What happened to you forehead?" he asked, pointing at Harry's lightning scar.
"Ricky, it's rude to point," his mother told him, pushing his hand back down. "I'm sorry, Harry. Ricky asks a lot of questions."
"Oh, Mom," Ricky looked annoyed at her comment. "I do not! Do you think I ask too many questions, Harry?"
"Uh, no," Harry said, smiling a bit nervously.
"See, Mom!" Ricky looked triumphantly at his mother.
Lana gave her son a sidelong glance. "He's being polite, dear. Something you could stand to do a little better with, do you hear me?"
"Oh, all right," Ricky turned around in his seat, pouting.
They pulled into the drive and up to the house. As Harry got out of the car he saw that Mrs. Kent had come outside; she and Lana were hugging each other. Ricky ran up to her and she bent down to give him a quick hug as well. "How are you doing, dear?" she asked him.
"Fine," Ricky answered at once. He pointed back at Harry. "We found someone in your corn field!"
"I see!" Martha said, smiling at Harry. "Clark told me you'd be coming to see him today. You're Harry Potter, is that right?"
"Yes, ma'am," Harry nodded. He walked to her and held out his hand, as if they'd never met, and Martha shook it gently. "It's nice to meet you."
At that moment Clark came outside. He smiled at Harry, then nodded at Lana and her son. "Hello, Lana. Mom told me you'd be coming to see her this weekend. It's nice to see you again."
"Clark!" Lana smiled brightly at him. "So you are here! Your young friend Harry told me you were here." They stepped closer together, then hesitated for a moment before briefly hugging. "I'd like you to meet my son, Ricky," she said, after they'd parted.
"Hello, Ricky," Clark said, smiling at him.
"Hi," Ricky said quietly, suddenly shy.
Everyone was silent for several seconds, waiting for someone else to speak. Finally Lana turned to Harry. "So, Harry — what were you doing out in the middle of Martha's corn field?"
Harry hadn't really come up with a story for that. "Well…I… got into town a little earlier today," he said, slowly, feeling his way through a story that sounded reasonable. "And I thought I'd have a walk out here, to have a look around, and to see Clark."
"How do you know Clark?" Lana asked, curiously. "Martha's said that he was off traveling for the past few years."
"Uh, well…"
"I met Harry's parents over in England," Clark cut in, "just before I decided to come home again. Harry goes to a boarding school, and he returned home just before I left. I was telling him about Kansas, and he told me he thought he'd like to come over for a visit while he was on vacation from school."
"You live in England?" Ricky said, incredulously, "and you wanted to come to Kansas? What for?"
The other adults were chuckling. "Well," Harry said, taking the question seriously — it had always rankled him when he was younger, not having his questions taken seriously. "I had a chance to go on holiday somewhere I'd never been before," he explained. "And Kansas is a long way from England."
"How did you get here?" Lana asked.
"Oh, I flew," Harry said.
"You flew?" Ricky exclaimed, his eyes growing big.
"He means in a plane, Ricky," his mother pointed out, smiling. "You've probably had to do a lot of flying to get here, didn't you, Harry?"
"Yeah, I did," Harry agreed.
"Well," Martha said to Lana, "we'd better get going if we're going to get things done before dinner." She looked back at Clark. "Do you want to show Ricky and your friend Harry around the farm, Clark? We'll give you a holler when we're ready for supper."
"Sure, Mom," Clark said. "Talk to you later, Lana," he added, smiling at her.
"See you, Clark," Lana replied. "And Ricky, you behave now, you hear?"
"Yes, Mom," Ricky said, in a tone that made Harry wonder if he'd considered doing otherwise, had she not mentioned it. Once they were inside he turned to Clark. "Can we go look in the barn?" he asked. "My mom and Mrs. Kent wouldn't let me go out there alone."
"Sure, Ricky," Clark said. "Does that sound okay, Harry?"
"Sure," Harry said. He hadn't had much chance to look around earlier, either. He'd imagined that the Kent farm would be much like the Burrow, except larger, but soon discovered it was nothing like the Weasley home. Clark showed him and Ricky an old chicken coop, no longer used; other farmers in the area provided eggs at the market, and Martha no longer had the need to cook big breakfasts for Clark and her late husband, Jonathan, as well as the other hired hands they brought on for seasonal work. They'd never raised pigs or cows, either, as bacon, sausages and milk were normally available at the general stone in town.
Crops, on the other hand, took up a large part of the work day, though now most of the farm Martha leased out to other nearby farmers, at reduced rates; they in return helped Martha with the cropland she maintained. Between that, the money she and Jonathan had saved over the years, and the money Clark had sent her, Martha was able to live in relative comfort in her home.
Of course, Clark did not mention any of this to either Harry or Ricky; they were mostly interested in all the old farm implements stored in the barn, the old water pump, cranked by hand, which still worked (sometimes, depending on how dry the weather was), and Jonathan's ancient, rusted John Deere Model G tractor, from 1953, the last year it was made. Ricky was disappointed it didn't run, and was getting bored.
"I guess there really isn't that much to do around here," he said, in a pouting tone.
"Oh, there's a lot to do," Clark said, in his "typical Clark" manner, which seemed to Harry calculated to make people become bored and ignore him. He could see the usefulness in such a persona, especially if one had to slip away at odd moments and disappear. "It's just not the kind of stuff most boys would want to do on a Saturday afternoon."
"What do you want to do, Ricky?" Harry asked the younger boy. It was interesting, Harry found, to be around and talk to someone several years younger than himself; he hardly interacted with anyone more than one year beneath him in school — Luna and Ginny were the only two people that he knew who were younger than himself, offhand, and both of them were girls.
Ricky's eyes lit up. "How about playing catch?" he said, then sped off toward his mother's car without waiting for a response. He was back a minute later with a baseball mitt and baseball in his hands. "How about it, Harry?"
Harry looked at Clark. How do you play catch? he mouthed.
Ricky gave him a look of disbelief. "Don't you know how to play catch, Harry? Are you kidding?"
"Well," Harry said, a bit on the defensive, "I play a game where I have to catch a very small ball," he held he fingers apart about the size of a walnut. "But I only have to catch it once and the game's over."
Ricky looked doubtful. "That sounds like a pretty weird game," he said. "No offense."
Harry laughed. "None taken," he said. "I thought it was weird when I started playing it, too. It kind of grew on me, though. Clark, Ricky and I are going to play some catch, if that's — eh? Where'd he go?"
Clark had disappeared, it seemed. But he reappeared a moment later, carrying a glove similar to one Ricky held. "I thought you might need this," he said, handing it to Harry. He showed Harry how to put it on his left hand, and how to hold it so the ball, when thrown, would land in the netting of the glove. It looked simple, Harry thought.
"Be careful how you throw the ball," Clark said, quietly enough that Ricky would not overhear. "Remember, he's just a normal kid."
"I'll remember," Harry said, in the tone of a teenager who'd been reminded by an adult of something he considered obvious. "How hard can this be, anyway?"
He and Ricky faced each other about a dozen feet apart. Harry was initially a little clumsy at catching the baseball; normally he used his right hand to catch the Snitch in Quidditch, not his left, but the glove helped. The ball they were using was bigger than a Snitch, but smaller than a Quaffle — it also had stitching on it, which Harry found helped him grip it a little better when he threw it. Soon he and Ricky were easily throwing the ball back and forth. The gap between them had widened, to about thirty feet, but with his speed Harry was having no difficulty catching the ball. If fact…it was beginning to get a bit boring, Harry thought. What was the point of this game, anyway?
"Hey," Ricky called, as he caught the ball from one of Harry's throws. "I want to throw some pitches. Do you think you can catch them, Harry?"
"I suppose," Harry said. He wasn't sure about the difference between "pitching" the ball and just "throwing" it. "Pitch the ball and I'll see if I can catch it."
Ricky nodded, then turned so his left side was facing Harry, his feet apart. He held his glove and the ball tightly against his chest for a moment. As Harry watched, he inexplicably looked over his left, then right, shoulder; Harry frowned, looking around to see what the younger boy was looking at. He didn't see Clark, who must've gone into the house. Ricky nodded at him, raised his arms over his head and brought them back to his chest, then suddenly cocked his arm back and threw the ball, stepping forward to add velocity to the pitch.
The ball was coming much faster than his previous throws, but Harry's ability to see at super-speed was easily compensating for it. What was weird, Harry saw, as the ball approached, was that while the initial path was to his left, as he watched the ball curved at the last moment toward him, so that Harry had to twist his hand so his glove was directly in front of him when the ball reached him. That ball had a lot of spin on it, Harry thought, to change its direction that much.
"Good catch," Ricky said, as Harry threw the ball back to him. "You're better than Sarah, my sitter — she never catches that one!"
"Good throw," Harry replied. "What else can you do?"
Ricky showed him. He could make the ball do some pretty amazing things: it could dip at the last moment, it could rise, it could come in so flat and yet so slow that it was almost like watching one of his fast pitches at super-speed. Harry wondered how such a young kid could have learned to throw a ball so skillfully.
"See what you think of this one," Ricky called. "I call it the 'Corkscrew'." He wound up again, throwing the ball at Harry, who watched it curve slowly to his left and rise as it came toward him. But then it did a positively strange thing — it began to curve back to his right as it dipped. Harry was pretty sure that no one could throw a ball and make it do that.
At least, no Muggle could.
"That was a pretty good throw," Harry said, walking toward the younger boy. "I almost didn't catch it." Which was the truth — Harry been so surprised at the ball's corkscrew motion that he almost forgot to put his glove in front of it. "Where'd you learn to throw like that?"
Ricky shrugged. "My dad wants me to be a pitcher in the major leagues someday," he said. "We practiced a lot when I was a kid. When I watch baseball on TV I see the pitchers making these kinds of throws, and I've been practicing them myself."
"Do you want to be a pitcher when you grow up?" Harry asked.
Ricky made a who-knows face and shrugged again. "Maybe. I guess. I like pitching, but my coach has me playing left field. He says he wants a strong arm out there to get the ball back into the infield."
"Have you told him about your pitching?" Harry asked, wondering what his coach would do if he saw some of the things Ricky could make a baseball do. He vaguely remembered seeing the game Ricky mentioned on the telly a few times, back on Privet Drive, as an example of American sport.
"Yeah," Ricky said, in a flat voice. "But he's already got all the pitchers he wants."
They walked inside into the kitchen, where the aroma of Martha Kent's cooking was almost intoxicating. "Wow! That smells good!" Ricky said, hungrily. "Doesn't it, Harry?"
"It does," Harry agreed. He'd been smelling it ever since Lana and Martha had started dinner some time ago.
"Why don't you two join Clark in the living room?" Martha suggested. "We'll call you when dinner's ready."
Ricky looked at Harry. "That means, 'get out of here, we'll call you when we need you'," he said with a knowing grin.
"Richard Bradford!" Lana said sharply. "No more smart-mouth from you tonight! Now apologize to Mrs. Kent!"
Ricky had a mutinous look on his face, Harry thought, like he'd thought he was just being funny, not rude. But — "Sorry, Mrs. Kent," he mumbled.
Lana pointed to the living room. "Now march — go sit down and behave!"
Her son turned and slouched out of the room. Harry, who'd watched Mrs. Weasley upbraid Fred, George and Ron, all of whom towered over her and all of whom shrank back when she glared at them, figured Ricky got off relatively easy for his thoughtless remark. "Uh, let us know if you need anything," said, moving toward the kitchen door as well.
"We will, dear," Martha said, and Harry retreated into the living room, where Clark was watching something on television. It had captured Ricky's attention, too, since he longer seemed upset or irritated by his mother's scolding.
On screen was a strange-looking aircraft, one Harry had never seen before. It looked like a double-decker bus, but Harry thought he must not be seeing it correctly, because the idea of Muggles flying such a thing seemed absurd. A moment later, however, the newscaster's voiceover cleared up his confusion.
"The space shuttle Genesis, slated for launch this coming Monday, has been delayed due to concerns with the shuttle release system on the craft's new experimental platform, a modified Boeing 777-200X capable of lifting the shuttle in a piggy-back configuration to an altitude of 40,000 feet, where it will be launched into Earth orbit for its first series of high-altitude experiments."
The image changed to two men standing behind a podium. "In a joint press conference this morning, NASA and Air Force officials took questions concerning the delay." The scene cut to a young woman with long, black hair, and Clark's breath caught for a moment. It was Lois.
"This flight is for 'experimental purposes,'" she said, glancing at the pad in her hand. "Are there any other reasons to continue these missions, given the overall budget shortfalls the country has experienced lately?"
The NASA official did not look pleased with her question. "Our overall plan is to develop efficient takeoff and insertion strategies for future shuttle launches. We are also looking at commercial applications —"
"Commercial applications?" Lois interrupted, surprised. "You don't mean something like a 'space ride,' do you?"
"No, Miss Lane," the Air Force official interrupted. "We are looking toward having a civilian presence on future space station, for administrative and non-essential duties."
Lois looked ready to ask another question, but the Air Force official put up his hands. "That will be all for today, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your time."
Harry saw the look Clark was giving the woman who'd been asking questions. "Do you know her?" he asked.
"Everybody knows Lois Lane!" Ricky interrupted. "She's a famous reporter that works for the Daily Planet, in Metropolis." He looked at Clark. "Mom says you were a reporter, too. Where did you work at, Mr. Kent?"
"I worked in Metropolis, too, Ricky," Clark said quietly, looking pensive.
Ricky's eyes lit up. "Did you ever meet Lois Lane?" he asked, eagerly.
"A few times," Clark nodded. The look on his face was telling Harry that there was something more to the two of them than the casual answers Clark was giving Ricky.
"Supper's ready!" Martha called, from the kitchen. "Come and get it!"
Ricky ran into the kitchen but Lana's voice commanded, "Wash your hands first," and he turned and ran into the bathroom.
Harry walked over to the door of the bathroom, to wait for Ricky to finish washing his hands so he could wash his as well. "Coming, Clark?" he asked, as Clark continued to stare at the television screen, seemingly lost in thought.
Clark looked up. "Yes, in a minute," he said, "I have to make a phone call first."
=ooo=
Lois slid out of the taxi, handed the driver her fare, then stalked into the Daily Planet building, her mood foul and worsening by the moment. She had flown to Houston, prepared to make the shuttle flight, write the story and drop it on Perry White's desk, to get herself out from underneath it and on to more important issues — which at this moment was anything-not-to-do-with-the-space-shuttle.
She considered taking the elevator all the way to the roof, to have a cigarette and calm herself, but decided against it. She could have a smoke on her way home. The two smokes she'd had in the cab on the way over from the airport had only intensified her craving for another one. And, unless Richard was working overtime and she could get Jason down for a nap when she got home, she wouldn't be able to sneak a smoke at home. Well, she could relax a bit before Monday — or at least, her approximation of "relax."
Getting off on the newsroom floor, she glanced at Perry's office, knowing he'd be here, even on the weekend. Like her, he'd wanted the shuttle story finished in time for the Sunday edition, and he would ride the weekend editors until they made sure everything was a go.
Of course, there actually had to be a story before it could be printed in the paper.
Perry was talking to someone in his office, Lois saw; stacks of boxes full of folders prevented her from seeing who it was. She walked over to her desk, dropped her carryon bag and purse onto it and sat down for a moment to collect her thoughts before going into Perry's office to vent. Why did those idiots in Houston have to keep second-guessing everything? For the past two weeks they'd dithered on the launch date, threatening to scrub the mission a half-dozen times over various "issues" that were resolved almost as soon as they were announced. Now this problem with the shuttle couplings, which Lois was beginning to think was a mere ploy to stretch out the anticipation over this new "piggyback" launch method.
Lois rubbed her eyes tiredly. The craving for a cigarette was intensifying, what with waiting for Perry, frustration over the story, and sheer fatigue. She looked around her desk for a moment, trying to find something else to do, but the call of nicotine was getting too strong to ignore. She opened her purse, grabbing the small bag containing her pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and stood up to head for the roof, only to see Perry look at her, then wave her into his office. She put the smokes back into her purse, dropped the purse into a drawer in her desk, and went into his office.
The person he'd been talking to was still there; unfortunately, it was Cat Grant. Lois nodded curtly to her, and she smiled back. "Good to see you again, Lois," Cat said. "How was your trip?" Lois could hear the mocking tone in her voice.
"Just great," Lois replied. "I sat next to Lex Luthor on the flight back. He told me his latest scheme — he plans to raise an island in the Gulf of Mexico, then drill down to the oil reserves under it. He's in Metropolis now, looking for venture capital." Grant, who wrote the gossip column for the Planet, would sometimes include Luthor rumors in her column during slow periods. Luthor had disappeared after being released from jail three years ago, after Superman failed to appear at his trial to testify — just one in the series of unfortunate events over the past five years that had led Lois to write her editorial, "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman," last year, a piece that had ironically won her a Pulitzer Prize.
"Settle down, Lois," White cautioned her. "I know you're upset, but —"
"Damn right I'm upset!" Lois agreed, cutting him off. "These morons are talking themselves out of a story! They're already wasting billions of dollars trying to keep Mir operational — the Russians would have shut it down by now if we weren't pumping money into it — and there are rumblings of NASA participating in an international effort to build another one! There are a lot better uses for that money than wasting it on space!"
Perry had let her speak, but he shook his head. "We're not here to make the news, Lois — we report on it. You can disagree with what NASA is doing, but I don't want that clouding the facts of your story. Got it?"
Lois nodded unhappily. She looked at Cat. "And how's your story going, Grant?" she asked, sounding interested, though both women knew that was a façade.
"Jimmy and I are still looking for Gertrude Vanderworth's husband," she replied. "It's been — interesting." In fact, the entire piece was becoming a gigantic white elephant to Grant, who was used to turning over stories in a matter of days, if not hours, the nature of gossip being what it was. "I've been starting to wonder if the whole story was a fabrication by someone in the Vanderworth family, to defraud the other members of their family fortune, because neither Jimmy nor I can find any information on her supposed 'husband.'" Grant looked at Perry. "That's what I was telling Mr. White — I think we're chasing a red herring."
"What, the great Cat Grant, ready to give up on a story?" Lois asked, with mock concern. The phone on White's desk rang, and he answered it.
"That's ironic, coming from you, Lois," Cat shot back. "You sound ready to give up on the shuttle story — one of NASA's biggest achievements in the past decade — because of a simple delay."
"I'm not giving up on anything," Lois told her, stubbornly. "I just don't like seeing so much money wasted on things that aren't going to matter in the next century, rather than on helping the country heal and grow."
"That sounds very noble," Cat sneered. "But a lot of our scientific advances are made in the space program, and the experiments that are taking place on Mir are increasing our knowledge in chemistry, biology, physics — you name it. I think you're being short-sighted."
"Short-sighted?" Lois looked amused. "This from the woman who spends most of her time chasing down Bruce Wayne's latest date for fashion tips."
White hung up the phone. "Alright, you two, cut it out," he said. He gave both of them an odd look. "You're not going to believe who I just spoke to," he said.
"Lex Luthor?" Cat smiled, "wanting to give an exclusive interview to Lois?"
"Bruce Wayne?" Lois smirked, "with his date plans for next Friday night?"
"Clark Kent," Perry told them. "He's back from his sabbatical, or whatever it was he was doing. He wanted to know if I needed a reporter."
"What did you tell him?" Cat asked.
White shrugged. "At the moment we're at full capacity, staff-wise. I told him I didn't know when something would open up. He's staying at his mother's house in Kansas — asked me to give him a call if anything opened up."
"Hmm, Clark Kent back at the Planet," Cat mused, looking at Lois. "It will seem like old times, won't it?"
"Not unless Superman shows up again," Lois retorted. "And that seems pretty unlikely, since nobody's heard from him for five years now."
"True," Cat said, heading toward the door to Perry's office. "Even so, I guess things are pretty different now, aren't they, Lois?" She looked at White. "I'll stay on the Vanderworth story, Chief — let you know what I come up with in a day or so." She walked out.
"Hang in there with the shuttle story, Lois," Perry told her, after Cat had closed the door. "They'll get the bugs worked out this time, I'm sure."
"I hope so, Chief," Lois said, turning toward the door as well. "I'm getting to know the Metropolis to Houston flight crews on a first-name basis."
"Lois." She turned around to face Perry. "What do you think about bringing Clark Kent back to the Planet?"
Lois made a gesture that may have been a shrug, or a sigh. "He's a decemt reporter. Spells pretty good, too. But as you said, we're at full staff right now."
"Yeah," White said, looking at her closely. "So you wouldn't have a problem, if he came back?"
"Why would I have a problem with Kent?" Lois looked surprised at the question.
Perry shrugged. "Just asking." I seem to remember you acting a little…well, weird, together after that assignment in Niagara Falls, the honeymoon scam story, when the General Zod crisis took place."
"Oh, that," Lois made a dismissive gesture. "That was — that was nothing, Chief. Kent and I were more concerned about Zod and the other Kryptonians than were about…about, well, whatever happened at that resort." She looked puzzled for a moment. "You know, I don't even recall what we did when we heard about Zod taking over the White House and demanding that Superman kneel before him to save the Earth."
"Well, never mind," Perry said. "That's old news, now. Let's get the shuttle launch out of the way as well — then I've got a few more stories I'll want you to cover."
"Good," Lois said, and went to have that cigarette.
=ooo=
"Would you like another piece of apple pie, Harry?"
"Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Kent," Harry shook his head, putting a hand on his stomach. "I couldn't eat another bite. That was a great dinner!"
"I'm glad you liked it," Martha Kent smiled. "But you'll have to thank Lana for that pie — she made it as we were preparing dinner earlier."
Harry smiled at Lana. "Thank you, Mrs. Lang," he said. "It was really good."
"It's just Miss Lang, Harry," Lana smiled, then looked at Clark. "Did you enjoy your dinner, too, Clark?"
Clark wiped off his mouth with a napkin, beginning to speak but quickly swallowing first. "Excuse me — yes, it was excellent, Lana. Thank you. And thank you too, Mom," he smiled at his mother as well.
"I'm just so happy to have you home again, Clark," Martha said, putting her arm on Clark's.
"I second that," Lana added, smiling at Clark. Harry glanced at Ricky, who looked at him then rolled his eyes. Harry grinned at him.
"So, Harry," Lana gave him an inquisitive look. "How long have you been here?"
Harry, who hadn't been expecting the question, replied without thinking. "Oh, just since this afternoon."
Lana chuckled. "No, I meant, in the United States. What places have you visited?"
"Oh. Well —" Harry glanced at Clark. "This — this was actually my first place to visit," he said. "I thought I'd come see Clark first, then figure out where to go from there."
"Have you seen Stonehenge?" Ricky, who'd been eating his slice of apple pie a bit at a time, suddenly asked. "I was reading about it the other day."
"Er —" Harry had never really thought about Stonehenge, much less visited it. "Well, I've heard about it —"
Ricky looked frustrated. "Really? Geez, Harry, do you even live in England?"
"Ricky!" Lana admonished him. "You don't need to get upset just because Harry's never been to Stonehenge! Look at me," she pointed out. "I've lived in Kansas for years and I've never been to see the castle at the top of Coronado Heights, or down to see the largest hand-dug well, in Greensburg, or even over to see the ball of twine in Cawker City."
Harry could tell she was trying to make a point with her son, but some of the places of interest she named were…unusual. "A ball of twine?" he repeated, looking confused.
"Well, yes," Lana said, looking a bit defensive. "It's only about an hour west of here." When Harry continued to look confused, she explained, "It's a really big ball of twine — it's over eleven feet in diameter."
"Maybe we should go see it tomorrow!" Ricky said, excitedly. "We can take Harry!"
"Well, I won't be here tomorrow," Harry said. "I'll be ba— er, I'll be gone tomorrow."
"Oh, that's too bad," Lana said, sounding relieved. "Where are you —" she was interrupted by a splatting sound behind them—the extra apple pie Lana had baked had someone fallen to the floor.
"Oh, drat!" Martha said, upset. "I was going to send that home with you and Ricky, Lana! I must've left it too close to the edge of the counter!" Harry glanced at Ricky, who was frowning and not looking at anyone. He could have sworn he'd seen, in the corner of his eye, the pie flip over and fall to the floor.
"Clark, why don't you and Harry go in the living room and relax a while," Martha suggested. "Lana and I will clean up in here."
"You stay, Ricky," his mother told him. "You can help with the dishes tonight."
"Oh, Mom!" Ricky looked mutinous again. "Can't I go talk to Harry and Mr. Kent, too?"
"After the dishes are done," she said, firmly. "But I'll tell you what," she added, as Ricky made a face and began furiously clearing the table. "Help with the dishes tonight and I'll let you wait 'til Monday to do your chores."
"Okay," Ricky agreed, settling down and stacking the dishes more carefully.
"I hope you enjoyed yourself here today, Harry," Clark said quietly, as they sat down in the living room.
"Oh, yeah," Harry agreed. "I really did. Thanks for inviting me."
"Well, honestly," Clark admitted. "There was a little selfishness on my part." He lowered his voice to the point where Harry's enhanced hearing was needed to understand what he was saying. "I was afraid my mother had some idea about Lana and me getting together."
"And you didn't want that?" Harry replied. He remembered seeing Clark's expression when he was watching that woman reporter, Lois Lane. "Is it because of that woman on the telly?" he asked.
"Lois?" Clark said, surprised Harry had noticed he'd been watching her. "Well — it's complicated."
"That phone call you made earlier," Harry said. "You asked your old boss for a job back in Metropolis." Harry pointed at his ear. "Super-hearing. I thought maybe it had something to do with her." He hung his head. "Sorry. I shouldn't have eavesdropped."
"No, it's alright," Clark said, distracted. "I didn't realize it was that obvious. Lois and I went through a lot together a few years ago, before I went to find Krypton. I guess I didn't realize how much I missed her until I saw her again today."
"So, are you going back to work there?" Harry wanted to know. He didn't know what this was going to do with his plans for him and Clark to visit Hogwarts in August.
"Not right now," Clark said. "There's no job opening for me at the Planet. I don't know if I want to work anywhere else, though." He looked at Harry. "For now, we'll stick to our plan, to go talk to your headmaster after you turn sixteen."
Harry nodded, relieved. He needed to spend more time with Clark, to get a better understanding of how his new powers worked, just as Clark would need to understand how his magical abilities worked. And speaking of magical ability…
"There's something you should know about Ricky," Harry told Clark, who looked suddenly concerned as well. "I think he's got magical abilities."
Clark looked stunned. "What makes you think that?"
Harry related the incident with the baseball and Ricky's uncanny ability to make it move however he wanted. "There was also that thing with the apple pie, when he got upset earlier. That pie didn't fall — it practically leaped off the counter!"
"What happens if Ricky does have magical powers?" Clark asked.
"Well, at home," Harry explained. "The summer after we turn eleven we get a letter from Hogwarts saying we can attend if we choose to. But I don't know what happens here in America."
"Do you think Lana knows?" Clark asked, glancing at her through the kitchen wall with his X-ray vision. She and Ricky were smiling and laughing as they did the dishes together.
"I don't know," Harry shook his head. "She's his mum, she's probably noticed if anything strange has been happening around him at home."
"I'll ask Mom if she's mentioned anything to her," Clark said. "If Ricky is a wizard, his life is going to change drastically, isn't it?"
"Based on what I've been through in the past few years," Harry said, knowingly. "I'd say 'Yes'."
=ooo=
The Gertrude dropped anchor about 100 yards from the frozen ice shelf off the northwest coast of Antarctica, well away from any of the international expeditions stationed around Weddell Sea. Stanford had located crystalline readings matching the ones Luthor had discovered in the arctic region several years earlier; they would be running snowmobiles toward the coordinates, until the terrain made it impossible to continue, then on foot the rest of the distance.
It was not going to be an easy trek, Luthor knew. Antarctica was the coldest place on Earth; the coldest temperature recorded there was 128 degrees below zero Fahrenheit. Near the coastline it was warmer, but still well below zero. According to Stanford's estimates (with which Luthor concurred), they were about four days away from the Fortress using snowmobiles for eight hours a day; with any luck, even in the relatively mountainous terrain, they would be able to get fairly close.
"Is this trip really necessary?" Kitty asked plaintively, watching the men set up base camp well inland on the ice shelf, using a ridge formation to protect them from the winds. They all had on extra-thermal clothing as well as their parkas and heavy leggings, boots and gloves —every part of their bodies that wasn't exposed was being kept warm by special layers in the clothing that retained most of their body heat.
"Yes, it is," Luthor said, a small smile cracking his face at his girlfriend's unintentional humor. "We're looking for technology that will make anything mankind has achieved — computers, atomic power, space flight — look like stone knives and bearskins."
"That's great, Lex," Kitty replied, giving him a cynical look. "But I don't expect you'll want to share any of that technology with mankind."
"Au contraire, mon cher," Luthor corrected her. "I plan to make this technology available to everyone — for the right price."
As soon as base camp was established and the men had rested for a while, Luthor was ready to begin the expedition. "The soon we find what we're here for," he told the others, "the sooner we'll be back on the ship, nice and warm." No one argued with that logic.
Instead of using GPS, which would be nearly useless at these latitudes (as most non-military units could not stand the extreme cold), they were using a portable locator cobbled together by Luthor and Stanford, a device that would track the unique crystalline readings of Superman's Fortress. Three snowmobiles set off, each with two occupants and each with a sled carrying food, gasoline and other supplies Luthor had requested.
The terrain was uneven but still navigable by the snowmobiles. The convoy had to wind its way around various outcroppings of rock and ice, and had to double back once because a crevasse made going any further impossible. But they continued, with Stanford directing them with his locator, until they came to an outcropping of rock that made further travel by snowmobile impossible.
"We're lucky," Stanford said, through chattering teeth. "It's only about a quarter mile further, beyond these rocks. We should be able to make that on foot in an hour or so, assuming we have to cover terrain like that." He pointed to the rocks ahead of them.
"Let's get going, people," Luthor, who could practically feel those crystals in his hands, commanded. "Bring all of the equipment — one way or another, we're bringing back some of that crystal."
Luthor's henchmen broke out the equipment he'd ordered — electronic equipment for examining the crystals, along with a small portable generator, an acetylene cutter and welding equipment, a small first aid kit, food and water supplies, along with a heater for thawing it out (it was well below freezing), and ropes and other climbing and digging implements, in case they had to scale up or down cliffs.
"Maybe I should have stayed on the ship," Kitty looked rather daunted by all of the equipment they were bringing with them.
"No, you wouldn't want to miss this," Luthor told her. "This is history in the making."
They made their way slowly over the rocky, frozen ridge, step by arduous step, Luthor and Stanford conferring over the readings of the locator, getting closer and closer to the source of the readings. They were fortunate in that some recent disturbances had caused some rockfalls, opening up a small, circuitous path through the rock.
Luthor pointed out a rock formation to Stanford — it had a definite crystalline quality to it: long and smooth rather than rough, like normal rock. They stepped through the last part of the ridge, and even Luthor had to gasp at what lay before them, glowing with an eerie bluish light in the long night of the Antarctic.
The Fortress of Solitude, Superman's headquarters.
"I knew it, I knew it," Luthor cackled, looking around at the tall, interlocking spires of rocklike crystals, or crystal-like rocks — it didn't matter what it was, only that they were here! Leading the way, Luthor led them into the glowing structure, looking at the strange, star-shaped object that was resting on the rocky ice, just outside the entrance. Above, he could see an open hatch. It was evidently a vessel of some kind.
"Two of you check that out," Luthor told his men. "See what's inside — but don't touch anything until you clear it with me, you hear?" They nodded and two of them broke off to find a way inside the object. Luthor and the others went inside the Fortress.
The Fortress was magnificent. It was a vast cavern of interlocking levels, stretching perhaps a mile or more in length. Kitty was looking around apprehensively. "Shouldn't there be a burglar alarm, or something?" she asked. She gave Luthor a knowing look. "You know, to keep out the riff-raff and crooks?"
Luthor merely grinned, refusing to be baited. "I think he figured putting out here, in this godforsaken wilderness, would be all the security he'd need. Most people wouldn't even think of looking for something like this in the first place." Luthor tapped the side of his parka hood with a gloved hand. "I, on the other hand, the greatest criminal genius of the twentieth century…"
"Is this his home?" Riley, who'd been relegated the task of videotaping Luthor's entrance into the Fortress, asked as he panned the camera around.
Luthor looked back at him, amused. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Most people would. But no — this is more of a monument of dead and extremely powerful world." He'd found what he was looking for — an outcropping of crystalline rock that seemed to be composed of hundreds of cylindrical shards.
"This is where he found out who he was," Luthor continued, approaching the edge of the outcropping. "This is where he came for guidance."
"Guidance?" Kitty echoed. "From who?"
"You'll see," Luthor murmured. "The possibilities here are endless…"
He held out his hands, wondering if he could induce some reaction from the crystals before him. The crystals began to glow. Luthor smiled.
As Kitty and the others watched, awestruck, the crystals began to move, to form a structure in front of Luthor. Within a few moments a hemispherical console rose up from the outcropping edge. A dozen or so of these crystals, Luthor noted, were pointed. He slid one free of the console, examining it for a moment. Behind him, Kitty remarked. "You act like you've been here before."
Luthor said nothing, but replaced the crystal in the console. There was a shimmer of sound as the console, along with many of the crystal spires around them began to glow with an inner light. Kitty, Riley and Stanford were looking around apprehensively, but Luthor was waiting for…something else to appear.
An image formed on a crystalline column before them, across the expanse of the Fortress. A handsome, white-haired man who seemed to look at them with recognition. "My son," the image said. "You do not remember me. I am Jor-El. I am your father."
"Bingo," Luthor whispered. "He thinks I'm his son…"
"By now, I will have been dead many thousands of your years —" The voice cut off as Luthor removed the crystal he'd placed in the console.
"Come on," Luthor said. "I want to see what's in that star-shaped object outside." He led the way back outside, walking up to the artifact, which now had a pair of ropes dangling from the open hatch. "What have you found?" he called up.
Brutus came to the hatch. "Looks like a ship of some type, Boss," he said. "There's something that looks like a cockpit. And there's a couple of other things in here as well — we can't figure 'em out."
"Can you show them to me?" Luthor asked.
Brutus disappeared for a second. He returned with a broom. "The other thing's a ball of metal of some type — it's too heavy to lift."
"What would Superman need with a broom?" Luthor wondered, looking up at it.
"Maybe he likes a tidy ship," Kitty suggested.
Luthor gave her a look before gesturing for Brutus to throw it down. Brutus held it out and let it drop the ten feet or so, into Luthor's hands. "Bring that ball down with you as well," he told Brutus as he studied the broom carefully.
"But it's too heavy to —"
"I'm not interested in excuses," Luthor said. "I want to see results."
"Fine," Brutus snarled, and disappeared.
Luthor walked away a few feet from beneath the hatch, still looking at the broom. "That's a strange looking broom," Kitty offered. "Why's it bent that way? And what are these things for?" She pointed to the two metal prongs affixed to the side of the broom, just above the bristles. The bristles themselves did not look very useful for sweeping.
"Some interesting facts about this broom," Luthor pointed out the smooth finish. "Notice how highly polished the shaft is? This is also interesting." He pointed to the top of the shaft, which was flattened and had the word "Firebolt" engraved along the side, in golden letters. Beneath that was the number 0127FB. "Why would someone name a broom "Firebolt" or put a serial number on it?
"Maybe it's not really a broom?" Kitty said. Luthor looked at her, surprised by her insight.
"Good point," he said. "I wonder if —"
"Look out!" someone above them shouted. They spun back toward the crystalline craft just as a loud crash seemed to shake the ground beneath them. Luthor sighed. Brutus and Grant had gotten the metal ball down from the ship, all right — they'd dropped it to the ground, where it was now embedded several inches into the ice.
Luthor looked up at Brutus, who was looking down at the ball from the hatch of the ship. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, his voice heavy with irony. "You and Grant both get down here."
When the two men had descended from the ship, Luthor gestured for them to look at the metal ball. "What would you say this metal is?" he asked.
Brutus looked at it for several seconds, then back at Luthor, shrugging. "I dunno," he said. "Iron? It was pretty freakin' heavy, whatever it is."
"From the dull, grayish color," Luthor pointed out, "I'd say it was lead. Probably pure lead — I'm surprised it didn't break apart when it hit the ice." He took a small tape measure out of a pocket on his parka and wrapped it around the edge of the ball. "Let's see," he said, examining the tape. "It's 57 inches around, so about 18 inches in diameter." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "This ball weighs over 1200 pounds, give or take," he finally said. "And considering that it's lead, and was on a ship that probably brought Superman here from wherever he was…" Luthor turned to Brutus. "I want you to cut it open."
"Cut it open?" Brutus looked baffled. "It's just a ball of lead, isn't it?"
"Maybe," Luthor agreed. "But maybe there's something inside it, something Superman wanted to protect himself from with lead. If that's so, then I want what's inside there." He jerked a gloved thumb at the lead ball. "Get to work."
Luthor watched as his men brought the acetylene torch over and began cutting the top of the ball away. "Be careful!" he warned them. "Don't let it sink any further into the ice!"
Eventually the top was removed, and Brutus began removing sections of the interior, until at last they saw a fragment of green, glowing crystal, embedded in the center of the ball. Luthor looked down into the hollowed center, a smile playing across his lips.
"Jackpot," he said.
He turned and strode back into the Fortress interior, back to the console that had risen from the edge of the outcropping; Kitty and the others followed him, curious. Luthor replaced the crystal he'd taken from the console, listening as the project of Superman's father, Jor-El, spoke to him once again.
"So, my son," the image said at last. "Kal-El. What do you wish to know? Speak."
Luthor looked at the projection of the Man of Steel's father, the man who gave life to his most hated enemy. "Tell me everything, starting with the crystals."
Author's Notes: Some responses to recent review questions:
Chapter 2:
Q: Hey, won't Harry's new powers give him a growth spurt? Just speculating here.
A: They probably won't, they don't seem to have affected Clark that way as his powers matured.
Chapter 3:
Q: How did Martha know who Clark is? His identity is under Fidelus right? So she should forget it ...
A: I think the Fidelius keeps someone from learning something unless told by the Secret Keeper. Martha had already known for years that Clark was Superman. This is different from the Fidelius about Grimmauld Place, because before the Fidelius Sirius's house was NOT originally the Order of the Phoenix HQ, so it was something that everyone would have to learn of, somehow, not something they already knew. It's possible that Narcissa or Bellatrix could have entered number 12 Grimmauld Place without knowing it was the OOP HQ. They probably stayed away for different reasons — Bellatrix may have felt that someone (Dumbledore, Sirius, etc.) would have spells on the house to warn them of her entering it, and she would be foolish to put herself in such a vulnerable position. Narcissa stayed away most likely because she was happy to be shot of that house and her parents, and she'd married into a pretty powerful family, the Malfoys.
Q: If Superman's powers are infinite, then how can he measure himself? Theoretically he should be able to keep that disc up for days on end ... and if he is now at 75% of his original strength, then it still shouldn't matter ... cause 3/4th of infinity is still the same ...
A: Superman's powers aren't infinite, otherwise he'd be a pretty boring character, since nothing could stop him. Harry only has half his strength, but it's an open question whether he would get stronger as he matured, especially if he worked to build up his muscles. That's a tricky thing in itself, since it's uncertain whether a super-powered Kryptonian can build up his strength and musculature. I think it's implied in the comics and movies that Clark's muscles developed as he matured, though that's never stated. He was shown in the original Superman movie to be capable of lifting the Kent's truck even as a toddler right out of the spacecraft.
In HP Returns, it seems like the blending of Clark's and Harry's respective powers have a multiplying effect upon one another — even though their respective abilities probably split 50/50 when the lightning struck them, their power levels weren't simply halved. In the TV series Smallville, Clark has "shared" his power more than once with other humans. In those cases the human affected became about as strong as Clark, but neither of them had any special powers of their own (even though Lana did some witchcraft in one of the 4th season episodes, it wasn't an innate ability).
Chapter 4:
Q: On a side note; won't Harry be confused about the measurement of temperature? Since they do use degrees Centigrade in Britain ...
A: But did the Wizarding world adopt the Centigrade measurement? After all, they're still using their own money system. I can't seem to recall a reference to either Fahrenheit or Centigrade measurements. Rowling must have been careful to avoid that confusion between the U.S. and Britain/Europe.
Q: And the Leakey Cauldron is a pub, not a bar ... from what I understand, a pub is where you can get meals and accommodation as well as drinks ... while a bar is that part of a pub where you can sit and drink… And they do let kids in a pub at daytime ...
A: I was careful to have Harry call it a pub, while Clark called it a bar. Clark probably doesn't frequent bars often, since he can't really get drunk (the scene in Superman III notwithstanding, since he wasn't so much drunk there as depressed/pissed off due to artificial Kryptonite poisoning). Clark was surprised (a bit of American/Midwest parochialism) that a kid like Harry could walk into a bar and have no one think anything about it. But remember, Clark is still a bit of a boy scout, and some of that is probably the result of Superman's "truth and justice" attitude. I suppose the only distinction is that Superman never lies (he says), whereas Clark does bend the truth in order to protect his secret identity as Superman.
Other offline comments:
Q: Well, truth be told, that trace thing is a bit of a controversy ... if the trace was on the person, then why was Harry only charged only with casting the Patronus when he had managed a wandless (or remote-wanded) Lumos?
A: I usually consider that the Lumos spell didn't quite "ring the bell" as far as notifying the Ministry, since Harry wasn't holding the wand when he caused it to light up. It's generally accepted in fandom that wandless magic doesn't activate the Trace. This situation is tricky, since Harry was close to his wand, though not touching it. Since Fudge didn't bring it up in the charges, and the letter from the Ministry expelling Harry didn't mention it, I can speculate that they didn't know about it.
Q: and also if the trace was on the person, how did Tommy manage to kill his dad and grandparents using his uncle's wand finally incriminating Morfin? The Trace should have registered him as the caster ..
A: Because it took place in the summer of 1944 ("fifty years ago," according to chapter one of GOF, which begins in the summer of 1994), and Tom Riddle was born on 31 December 1926. He would have turned 17 on 31 December 1943, so in the summer of 1944 he was no longer under the Trace, assuming it was placed on underage children back then. At least Jo was careful with that detail!
Thanks for your reviews and questions about the story!