Harry Potter Returns
A Harry Potter/Superman Returns Crossover

Chapter Nine
The Talk

Updated 22 October 2010

"I wondered whether you'd let me go without a fight," Harry remarked, sounding mutinous, as Professor Dumbledore sat down on a flower-covered divan.

"A fight?" Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "Not at all, Harry! I have no objections to you attending Professor Potter's academy.

"However," he went on, raising a finger (forebodingly, it seemed to Harry). "I do want to make you aware of certain events, situations, and conditions that you may not have yet considered when making your decision, and which Professor Potter, in his zeal to have you attend his school, may have overlooked."

"I haven't forgotten about the Prophecy," Harry stated, flatly. "But things are different now for me."

"In what way?" Dumbledore inquired, politely.

Is he kidding? Harry thought, disbelievingly. He glanced back toward the hallway, but no one had yet snuck in from the kitchen to overhear their conversation. "Well, you know…the things I can do now," he said. "Like —" Harry moved at super-speed from in front of the sofa to standing beside it " — this," he finished his statement. To Dumbledore it seemed as if Harry disappeared and reappeared in an instant. "With the Anti-Apparition spells on the Burrow I wouldn't be able to do that with magic, even if I knew how to Apparate."

Dumbledore nodded placidly. "I know that, Harry. In fact, I have been studying information on your…friend…this summer, in the hope that he would attend Hogwarts with you, in order to be given a — how should I say it? — a crash course in magic."

"I'm not sure that would work," Harry said, candidly. "He'd look rather out of place, wouldn't he?"

Dumbledore waved a hand airily. "There are ways we could make him blend in better than he otherwise might," he suggested. "Polyjuice Potion, for example, would be one way."

"Like the fake Moody used?" Harry recalled. "That seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to, doesn't it?"

"Perhaps," Dumbledore agreed (a bit too readily, Harry thought, as the professor's next words bore out), "But you should remember that Barty Crouch, Jr. was willing to do what he did in the service of Voldemort, to further his objectives."

"Which was to kill me," Harry nodded, grimly.

"Indeed, but that is not Voldemort's primary objective," Dumbledore pointed out. "Voldemort's primary goal is to restore the primacy of blood-purity to Wizarding Britain, then use it as a stepping stone to convert Europe, the Eastern nations, and eventually the world to a pure-blood magocracy, with Muggles and Muggle-born as the peasant class, half-bloods as vassals, and the pure-bloods as the ruling class, with himself ruling over all. He desires your death, Harry, because he believes you will try to stop him."

"Well, I would!" Harry agreed fervently. "Isn't that the same thing Gellert Grindelwald was trying to do, back in the 1940's, before you stopped him?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, but his voice had become subdued, and he looked away from Harry for several moments.

"What happened to him after you defeated him?" Harry asked, after several moments of silence. "Did — did you kill him?"

"No," the headmaster replied, slowly shaking his head. "I — I did not wish to kill him. I turned him over to the authorities in Romania, and they imprisoned him in Nurmengard Prison, which ironically he had earlier built to hold his opponents after their defeat."

"Would that stop Voldemort?" Harry wondered. "Could he be defeated and put away in this prison , along with Grindelwald, for good?"

Dumbledore shook his head slowly once again. "I do not believe so, Harry. Voldemort has powers Gellert never dreamed of; neither Nurmengard, nor Azkaban for that matter, could hold him if he wanted to escape, any more than they could hold me. And I do not possess all of the abilities Voldemort has."

"Then how could this come down to me?" Harry wanted to know, crossing his arms in a gesture of defiance. "If you cannot defeat Voldemort, how do you expect me to do so?

"The Prophecy is quite clear —" Dumbledore began.

"I know what it says," Harry interrupted, rudely. He recalled all the words using his super-memory, and quoted the relevant phrase: "'Either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the other survives.' Does that mean I have to kill him?"

"It means he must die at your hands," Dumbledore stated. "You do not yet comprehend the complexity of that statement, Harry."

"Well, I remember this part as well," Harry retorted, and quoted, "'He will have power the Dark Lord knows not…' Well, that part's right, at least," he admitted. "I do have power he knows not. So I'm asking you, Professor — do you want me to kill Voldemort?"

Dumbledore stared at Harry for a long moment, then took out his wand. As Harry watched, not understanding, the professor waved his wand at the four walls of the living room. All the doors and windows in the room immediately flew shut, each making a strange, squelching noise as they did so. Dumbledore then pointed his wand at the fireplace, which made the same strange sound. He then put his wand away and regarded Harry solemnly.

"I have made this room proof against all possible intrusion or eavesdropping," he told the young Gryffindor. "What I will tell you now is for your ears alone, though at some point it may become necessary to tell your friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger as well. Please sit down, Harry."

Warily, Harry perched himself in a chair across from the divan Dumbledore was sitting on. Dumbledore composed himself, folding his long-fingered hands in his lap and looking steadily at Harry. "We were going to explore this information in more detail during the course of your private lessons this year, but I believe the time has come to 'clear the air,' as it were, between us completely."

"That would be a good thing," Harry agreed. But then he remembered, "Didn't you supposedly tell me everything already, after the fight in the Department of Mysteries?"

"I told you everything about your involvement in Voldemort's plans, Harry," Dumbledore explained, patiently. "I have not yet explained everything pertinent about Voldemort to you." He sat back for a moment, taking a deep breath, then continued. "The reason why Voldemort did not die when he struck by the Killing Curse that rebounded from you was that he had created a Horcrux."

"A Horcrux?" Harry repeated. "I don't know what that is."

"Very few wizards do," Dumbledore assured him. It is very powerful, very Dark and very evil magic — I have had every reference to it the Hogwarts library removed except one: a mere mention of the word, with no explanation of what it is."

"What for?" Harry asked, intrigued. "What does it do?"

"It is an object that holds a fragment of your soul," Dumbledore said, and the very thought of that chilled Harry to the bone. Professor Potter had made reference to a type of magic, Incarnum magic, which somehow used magic generated by a wizard's soul. What kind of magic would use a part of your very essence?

"With part of your soul bound to a physical object other than yourself," Dumbledore continued. "You cannot be permanently killed until the Horcrux is destroyed as well — and the main power of a Horcrux lies in the difficulty of destroying it."

"But," Harry objected. "If you removed all the information about Horcruxes from the Library, Professor, how was Voldemort able to find out about them? How do you even know he has a Horcrux?"

"Because you gave it to me, Harry," Dumbledore replied, simply. "The diary of Tom Riddle, which you destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets, was undoubtedly a Horcrux created by him when he was still at Hogwarts."

Harry nearly snorted in relief. "Well, that's the problem solved, isn't it? What's to keep me or anyone from killing Voldemort, now that it's gone?"

"I have my suspicions about that," Dumbledore replied, and there was a seriousness in his voice now that Harry had seldom heard before. "Could he have created more than one Horcrux?"
"More than one?" Harry was dumbfounded. "How many times can you split your soul, Professor?"

"That is unknown," the professor replied, quietly. "But observations of wizards known to have created at least one Horcrux showed that they tended to became mentally unstable afterwards."

Harry sat back in his chair, his expression one of uncertainty. "I don't know if that helps us, Professor," he remarked. "Plenty of otherwise good wizards seem to have been mentally unstable as well."

"I must confess you make a valid point there, Harry," the old wizard admitted, and in spite of the gravity of the situation, Harry thought he saw a twinkle of laughter in Dumbledore's eyes. It quickly disappeared, however, as he continued, "But the fact remains, we do know that Riddle created at least one Horcrux during his days as a student at Hogwarts — he therefore has had over forty years to create others, until his disappearance in 1981. Our task for this coming year will therefore be to ascertain whether he has created more, and to determine what they might be."

Harry shook his head. "Your task, Professor. I'm going to be in America, remember?"

"Ah, yes…" Dumbledore leaned back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, against his long, white beard. "Forgive me, Harry, I had momentarily forgotten that detail. Well, it seems that Hogwarts will be losing quite a bit this year, in fact—both Miss Granger and the two youngest Weasleys will be joining you in America, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," Harry nodded, a bit cautiously, but he was relieved to see that Dumbledore seemed to be coming around. "We think it will be a good learning experience for all of us — a different perspective on magic and spellcasting."

"Quite," Dumbledore agreed. "Phineas and his staff have some very interesting theories about magic. I only hope," he went on, his tone becoming guarded, "that you and the others will be able to make the change to that type of magic without too much difficulty."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, curiously. How difficult could it be?

"I only mean that you and your friends are accustomed to wand use," Dumbledore explained. "It may be difficult for you to make the transition to wandless magic."

"Professor Potter didn't think so," Harry pointed out at once.

"Professor Potter has not used a wand in many decades, Harry," Dumbledore said, with a small, sad smile. "He may not appreciate how difficult it is to do, after all these years. Oh, I am not saying it cannot be done," the headmaster quickly amended himself, as Harry's expression became more and more worried. "I'm sure you and the others will catch on, eventually."

It was not difficult for Harry to see through Dumbledore's cautionary words as a way to undermine his attitude about going to Professor Potter's school. Instead, he asked, coolly, "What will you do about Voldemort's Horcruxes, sir — how will you find them?"

"I have several avenues of inquiry available, never fear," though Dumbledore's voice seemed to carry a small hint of worry, at least to Harry's ears. "One of the reasons I had for inviting Horace Slughorn back to teach this year — he was Potions professor when Tom Riddle was attending school: I believe Tom may have questioned him concerning Horcruxes, as Horace may know nearly as much about them as I do."

"You might have just asked him when you saw him," Harry suggested, a bit diffidently.

"Oh, I have asked him," Dumbledore nodded. "I interviewed him some years ago, before he retired in the summer of 1979. In fact, he gave me a Pensieve memory of his recollections of that conversation."

"What did it show you?"

"It showed him refusing to answer Riddle's question and throwing him from his office," the headmaster answered.

"Huh!" Harry sat back in his chair, surprised. "I guess that's not what you expected to see, was it?"

"No," Dumbledore concurred. "Nor is it what actually happened, I would think. I believe Professor Slughorn manipulated his memories of the incident to cast himself in a more innocent light. I hope this year to somehow coax the real memory from him." Unconsciously, it seemed, Dumbledore rubbed his right hand, still blackened and shriveled from whatever had happened to it.

"Professor," Harry said, staring at the hand. "Can you tell me now, what happened to your hand?"

Dumbledore held his hand up between them, staring at it for several seconds. When he finally looked back, Harry was surprised to see the look of guilt in his eyes. "Harry, I hope you won't think me a foolish old man, but this is the result of another of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"Another Horcrux?" Harry exclaimed. "I thought you didn't know how many he created!"

"I do not," Dumbledore replied. "But I was able to locate this object using several Pensieve memories I've procured over the years."

"What happened?" Harry demanded. "How did it curse you?"

Dumbledore shrugged fractionally. "I became careless. I should have realized at once this ring would have a curse of some sort on it. Yet, I did not think…" he looked away from Harry once again, closing his eyes in what seemed like pain or sorrow.

"Why did you put on the ring in the first place?" Harry asked, but Dumbledore seemed not to hear his question. When he turned back, his face had once again assumed its customary benign, cheerful expression.

"Now, Harry, I think we must come to a resolution concerning your decision whether or not to attend Phineas Potter's academy."

"I don't think there's anything to discuss, sir," Harry answered, reluctant though he was to sever ties with Hogwarts. "You have the Order, and the Ministry, behind you now, with Fudge out of the picture. I don't know what use I'll be here, except as a distraction, another person to protect from Voldemort. In America, I'll be learning new magic, new techniques — perhaps it will even give me an insight towards ridding the world of him."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "It might, at that," he agreed. "Let us hope that he does not send agents to America to find you — or worse, seek you out himself."

"It will be his mistake if he does," Harry declared, his fists clenching unconsciously. "I've fought him more times than I care to remember, but he's never had to face me like I am today!"

"Yes, with all of those extra powers you now possess," Dumbledore said. "But Harry, even they are no guarantee you can defeat him. Voldemort commands vast powers, many of which he has never seriously tried to tap. If he were to discover that you had such power —" the headmaster's expression became one of concern. "He might attempt to find a way to match, or even steal, your powers for his own."

"He couldn't do that, could he?" Harry's expression mirrored the professor's "I don't want to think what it might be like if he got any of these powers! I'll have to talk to Professor Potter about this," Harry decided. "I'll need to come up to speed on wandless magic as quickly as possible." He looked at Dumbledore. "Do you have any idea how you're going to find out about Voldemort's other Horcruxes?"

"I have Order members looking for information about anyone who has had contact with Voldemort since he left Hogwarts," Dumbledore replied. "It may also be necessary," he added, speaking tentatively, "to have some of the other students at Hogwarts, especially those who've had 'extra training,' for example in your D.A. meetings last year, to help me find the other Horcruxes, now that you'll no longer be with us."

"What?" Harry thought he'd misunderstood. "Are you saying you'd actually put that responsibility on someone else? Are you joking?"

"Harry," the headmaster spoke gravely. "The war with Voldemort will not stop simply because you're going away. You must understand that. We must find a way to stop him, with or without the Chosen One by our side."

Harry stood, probably faster than he'd intended, because suddenly he was on his feet and the professor was still staring at the place where his face had been. He looked up, blinking at Harry in surprise. "Professor," Harry said, trying to remain calm. "This isn't doing either of us any good. You may think I'm the Chosen One — I don't know. You may not want me to go to America — fine, I get that, too. The Voldemort Problem and all that. I suppose the Ministry won't be too happy with me, either. But I don't know if I'm ready to take on all this responsibility or not."

"And yet," Dumbledore pointed out, "you seem to feel ready to take on the responsibility of wielding super-powers — powers that, in conjunction with your magical abilities, could make you conceivably the most powerful being on Earth."

"Second most powerful," Harry corrected him. "Superman is still stronger than me."

"You need training, Harry," Dumbledore said, insistence in his tone. "Specialized training, to help you learn to use your powers —"

"Excuse me, sir," Harry cut over him. "But I've had training, from the best expert on Earth in the use of super abilities. And yet at Hogwarts, I've had five Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers in five years! Now whose fault is that?"

Dumbledore looked stung by this remark, but nodded agreement. "I admit that the position has had its problems, Harry, but you've done an excellent job of bringing yourself up to snuff in that regard. And this year —"

"This year another old teacher is coming out of retirement to take the job for another year," Harry shrugged. "But I wonder what Professor Slughorn's going to do when he finds out I'm not attending Hogwarts this year!"

"I have every confidence that Horace will not abandon his post as Potions teacher because you have chosen not to attend our school," Dumbledore said evenly, staring at Harry over his half-moon spectacles.

"Potions teacher?" Once again Harry was dumbfounded. "Then who's going to be —" a sick look came over his face. "Oh, no… not Snape."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore reminded him once again.

"Headmaster," Harry shook his head in emphatic rejection. "You can't be serious! Snape has wanted that position for years, but you've never given it to him! I — I was sure it was because you didn't trust him!"

"You are wrong, Harry," Dumbledore told him, flatly. "I trust Professor Snape completely. "No, do not ask me why," he held up a hand as Harry started to speak again. "That is between him and me. I will tell you this, however: Professor Snape is the reason why I am sitting here right now talking to you, and not dead." He held up his withered, blackened right hand. Even now, the curse that did this is slowly building its strength. Eventually it will break free, and —"

"No," Harry whispered, horrified by Dumbledore's implication of his impending death. "Isn't — isn't there someone you can do? Something Snape can do to help you?"

"I do not think so," Dumbledore replied, looking at the blackened, withered hand that was slowly killing him, as one might look at a mosquito bite. "Severus and I have both examined the curse at length; Voldemort was quite thorough — neither of us knows of a counter curse powerful enough to overcome this." He looked up at Harry, and there was his usual smile once again. "I do appreciate your concern, Harry," he said, then added in a more stern manner, "Please do not say anything about this to the others, not even Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger."

"But, what if Hermione could help you?" Harry pleaded, desperate to think of some way to help the headmaster. "What if we find something at the American school that could stop this curse?"

"That is unlikely," Dumbledore said, dispassionately. He allowed himself a small smile once again. "However, one never knows what the coming year may bring."

The professor stood as well, placing his left hand on Harry's shoulder. "I do see now," he said, softly. "It was foolish and selfish of me to ask you to stay at Hogwarts when your ambitions clearly lie elsewhere. I will make the necessary arrangements for this year's tuition, and for your school records, to be transferred to Phineas's school, both for you and your friends."

Harry nodded, but his thoughts were churning with turmoil. This was not how he wanted to end things here, by seeming to abandon his friends at Hogwarts and in Wizarding Britain, especially with Dumbledore dying. Who would be able to stop Voldemort if Dumbledore was dead? While Ron, Hermione and Ginny were going with him, he was leaving behind others — fellow students like Neville, and Luna, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team — he'd even been made Captain this year! He would miss the other teachers as well, at least some of them — Hagrid, Professor Flitwick, even Professor McGonagall. Professor Snape? Not so much.

"What — what are you going to do this year, then?" Harry asked, wanting to know that Dumbledore was going to do something, anything to keep himself alive until the threat of Voldemort was eliminated. But the professor had taken out his wand and was removing the ward spells from the room.

When he finished, he turned to Harry, with a fatherly smile that made Harry stare at his feet, unwilling to witness Dumbledore's apparent lack of concern about his own demise, and spoke gently. "Life goes on, Harry," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder once again. "Come, then — it's about time you finished your breakfast; I daresay it's getting cold." Harry followed the Hogwarts headmaster into the Burrow's kitchen, not really sure what he wanted to do now.

=ooo=

Tuesday morning's dawn over Smallville, Kansas found Clark Kent staring out the window of his bedroom, lost in contemplation. He'd returned home after his talk with Lois and had gone to bed, but hadn't been able to sleep. Whatever he'd thought about reestablishing a relationship of some kind with Lois, after all these years, things were never going to be the same between them.

His mother was usually awake by 7:30 every morning, but it was barely seven a.m. when Clark decided to get up. He put on jeans and one of his old flannel shirts, and padded softly into the kitchen, thinking to begin breakfast, but he found he wasn't really hungry. His mother's dog Shelby lay on its bed in a corner of the kitchen, watching him with silent interest. Clark started a pot of coffee, knowing his mother would appreciate not having to make it when she awoke, then sat down at the table, unsure what to do next.

There was not much left for him to do around the farm. He'd made all the repairs he could to the barn and grain silos, overhauled the tractor, tuned up her mother's old truck, checked all the fences for breaks and weak spots, and had even cleaned out the attic of the house. Ironically, he'd wondered if he'd have everything done before Perry White called to offer him a job back at the Planet, but the Metropolis newspaper's editor-in-chief had not returned his call yet.

There was still the problem of what had happened to Luthor, and how he'd managed to elude him and Harry; the helicopter carrying the criminal genius and his henchmen had managed to disappear out from under them. They could be anywhere by now, in fact. And with two crystals from his Fortress's control console, Clark remembered, grimly. If just about anyone else on Earth had them, he wouldn't be worried, but with Luthor —! Perhaps it was just as well he was free to come and go as he pleased, Clark thought; at least he wouldn't have to make excuses to Lois or Jimmy about where he was going or what he was up to.

A small whine from in front of him brought Clark's thoughts to the here and now. Shelby was standing before him with an old baseball held between his teeth. Clark smiled. "Hi, Shelby. You want to play fetch, boy?" he asked, taking the ball from the dog's mouth. Shelby turned, looking outside the kitchen door and panting expectantly.

Shelby had been only a puppy when Martha had gotten him, a few years before Clark had left for Krypton, but he still remembered Clark playing fetch with him all those years ago. "Come on, Shelby," Clark said, walking outside and into the yard adjacent to the house and barn. It was here that he'd taught Shelby to play fetch with his old baseball; Clark smiled, appreciating that his mother had kept it all this time, just as she had kept his room ready for him if he return home.

Shelby was paying close attention to the ball in Clark's hand. "How far do you want to chase it, boy?" Clark asked. When Shelby was little he seldom threw it further than fifty yards; any more than that and the puppy had tended to lose track of the ball or become quickly bored with running after it. With a flick of his wrist Clark tossed the baseball about a hundred yards; it landed at the edge of the field behind the house, bouncing into the hay growing there, and Shelby was after it the moment it left Clark's hand. He chased it into the hay, leaping high over the waist-high grass, A few seconds later he came running back, ball in mouth, to drop it on the ground at Clark's feet, looking up expectantly at Clark, waiting for the ball to be thrown again.

Clark smiled at Shelby's enthusiasm, then started to reach for the baseball, but stopped. His wand was still in England, but if Professor Potter was able to do magic without a wand, then perhaps… Clark pointed his palm at the ball, willing it to move "magically," somehow. The ball remained motionless for some time as Clark concentrated harder and harder on making it move. Shelby was watching him, turning his head from side-to-side, as if perplexed by Clark's seeming inability to just pick up the ball and throw it. Clark could do things no other human could do, Shelby knew; he was the only human who could outrun him in a foot race, for example. Clark could move things that no other human could do, though he never did so when anyone other than Shelby was around, or his mother. Now he watched Clark, ears up and alert, to see what he'd do next, when suddenly the baseball moved.

It was just a little, but the ball had rolled forward an inch or so, and Shelby was instantly tensed and ready for it to move again. He would make sure it would not get away! But then the ball did an incredibly strange thing: it lifted straight into the air and began to float! Shelby barked at it, warning the ball not to try and get away, but it began to waft upward, toward Clark's hand. Shelby had seen Clark float like this, but he had never seen him make something else float before. He watched, mesmerized, as the ball floated into Clark's open hand.

Clark finally relaxed once the ball touched his palm. He had done it! He felt worn out by the mental exertion, but he'd made the baseball float into his hand! He stared at the ball, feeling the old, rough cover and the worn stitching. It wasn't much of a beginning, but it was something. Perhaps, before he went back to being Superman once again, he could take some time and learn how to use this part of power he now possessed. Harry had taken easily to his super-powers, and had proven himself to be a valuable ally; maybe Clark could return the favor at some point, especially with that Voldemort character who was skulking around England causing problems.

Shelby was still waiting for him to throw the ball, but Clark had grown tired of the game. He drew back and threw the ball — not very hard, because he could easily put it into orbit if he used his full strength, but enough to send it sailing out over the fields, to the far corner of the section of land the Kent farm was located on, landing near the edge of a corn field. Shelby had started running once again, but stopped after a few seconds, unsure where the ball had disappeared to. He looked back at Clark with a small whine of disappointment.

"Clark?"

Clark turned toward the house, having heard his mother call his name. She was not looking outside, however; his super-vision saw her standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. She had just gotten up, then. He walked up to the back door and stepped back into the kitchen just as she was getting a cup from the cupboard for her morning coffee.

"Good morning, Mother," he said, from the doorway.

"Good morning," she nodded. "Thank you for making the coffee, Clark."

"I was going to start some breakfast, but I thought I'd wait until you were up."

"Don't bother," she said, shaking her head. She took a sip of black coffee, then picked up the sugar bowl and shook a bit into her cup. "A little strong this morning," she said with a wry smile.

"Sorry," Clark looked a bit surprised. "I thought you liked your coffee strong in the morning."

"Well, it depends on the day," she said, as if it didn't really matter. She was silent for a few moments. "I saw that story on the news the other day — the thing about the shuttle…" She was giving Clark a quizzical look. "That person, the one that somehow saved the shuttle. Was that…?"

Clark nodded. "It was Harry."

"Where were you when this happened?" Martha Kent asked him.

"I was — indisposed," Clark answered, evasively. It was going to be worrisome for her if he admitted he was about half-dead when Harry was busy saving the Genesis shuttle. "I was…taking care of some other business…and I thought Harry could handle it."

Martha was frowning at him now. "He didn't look like he could handle it very well — at least, not what they showed of him on TV!"

"What do you mean?" Clark asked.

"He looked pretty scared in front of all those cameras," Martha said, bluntly. "He looked like he was dressed in an old T-shirt and jeans, from what I could see — I have it on tape in the VCR. It was just fortunate that he was covered with all that smoke and grime, or they'd be matching him against some school photograph or something like that."

"It won't be quite that easy, Mother," Clark shook his head. "The school Harry goes to is well off the beaten path."

Martha stood suddenly. "That reminds me," she said, and walked into the other room, returning a few moments later with a letter in her hands. "This came for you yesterday, though I don't know how it got in the mailbox — it doesn't have a stamp or postmark on it." She handed it to Clark.

Clark stared at the front of the envelope, reading what was written there.

Mr. Clark Kent
The Kent Farm
Smallville, Kansas

There was no return address, but the envelope itself was a clue to where it had come from — it was made from parchment rather than paper; its back flap was sealed with red wax into which a small emblem had been impressed. He could make out the letters "Potter's Field Magical Academny" pressed into the wax.

"It seemed important," Martha said. "I'd hoped you be home soon, to open it."

Clark nodded. "It's from that professor I told you about, the one that's going to teach Ricky how to use magic." Clark had told his mother about the situation Monday after returning from the Antarctic and placing the Green Crystal in the hidden cellar beneath the barn, where the ship that had brought him to Earth had originally been stored by his father, Jonathan. Breaking the seal, Clark opened the envelope, took out the letter, and began reading it.

Dear Clark,
Thank you for making it possible for your friend Lana's son, Ricky Dolan, to attend Potter's Field Magical Academy. I know he will be an eager and enthusiastic student, and I see much potential in him. I am myself eagerly awaiting the arrival of Harry Potter and his friends as well.

I would like to discuss a few matters with you in person. To simplify things, this letter will teleport you to my office between the times of 5:00 and 5:05 pm your time on Monday through Friday if you hold it in your hand. Please do not worry about bringing the tuition for Ricky, however, we can take care of that anytime.

Thank you for your time and I look forward to seeing you soon.

Sincerely,
Professor Phineas Potter
Dean, Potter's Field Magical Academy

"Anything important?" Martha asked, as he finished reading. Clark knew this was her way of asking, Anything I should be worried about?

"No," Clark said. "Just a note from Professor Potter, asking me to come see him this afternoon. I should be home in time for dinner, though," he smiled.

"Good," she said, smiling back. "You missed my pot roast last night." She took a sip of coffee, then casually added, "How's Lois doing?"

"Lois?" Clark repeated, looking at his mother. He hadn't mentioned anything about Lois to her…

"Isn't that where you were yesterday?" Martha asked, giving him a don't-try-to-lie-to-your-mother look.

"I may have flown to Metropolis yesterday," Clark admitted, not looking at his mother, "to look in and see how she was."

"Did you talk to her?" Martha wanted to know. After a moment Clark nodded, slowly. "As Superman?" Again, Clark nodded.

"Well, for goodness sake, Clark! Don't make me guess! What did she say?" Martha demanded. "Was she happy to see you again?"

"N-not exactly," Clark shook his head. "She has a fiancé, though she wouldn't quite admit it to me." When Martha frowned, Clark added, "It's Richard White — he's Perry White's nephew.

"Oh, Clark, I'm so sorry." Martha put down her cup and walked over, giving him a hug of reassurance. Clark accepted the consolation silently; he had since resigned himself to losing Lois, once he realized he'd had no right to expect her to wait for him.

His mother let go and stepped back, looking at him through eyes bright with tears. "What will you do now?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"It's alright, Mother," Clark answered, calmly. "As you told me, I should have been more open with her before I left."

"Didn't she write something about you while you were gone?" Martha asked, trying to recall what she'd heard — something on the radio last year. "Wasn't it about what you did for the world?"

"Something like that," Clark said. Lois had actually written why the world didn't need him around, and though he could hear people all the time wondering what had happened to him, especially in the past few days since the shuttle incident, no one had wondered about his needs — except for Martha Kent.

And Harry Potter, he added to himself. Harry had, in fact, saved his life twice now — the first time when he was incapacitated by the green K that had stuck to his spaceship on his journey home, the second time from Lex Luthor's attempts to kill him.

"Anyway, things will be fine, Mother," Clark assured her once again. "For now, though, I think it's time for breakfast. If you're not hungry I'll just get it myself —"

"Don't be silly," she held up a hand, preventing him from getting any closer to the stove. "I can still make my son breakfast while he's staying with me." She set about preparing something for him to eat, and Clark sat at the table, sipping coffee and rereading Professor Potter's letter. He would be prepared this afternoon when the time came for him to appear in the wizard's office.

=ooo=

It had been over a day since Harry's conversation with Dumbledore. After their talk, he and the professor had returned to the kitchen where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Ginny and Hermione were waiting for them, and announced that Harry would be going to Potter's Field that year. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley appeared a bit taken aback by this, as if they'd expected something else, but Ron, Ginny and Hermione all looked pleased. Harry only wished he could feel as pleased as they looked.

Now it was simply a matter of waiting until the following Monday, when they would be transported, in an as-yet unknown manner, from the Burrow to the school's hidden location somewhere in Montana.

"I wonder if they have any books about the school," Hermione mused aloud during lunch on Tuesday, in the Burrow's kitchen. "It's a shame we won't be able to get any books until we get there." Unlike Hogwarts, the bookstore for Potter's Field was located at the school itself, rather than in a separate establishment.

"Only you would want to do schoolwork before actually starting school, Hermione," Ron said, finishing off the pot pie he was having.

"I wouldn't call that schoolwork, Ron," Hermione pointed out, a bit defensively. "I would call that taking an interest in the type of education one is going to receive." Ron glanced at Harry and gave an eye roll, though Harry did not react.

"It wouldn't hurt you to take more interest either, Ron Weasley," Hermione went on, trying to build up his school pride. Though both she and Ron had been prefects last year, Ron had put almost no effort into it beyond bossing around his younger classmates when it suited him. "You're not going to be a prefect any more — no more special privileges for you this year."

"Oh, yeah," Ron said, looking up from his empty pot pie shell. "I didn't think o' that." He sounded vaguely disappointed. He looked at Harry. "I guess we won't be playing Quidditch this year either, will we?"

"No, I guess not," Harry said, in a tone that made it evident he thought that should have been obvious to Ron already.

"Blimey," Ron said, sitting back in his chair. "I was thinking of trying out for Keeper this year."

"Well, I guess you'll be spared the agony of defeat, then," Ginny quipped. Ron scowled at her and she smirked back at him.

After lunch, Harry went back up to Fred and George's old bedroom, still feeling uneasy about his decision to leave Hogwarts, when the door suddenly opened and Hermione slipped into the room. Harry looked at her, surprised. "What?" he asked.

"What?" she repeated, almost mockingly. "Haven't you forgotten something, Harry?"
Harry snorted softly. "Not likely," he said, almost to himself — his recall was so sharp now he could go through his memories like a continuous Pensieve session. So why was she asking him this? Harry went through his conversations with her over the past few days. "Oh," he said aloud, as he reached the part in his room a few days ago, when he needed to get out of the Burrow to see what was happening with Clark, "that."

"Yes, that," she said, marching over and sitting on the bed beside him. "Did you think I was going to forget?"

"No, that's not very likely, either," Harry agreed with her.

"Darn straight it's not," she said, giving him an exasperated look. "I've been waiting two days for you to tell me something, now — I think I've waited long enough."

Harry sighed. Well, he had promised to tell her. "Okay," he said, trying to think how to word what he was going to say. "A few months ago —"

"A few months?" Hermione said loudly. "How long have you been keeping this a secret?"

"Let me finish!" Harry hissed. "A few months ago, I noticed something was happening to me. My magic was getting more powerful. I could do things I couldn't do before."

"Such as —?" Hermione prompted.

"Oh," Harry said, not sure how much detail to go into. "Like — well, read faster, you saw that," he reminded her. "I can move faster, too. I can see through objects. I can fly."

"Fly?" Hermione said, dubiously. "I thought it wasn't possible to use magic to fly unaided."

"Well, I didn't make the rules, Hermione," Harry informed her. "But I can fly nevertheless."

There was a knock at the door. "If you can see through objects," Hermione said in an undertone, "then who's outside the door?" Harry glanced through the door; it was Ron, listening to see if he could hear anything from inside the room.

Harry turned back to Hermione and at the same time, Ron said, "Psst! It's Ron!"

"It's Ron," Harry said, right after Ron spoke.

"Good guess," Hermione said, sounding derisive. "Right after he told you." To the door she said, "Come in, Ron!"

Ron stepped into the room, looking at the two of them on the bed. "What's coming off here?" He asked in a demanding tone.

"Nothing!" they both chorused. Harry fell silent, but Hermione continued, "Harry was just telling me the secret he's been keeping from us for the past few months."

"Oh, yeah?" Ron said, looking surprised and interested. He walked over to stand beside the bed in front of both of them. "What is it?"

Hermione turned to Harry with a bland look. "Go ahead, Harry."

Harry didn't much appreciate her attitude, but he supposed he'd be just as upset if she'd kept an important secret about herself from him and Ron. "I was just telling Hermione about my magic increasing a couple of months ago," he said, to bring Ron up to speed. "I can do things now I never could before."

"Like what?" Ron wanted to know.

"Well, like —" Harry looked around, deciding to show them what he meant. He rolled backwards over the bed, letting his flying power make him seem to flip over gracefully onto his feet on the opposite side. Taking hold of the side of the bed, he lifted it into the air with Hermione still on it. "— this," he finished.

Hermione gave a small shriek of surprise as the bed moved upward in the air. Ron gaped, gobsmacked, as he looked up at Hermione. "H-Harry," Hermione said shakily, "put the b-bed down, please!"

Harry complied, setting the bed down slowly. It probably looked impressive to Ron and Hermione, but they didn't know that Harry had caught an entire jumbo jet just a few days ago (well, minus the wings, he reminded himself).

"I can also fly, contrary to popular opinion about that magical ability," Harry continued. He lifted into the air a few feet, then folded his legs beneath him as he floated forward and landed back on the bed where'd he'd started out. Ron and Hermione were both staring at him in shock. When they didn't say anything for several seconds, Harry decided to head off their obvious question by adding, "I didn't know if this condition was going to be permanent or not, so I kept quiet about it until now."

"Whoa," Ron breathed. "That was brilliant!"

"Have you told anyone else about this?" Hermione asked. "Did you tell Dumbledore about it, when he was here? There could be something seriously wrong with you, Harry!"

Trust Hermione to find the dark cloud around the silver lining, Harry thought, with irritation. "Dumbledore knows about it," he said, shortly. "And now you know about it, but that's it." Obviously, he wasn't going to say anything about Clark.

But Hermione was already ahead of him there. "Does that reporter know anything?" she asked, suspiciously. "I mean, he knows about the magic, obviously, if he was there when Professor Potter talked to us, but does he know that your powers aren't normal. What did you tell him?"

"I haven't shown him anything he didn't already know about," Harry said, and that was the truth. "Clark knows not to say anything about magic to the wrong people."

"I hope not," Hermione said, fervently. "You know how unpredictable those types can be when a good story comes along. Look at Rita Skeeter," she reminded him. "She couldn't wait to throw you to the wolves of public opinion when there was a story to be had."

"Clark's not like her," Harry insisted. "All Skeeter wanted was publicity — she wanted the notoriety of breaking big news stories. Clark wouldn't do anything like that, even if he found out about my other abilities." Which Harry knew for a fact.

"I hope not," Hermione said again. She folded her arms across her chest, giving him a skeptical look. "Well, if he's half as good at keeping a secret as you are, Harry, I suppose you're safe enough.

"Now, why don't you tell us some more about these new magical abilities of yours?" she suggested, sitting down on the bed again and giving Harry a look of intense interest.

"There's not much more than what I told you," Harry shrugged, not wanting to give too much of what he could do away. If Hermione found out everything he was capable of, she might connect his abilities with Superman's, even if the Fidelius Charm kept his real identity magically hidden. "I can fly, my strength and speed has increased some, and I can see through solid objects."

"How fast can you move?" Ron asked, eagerly. "I'd bet you could give You-Know-Who a run for his money now, couldn't you?"

"Maybe," Harry said, but without much enthusiasm. Ron's comments had reminded him that he — that they — were leaving their lives here behind for the next ten months, to go off on some big magical adventure, while Dumbledore persuaded some of his schoolmates to help him in the hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes. They didn't even know how many there were…

"Do you think," Harry said suddenly, "it's a good idea for us to do this?"

"You mean, go to America to learn a new type of magic?" Ron looked at Harry curiously. "I thought that's what you and Hermione wanted to do, isn't it?"

"Yes, but…"

"Are you having second thoughts, Harry?" Hermione asked, looking concerned.

"Well —"

"Because, I'd understand if you didn't want to go," she added quickly, before Harry could say any more. "I mean, it's a big step to go study in a foreign land, especially when you're…" her voice trailed off as Harry gazed at her unsmilingly.

"When you're the 'Chosen One'?" Harry finished.

"No," she shook her head quickly. "Well, I mean — you are the Chosen One, aren't you?"

"I have no idea," Harry said, coldly. "Do you?"

"Well, there's the prophecy —" Ron began.

"I know," Harry and Hermione both said at the same time. "The difference is," Harry went on, "I've heard the entire thing, while the Prophet only has pieces of it."

"Then you ought to know, better than either of us, whether you're the Chosen One or not," Hermione pointed out, reasonably. "Do you think it's right to go off to America while Voldemort terrorizes Wizarding Britain, Harry?"

"I don't know," Harry said, and that was the truth. He had no idea what he should do now. It was ironic — he'd expected Dumbledore to come in and try and talk him out of leaving, but here he was, almost ready to talk himself out of it!

"Well, you'd better make up your mind," Hermione told him, seriously. "You've got less than a week before we have to leave, either on the Hogwarts Express or however we're going to get to America."

=ooo=

Shortly before five p.m. on Tuesday afternoon, Clark gathered up the envelope and letter from Professor Potter, told his mother he would be back in about an hour, and excused himself to the barn. He was not quite sure what was going to happen, but if there was going to be some type of magical transport he didn't want it frightening her or messing up the house. Clark knew what had happened when Professor Potter teleported Harry and his friends away to visit his school, but he decided not to take any chances.

At five p.m. he slid the letter out of the parchment envelope and opened it, looking at the text. He stood there for several seconds, wondering if anything was going to happen, when the letter itself began to glow. Brighter and brighter it became, until with a white flash the barn suddenly seemed to fall away from him, leaving Clark moving headlong into a swirling darkness. The effect was only momentary, however; light returned immediately and Clark found himself standing in the middle of a somewhat cluttered office, an office filled with objects he'd never seen before.

It was oddly shaped, this office — rather like a pentagram, Clark saw, with five walls instead of four. Large wooden shelves dominated several walls, shelves filled floor to ceiling with books of all kinds and sizes. Overhead was a large floating model of the Solar System, with the sun and planets arranged, as far as Clark could tell, exactly at the same positions in their orbits as the real planets were. The center of the room, where he was standing, was open, with a thin but soft carpet; off on one side was an old, wooden desk covered with books, papers, and other objects Clark could fathom no purpose for. There were a couple of smaller chairs in front of the desk, and around the edges of the room were several small tables and curios, each one filled with other incomprehensible objects.

Behind the desk sat Professor Phineas Potter, scribbling something on a piece of paper with a large feather quill. He had glanced up as Clark appeared but went back to writing. "Hello, Clark," he said at last, not looking up again. "Let me just get this last thought written down and I'll be right with you." He scribbled for several moments then slid the quill into a holder and looked up at Clark again.

"Welcome, Clark," Potter stood and offered his hand across the desk. Clark took it and they shook hands; a chair slid up behind Clark on its own as Potter let go of his hand. "Have a seat." Clark looked at the chair, making sure it wasn't going anywhere, then sat down on it. "May I offer you something to drink?" Potter inquired, politely.

"A glass of water would be fine," Clark answered, being polite as well. He was still looking around as Potter gestured to the desk in front of him; a glass filled with water and ice appeared before Clark.

"There you are, my boy. Drink up!" Clark looked at the glass, only mildly surprised, and took a perfunctory sip before looking at the elderly wizard once again.

"Interesting office," Clark commented.

"Yes," Potter nodded, a bit ruefully. "It's awfully cluttered these days, though — I'll have to get it cleared out soon, or the next Dean will have quite a time moving in!"

"I hope that won't be for a long time, sir," Clark offered graciously.

"Thank you, my boy, thank you very much!" Potter beamed at him, sitting down again.

"So, what did you want to see me about, sir?" Clark asked.

"Ah, yes, right to the heart of the matter," Potter said, with a smile. "You always were the direct type, Clark.

"As you know, Lana's son Ricky will begin learning magic here starting next week," the professor went on. Clark nodded. "Your friend Harry Potter and several of his schoolmates will also start here at that time. There's no problem with any of that, by the way," he hastened to say, when Clark began to look concerned. "However," he added, "I do want to discuss something about Harry with you."

Clark looked a bit perplexed by this. "Why me?" he asked. "I know Harry only coincidentally."
"How did you two meet?" Potter asked.

Clark remembered the story Harry had given Lana, when they met. "I met him over in England, just before I returned home on my travels abroad."

"I see," Potter nodded slowly. He gave Clark a knowing look. "Is that when some of your power was transferred to him?"

Clark blinked. "I — I beg your pardon?" he said, with a sudden sinking feeling that the old wizard knew much more than he'd let on, initially. "What are you talking about, sir?"

Potter smiled at him. "Oh, come now, Clark, I've known about your powers since you were a boy," he said. "I've been a wizard a lot longer than you've been Superman."

"How did you find out?" Clark asked him, hoping he could trust the man.

Potter chuckled. "Magic," he said, sotto voce, as if he were imparting a great secret to Clark. "I was a bit overprotective of Lana when she was small, I'm afraid — I performed detection spells on all her little friends, in case any of them were Dark wizards trying to get close to her or my wife. You were quite a shock to me then, I must say! Even then you were quite powerful."

"So, you know about me," Clark admitted. "What does this have to do with Harry?"

"He has some of your powers, does he not?" Potter asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes," Clark nodded. "There was an accident involving kryptonite, and lightning, on the night I returned to Earth. Part of my powers were transferred to Harry. I've been training him in their use since then, off and on as time permits."

Potter mulled that over for several seconds. "Interesting," he said at last. "Did you receive any of Harry's magic?" Clark nodded. "Curiouser and curiouser," Potter mused. "Have you tried to learn any magic since you received that gift?"

"It seems a bit more difficult," Clark told him. "I was supposed to visit Hogwarts this fall and talk to Professor Dumbledore about learning it, but that doesn't seem likely now since Harry's going to your school."

"Indeed, indeed!" Potter grinned. "I am happy now I had you come talk to me, Clark! I think you should come here to learn proper magic, not that stuffy old British wand-waving!"

Clark had to smile, in spite of the professor's earnestness. "I think I would stand out a bit in a school of teenagers, Professor Potter."

"Oh, nonsense," Potter waved a hand in airy dismissal. "We can make sure you look right in place. I'll tell you what, Clark —" Potter reached up with a finger and wrote the words Teleport key for Clark Kent to Dean's office for Monday Morning at 7am in the air in front of him. His hand then encircled the words and he tapped a notepad on his desk. The words swooped down and impressed themselves on the pad. "I'll send you a transportation key for first thing Monday morning, and we'll get you fixed up for classes."

Clark looked thoughtful. "Well, I suppose I can take time now — it would be good for me to understand how to use these new abilities. And the tuition shouldn't be a problem either, I have adequate funds in —"

"Never mind the tuition, Clark," Potter waved off the idea. "You've given the world quite a bit of yourself over the years, even if you've been gone for a while — I can give a little myself, if it helps you become a better person and a better hero, for it."

"Thank you, sir," Clark said, extending his hand, and the two men shook.

"Alrighty then," Potter said, looking around for the letter Clark had been holding when he arrived. "Here's your letter back," he said, handing it to him, then tapping the page with a finger as Clark held it. "There — the letter will return you whence you came shortly. I'll see you on Monday, Clark!"

"Thank you, sir," Clark nodded. "I look forward to —" there was a flash of light and his final words were whisked away with him, back to Kansas.

=ooo=

The Gertrude made its way north from Antarctica, following the eastern seaboard of South America. The ship was making good time, though Luthor was in no hurry; he had the Kryptonian's crystals to study, as well as a few other items of interest they'd picked up on their way out of the Fortress. He also thought it would be a good idea to "lie low" for a while, and a restful ocean voyage was just the ticket.

Stanford and the others were monitoring news reports from around the world, listening to see what everyone was saying about the return of Superman but, mysteriously, there was no mention of him on any of the news services or wires. There were, however, numerous reports of the Genesis rescue, including a few blurred photos of the super-powered person who had stopped it from crashing into a Houston Air Force base, averting what would surely have been a horrifying disaster.

Luthor rolled his eyes at such reports — of course it would have been horrifying, that was the point! And if Superman (and his little super-friend, whoever he was) hadn't shown up and wrecked things, he would be dictating terms to the nations of the world for its unconditional surrender to him, Lex Luthor!

Luthor sighed, setting down the eyepiece and pinching the bridge of his nose to clear his thoughts. The crystals he'd been examining looked normal enough, though he knew they had been grown, somehow, using an advanced process he hadn't yet completely comprehended, despite Jor-el's lengthy (and monotonous) tutoring. Superman's father had talked of catalytic responses of the crystals, but all hell had broken loose when the Man of Steel had shown up to reclaim his icy getaway spot. And Luthor had been so focused on enjoying his downfall at his hands through the kryptonite defense system that he'd never gotten back to what actually catalyzed crystal growth or change. Oh well, that would teach him to skip to the end sooner, Luthor shrugged.

Needing a break, Luthor walked over to the grand piano and sat down, playing Rachmaninoff's Moment musical opus 16 number 4 — the complexity of the piece paradoxically allowed him to clear his thoughts, concentrating only on the harmonies he was creating. The rolling feeling of song seemed especially apropos as they'd been in somewhat choppy waters for the past few days, but Luthor suspected he was the only person who appreciated the metaphor. Kitty was in her room with a bout of seasickness, which bothered Luthor not a whit.

When he finished, Luthor noticed Brutus standing in the doorway, listening. Though his best effort on the piano was Hoagy Carmichael's old song "Heart and Soul," he seemed to appreciate Luthor's musical ability the most of his four "associates" from his prison days. "What's up?" Luthor asked.

"Stanford's found something he thinks you ought to see," Brutus answered.

"Did this discovery somehow make him forget how to use the intercom?" Luthor asked, blandly. "Or did you just feel like taking a walk?"

Brutus shrugged. "He seemed to think it's important."

"Fine," Luthor said, getting up from the piano. "I have nothing better to do than come running when my subordinates call." He followed Brutus back through the ship to the control room, where Stanford, their resident electronics genius, had set up a sophisticated satellite monitoring and tracking system, the one they had used to locate the unique emissions signature of the Fortress, which had disappeared, along with the Fortress, after they were forced to retreat when Superman's mysterious partner had somehow neutralized Luthor's kryptonite defense system.

The young Indian-American was hovering intently over his equipment when Luthor and Brutus stepped into the control room. "I figured you'd be interested in this," Stanford said over his shoulder, as Luthor approached.

"So I heard," Luthor murmured, peering at the display Stanford was pointing at. "What is that?" The view on the display was an orbital shot of Earth looking downward from somewhere over Central America, from the angle. The satellite image Stanford had hijacked was showing an irregular object in the skies over southern Texas; it appeared to be drifting toward the Gulf of Mexico.

"I'm getting ready to zoom in on it," Stanford said, sending a signal to the satellite. The image shifted to a closer view, and Luthor smiled broadly.

It was an aircraft wing, a large one, that looked as if it had torn free of the fuselage of whatever plane it had been attached to. Luthor knew what plane it had come from — he had scanned nearly every inch of that 777 before deciding to sabotage its couplings to the shuttle Genesis.

"What the hell is it doing there?" Brutus asked, of no one in particular. "Wings aren't supposed to float when they fall off a plane, are they?"

"No, they're not," Luthor replied, softly. He was silent for several moments, thinking furiously. "I need to examine that wing," he said, suddenly. Picking up a nearby notepad, he scribbled several instructions and handed them to Stanford.

Stanford, reading the instructions, let out a low whistle. "Are you sure we can do this?" he asked Luthor.

"I have every confidence in your abilities," Luthor said, with a magnanimous smile. "Plus, this was not a request."

"Right, boss," Stanford said, leaving to make preparations.

"What do you think it means?" Brutus asked, as Luthor walked over to a small metal rifle cabinet he'd had brought on board when they first stocked the ship. The cabinet had originally contained several assault rifles, but now it held something much more precious. Taking out a key, Luthor unlocked the cabinet.

"I think," he said, "it means we've come across some more information on Superman's little super-friend.." He reached inside the cabinet, bringing out the item he'd managed to get on his way out of the Fortress — the one item that had not seemed to belong there: The broom with the word "Firebolt" engraved along the side, with the numbers 0127FB beneath the name. There was something unusual about this broom — Luthor could sense it, just as he could sense a connection between it and the kid who'd managed to keep him from getting rid of Superman once and for all.

Now, with this broom, the Kryptonian crystals, the specimen of Superman's blood on his broken shiv, and the 777 wing floating above the Gulf, Luthor hoped to put together the pieces of the puzzle and come up with a way to stop Superman for good.