Chapter Twelve

Life at Hogwarts quickly went south after the first Quidditch match of the year. After Harry and George attacked Malfoy, Umbridge gleefully banned them and Fred from Quidditch and confiscated their brooms. Harry also managed to get another series of detentions with her in short order.

As Harry walked into the Entrance Hall for breakfast that morning, he carefully flexed his formerly-cut hand. The quill Umbridge made him use dug painfully into his skin each night, but between Hermione's potion and Harry's heritage, thankfully had yet to scar.

The murtlap essence helped tide him over until the morning when Harry would leave the castle for training with Superman. The moment the sun hit his skin, the horrible line on his skin would knit itself together and heal perfectly, much to Umbridge's consternation.

The woman had grown increasingly unhinged as Harry's hand refused to scar, no matter how many times he used the quill. One evening, Umbridge even demanded if he was using illegal magic to heal himself, spittle flying from her lips. The only thing that kept her from cursing him or giving him a worse detention, was probably the sight of blood that oozed out of his skin as soon as he started writing his lines once more. Sadistic bitch.

Harry was just thankful that the healing worked, as he wasn't keen on adding another scar to his repertoire.

As he walked into the Great Hall, his eyes flicked around to find his friends at the Gryffindor Table. They waved him over and as he slipped into his seat, Harry glanced up at the Head Table to smile at Hagrid. The half-giant's eye was looking much better, having faded to a mottled blue-green.

"Morning Harry," Hermione said, offering him the tray of bacon. He accepted it gratefully. "How was it?" she asked in a low tone, once wandering eyes looked away from the trio.

"Good," Harry said, quickly loading his plate. "I finally got the hang of the vision thing."

"The fire or—?" Ron mumbled through a mouthful of eggs.

"The other one," finished Harry. "He reckons that I'm about ready to start with the hearing."

"What about the speed?" Hermione asked.

"It's a little difficult to do in the Shack," Harry pointed out. "He said the easiest way to learn would be to run and we need loads of open space to do that."

"Oh," Hermione said, crestfallen. "Only it would be dead useful for revising, wouldn't it? Being able to read through books so fast?"

Harry and Ron exchanged wry grins. Hermione caught their expressions and huffed, prompting them to burst out laughing.

"I'm not sure how helpful it would be," Harry admitted when they'd recovered. "He said that reading fast was good for finding information, but that he could never remember any of it for longer than a half hour after."

"There's a pity," Ron said sympathetically, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Guess you'll be stuck revising the old-fashioned way like the rest of us poor sods."

Harry shook his head at his friend, polishing off a roll in the process. His eyes glanced up and away, unconsciously finding Dumbledore's seat at the Head Table. Hermione caught his eye and followed it.

"He wasn't at dinner last night either," she commented, worrying her bottom lip.

Harry frowned. "Do you think he's ill?"

"I hope not," Hermione said. "Whatever it is, I don't think it's good. Look at Professor McGonagall."

Sure enough, their Head of House would throw concerned glances at Dumbledore's chair every so often.

"Blimey," Ron said, catching on. "You don't think...?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, we would have heard something by now," she said firmly.

Harry frowned. "I hope he gets better soon, because he's the only thing preventing Umbridge from taking over the school."

The three teens glanced at the toad-like professor and shuddered as one. "Imagine what she'd do without Dumbledore there to stop her," Ron pointed out.

"I don't even want to think about it," declared Harry.

"It's been three days. You'll need to make an appearance soon," Minerva said, leveling a stern look at her colleague. "We don't need to give Dolores a reason to call an inquiry."

The old man sighed. "I suppose you are right, Minerva," said Albus, rising from his chair. He unconsciously went to use his right hand, but when the blackened appendage touched the wood, he pulled back with a hiss.

"It hasn't healed," Minerva observed concernedly.

Albus shook his head. "Poppy and Severus believe I will regain use of it within a week's time," he said quietly, using his left arm to push himself to his feet, "but it will remain fragile for some time yet."

Minerva frowned. "And the appearance?" she inquired.

"Permanent, I'm afraid," he said. "Severus was able to contain the curse to my hand…"

"—But he wasn't able to remove it," Minerva finished worriedly. "Is it fatal?"

"Don't you worry about that my dear," Albus deflected with a cheery smile. "I shall be around for some time yet. In the meantime, could you please send a message to Mr. Potter for me? I would like to meet with him, discreetly, before the term ends."

Minerva thinned her lips. "Dolores would wonder why you are meeting with Potter privately in your office," she pointed out. "Perhaps there is an alternative?"

Albus inclined his head. "Would it be too amiss if you called him into your office for career counseling?" he suggested, a twinkle in his eye.

"Not at all," Minerva said smugly. "Potter is need of a steady hand to guide his future appropriately."

"Indeed, we agree," the headmaster said. "I think Friday at noon would do nicely."

Minerva nodded, a smirk on her lips. "I shall arrange it."

"Thank you very much, my friend."

Harry knocked on McGonagall's door, wondering why he was being called in for another career consultation. Perhaps she wanted to speak with him without Umbridge present?

The door opened and Harry blinked, seeing the person he last expected to be there. "Professor?" he asked.

"Ah, Harry, my boy," Dumbledore said cheerily, pulling the door open wider. "Please come in."

Harry entered, shutting the door behind him. McGonagall's office looked the same, from the tartan decorated walls, to the tin of ginger snaps on her desk.

"Professor, it's nice to see you… only I thought I was going to be seeing Professor McGonagall—"

"Right, yes," Dumbledore said, settling himself in a conjured squashy armchair by the fire. "That was a bit of subterfuge on my part. I didn't want the wrong ears to hear about our meeting and Professor McGonagall was kind enough to lend us her office for the occasion."

"You mean Umbridge," Harry said shortly, sitting in the other armchair.

Dumbledore inclined his head. "I am sorry we haven't had a chance to discuss things as yet this term," he said. "Quite a lot has come to light and I have much to share with you."

"About Voldemort?" said Harry excitedly. He leaned forward. "What's he been up to?"

The headmaster chuckled. "This is about him, yes, but what I have to say has more to do with his past than the present," the man said mysteriously. "If I may…"

Dumbledore waved his wand, drawing Harry's attention to the man's shriveled black hand. He'd revealed it to the whole school earlier that week when he'd first shown up for breakfast and it remained just as disconcerting five days later. The teen's attention was then drawn by Dumbledore's floating Pensieve as it settled on the tea table between them.

"Sir?" Harry asked curiously.

"Do you recall, Harry, what you asked me at the end of your first year after you confronted Professor Quirrell?" Harry slowly nodded. "You asked why Voldemort tried to kill you." Dumbledore sighed, looking away. "I did not tell you the truth then because I thought you were quite young to bear such a burden on your shoulders. You still are, but recent events have made it so that this cannot wait."

"Professor…"

Dumbledore straightened his back and stared right in the boy's eyes. "Harry, before you were born, at the height of Voldemort's power, a prophecy was given. Given by Professor Trelawney, in fact, on the day I was interviewing her for the Divination position at Hogwarts. The prophecy she gave specified that a child would be born with the power to defeat him."

Dumbledore prodded the surface of his Pensieve with his wand. A woman appeared on the surface – Professor Trelawney – and in that horrible, familiar voice, she recited the damning words, "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"

Harry swallowed thickly, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach. "It's about me, isn't it?" he said, his voice shaking.

The headmaster nodded. "When Voldemort marked you as his equal," he said, pointing to the faded scar on Harry's forehead, "he identified you as the child in the prophecy."

"And left a bit of his soul in me." Harry shuddered.

"That's where we come to my second piece of information," Dumbledore said, clearing the surface of the Pensieve. "Your scar is not the only time you've encountered pieces of Tom Riddle's soul."

Harry's mind whirled and then stuttered to a stop. "The diary," he murmured. "The diary was a piece of him, wasn't it?"

The old man nodded. "I do believe it was. Until the night of the Third Task, I had several theories about what helped him survive the destruction of his body. What happened to you that night – that you saw the piece of his soul that had been in your scar – put one theory above the rest." Dumbledore gestured to his shriveled hand. "Last week, I found another piece of his soul and destroyed it, but in doing so, damaged my hand."

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "He had more?"

"Seven in total, I think," Dumbledore said. "Tom Riddle created what are called Horcruxes, the most evil magic there is. It is the act of splitting your soul and storing a piece of it in an inanimate object." Harry felt sick. "I believe Tom created six Horcruxes, making seven pieces of his soul – seven being one of the most powerful magical numbers – to ensure that even if his body was destroyed, he would not die."

Harry shuddered. "That's horrible," he murmured, eyes wide. Then his head snapped up. "That thing was inside me all this time?!"

Dumbledore nodded. "I don't think he intended to leave that piece of his soul behind when he attacked you that Halloween or he wouldn't have tried to kill you so many times over the last few years." The man's lips twitched. "I believe that when he struck you with the Killing Curse on the night of the Third Task, Voldemort unknowingly destroyed that piece of his soul – ironically, saving your life."

Harry's eyes widened. "Bloody hell," he breathed.

The headmaster chuckled. "Indeed," he said, his mustache quivering. "This gives us quite the advantage. With the diary, the piece in you and the ring I destroyed, we have four more Horcruxes to find. If we can destroy those—"

"—We can destroy him," Harry finished. Resolve fluttered through him. "How do we find them?"

Dumbledore smiled and prodded the Pensieve. "Let me show you."

The moment Harry's feet touched down on the dirt road leading up to the Kent Farm, he felt the familiar warmth and excitement that preceded a visit to the Burrow alight in his heart.

The farm sat surrounded by fields. The cheery red barn, mere feet from the bright, yellow house, abutted an enclosure of clucking chickens. The windows of the quaint farmhouse were lit with a warm glow and delicious smells wafted out past open curtains. Clark wrapped a casual arm around his shoulder and Harry looked up at the smiling hero.

"It's not much," Clark said unabashedly, "but it's home," unconsciously echoing Ron's words years before.

"It's brilliant," Harry returned enthusiastically.

With a laugh, the older man led the teen inside. Immediately, the warmth brushed up against his face and he felt almost blindsided by the noise of the people already there.

Lois and an older woman, likely Clark's mother, Martha Kent, bustled between the kitchen and an extended dinner table, cooking and carrying enough food to feed an army of Weasleys. A radio hummed softly in the background, playing Christmas music, occasionally interrupted with the cries and cheers from the older man — probably Clark's father, Jonathan Kent — who sat in front of the telly in their sitting room.

"Oh, Clark!" the older woman exclaimed, hurrying over to hug and kiss her son. "It's so good to see you! Happy Thanksgiving!" Without waiting for a response she turned to Harry with a beaming smile. "And you must be the young man Lois has been telling me all about! Welcome, we are so glad you could make it!"

Before Harry could respond, her arms surrounded him and he was pulled into the tightest and warmest hug he'd had since Mrs. Weasley's at the end of term. "Erm, thank you. Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Kent," said Harry bashfully, as she withdrew.

"Oh pish posh, call me Ma," she said. "From what Clark tells me, you're practically family now, any way!"

Harry threw a surprised glance at the older man, who was busily whispering to and kissing his fiancée. He looked back at Mrs. Kent with a raised eyebrow.

Mrs. Kent winked back at him. "Clark, honey, can you come help me with the roast? I swear that pan gets heavier every year..." the older woman said, dragging her son away by his elbow, as if she were the superhero.

Clark threw an amused grin over his shoulder at Lois and Harry before succumbing to his mother's wishes.

"C'mon, kid," Lois said, steering Harry away. "Escape while you still can."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but when she threw him a teasing wink, he shut it and let her take him into the sitting room.

"Harry, meet Mr. Kent!" she introduced.

The jolly older man stood and shook Harry's hand, pumping it up and down for a solid beat. "It's good to meet you, son," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "We've heard quite a bit about you."

"You too, Mr. Kent," Harry said, heat rising to his cheeks. "Er, thanks."

"The name's Pa," Mr. Kent said gruffly. "You're kin to my boy, so that makes ya family." He smiled, wrinkles erupting in the corners of his eyes. "An' family calls me Pa."

Harry's eyes burned and he ducked his head, staring intently at his shoes. "Yes, sir," Harry croaked.

"Now then," Pa Kent said, kindly looking away, "you want to watch the game with me? Kansas State is leading by 14, but it's still anyone's game."

"Really?" A healthy breeze kicked everyone's hair up as Clark settled into place behind the sofa, his glasses askew as he intently stared at the telly. "They were down by twelve when I left!"

"Clark!" Ma Kent squawked from the kitchen.

The superhero winced sheepishly. "Sorry, Ma!" he called, reluctantly tearing himself away from the telly.

"I'll go," volunteered Harry, with a grin.

"You don't want to watch the football game?" Clark asked, already settling down next to his father.

Harry turned around, walking backwards, as he threw a wry look at the telly. "That's not football," he teased.

"Hey!" The Yanks in the room yelled at his back in mock offense.

The British wizard ignored them, grinning broadly as he entered the kitchen. "How can I help, Mrs. Kent?" he asked. The woman threw a pointed look at him. "Sorry, Ma," Harry corrected sheepishly.

The older woman grinned over the massive turkey she was carving. "Be a dear and pour the drippings into that container?" she asked, pointing from the large roasting pan to a plastic bowl.

"Of course!" With his new strength, Harry found the thick, cast-iron pan to be no heavier than a quill. It was more unwieldy than anything else, but easy lifting meant that he could hold it with one hand and scrape the drippings out with a spatula.

Ma Kent watched him work with a keen eye. "You've been working hard on your control," she said wisely, as she transferred slices of meat to a platter. "When Clark was your age, he was still accidentally crushing my cookware with his hands."

Harry blushed. "I still break things sometimes," he said, "but Mr. Kent's a really good teacher."

The older woman smiled proudly. "You must be a good student," she returned, before nodding at the pan. "It would be a mighty big help if you would fill it with hot water and soap. Just leave it to soak by the sink."

Harry followed her instructions, pouring soap and liberally filling it with steaming hot water from the tap. Then seeing the measuring spoons, cups and knives in the sink, he plunged his hands in and started washing.

"Oh, you don't need to do that..." Ma Kent protested.

"It's alright," Harry said, placing the cleaned items on the drying rack and toweling off his hands. "There wasn't much."

Ma Kent shook her head. "Well, if you want to carry this to the table," she said, moving away from the towering platter of turkey, "I'll get the rolls. The rest of our guests should be here any minute."

Harry carefully lifted the platter and walked to the groaning tables. "The rest—?" he repeated curiously.

A knock on the door interrupted him. Clark opened it hardly a second later. Harry set the platter down on the table, fortunately not breaking a thing in the process.

"Bruce! Dick! Tim!" the older man exclaimed, stepping back. "Welcome!"

"Happy Thanksgiving." Harry turned to see another man about Clark's age enter, followed by a younger man and a boy not much older than himself. Ma Kent greeted them as well, exchanging hugs and taking their thick coats and scarves.

Clark's friend, Bruce, wore a soft smile over his expensive suit and neatly polished shoes. This man had money — loads more of it than Uncle Vernon, for sure. His sons were also well-dressed and shared his dark hair and blue eyes, though they didn't look related.

"Harry, this is Bruce Wayne," Clark said, pulling him over to meet his friend, "and these are his sons, Dick and Tim."

"Nice to meet you," Harry said, shaking their hands.

"Technically, I'm his ward," Dick, the older one, said with a smile as he crooked a thumb at Bruce.

"And I'm just their neighbor," added Tim, good-naturedly.

Dick rolled his eyes. "You spend more time at the manor than I do," he pointed out resentfully.

Tim rolled his eyes back. "You moved out last year," he returned, "and why do you care? You're old."

"Hey!" Dick squawked, grabbing Tim around the neck and grinding his fist into the younger boy's head. "You take that back! I'm in the prime of my youth!"

Tim yowled and pushed back playfully. Harry bit his lip to contain a laugh as he watched the two not-brothers fight like Ron and the twins.

"Boys," Bruce intoned, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Behave yourselves or they'll think I didn't teach you manners."

Dick let go, playfully messing with Tim's hair one last time. "You mean, Alfred didn't teach us manners."

Tim snickered and Bruce's lips quirked in an aborted grin. Harry looked at the older man, certain that something about his face looked familiar.

"Now, now," Ma Kent said amusedly, "let's all exercise those lovely manners and sit down and eat before the food gets cold."

"This all looks wonderful, Martha," Bruce said, handing her a bottle of wine. "I'm afraid with Alfred out of town, we thought we should save you from my cooking. I hope this will do."

Ma Kent took the bottle and shooed him to the table. "Don't you worry about it at all, dear. This looks lovely! Now, can I offer you a glass of mulled wine?"

"Please."

Harry soon found himself seated at one end of the table, between Lois and Ma Kent, looking across at Tim. Pa Kent was directly opposite Ma, at the head of the table, and Clark sat at his right. Bruce was across from him and between Bruce and Tim sat Dick.

"Jonathan, would you like to do the honors?" Ma Kent asked, holding out her hands.

It took Harry a moment to realize that he was to take hers and Lois's, so Pa Kent could say grace. Idly, Harry realized this was the first time he'd sat at a table during a Muggle holiday where the Lord's Prayer was said. The Dursleys preferred that he be locked in his cupboard during those meals, lest he bring down the wrath of God on their heads with his unnaturalness.

"Amen," the whole table intoned as one, jolting him out of his memories.

"Amen," Harry said quickly and as softly as he could, letting go of the women's hands.

The huge group immediately fell to the food, dishing large helpings onto their plates. Harry made sure to get a spoonful of everything, eager to taste it all. The smells filled the room, making his mouth water before the first bite even hit his tongue.

The first few minutes were silent as everybody ate, thoroughly enjoying the feast. Once people began to reach for second helpings, the conversation began to start up.

"So, where are you from, Harry?" Tim asked as he scooped some buttered peas onto his plate.

"Erm, I grew up in Surrey," the wizard said, sipping the sweet, bubbly apple cider Lois had offered him. He and Tim were not allowed to drink any of the mulled wine that had most of the adults (except Clark) looking decidedly pink-faced. "It's just outside London."

Tim nodded. "I went with Bruce to London last year," he said seriously. "I got some great shots of the city from Tower Bridge."

"Really?" Harry asked with a smile. "Are you a photographer? What kinds of pictures do you take?"

"I'm just an amateur," the boy said with a small blush. He threw a sly glance at Dick, who was not-so-subtly listening in. "I usually do wildlife photography, anyway. Mostly bats, birds, those sorts of things."

Dick, who'd been busy drinking some wine, snorted and choked quite suddenly, coughing harshly. Bruce thumped the young man on his back, as he slowly recovered. "I'm fine," Dick said lightly, waving off the concerns of the adults. "Wrong pipe."

When the older people had gone back to their conversations, Harry watched Dick throw a playful glare at Tim, promising payback later. The younger boy grinned cheekily.

"Are you sure you aren't brothers?" Harry whispered to Tim, raising an eyebrow, after Dick turned to say something to Clark. "Because you act like brothers."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Tim said, a crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Do you have any siblings?"

Harry shook his head. "I grew up with my cousin, Dudley," he said, grimacing, "but we don't get on. My relatives ... they don't like me much."

Tim nodded sympathetically. "Blood doesn't make a family, that's for sure," he said, buttering a fresh roll.

The two boys exchanged a silent smile over their plates, understanding passing between them.

"Wow, you two are serious," Dick commented, eyeing them. "Cheer up! It's Thanksgiving!"

"You mean the celebration of systematic Native American genocide over the last 300 years?" Tim deadpanned.

Dick rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Fine, go ahead and brood. You're worse than B sometimes," he complained. "I'm going to go eat the last slice of pie and I'm not saving you any!"

"Rude!" Tim blew a raspberry at his brother's back. He winked at Harry. "I give him five minutes."

Harry stared as the man grinned his way into the kitchen, where Ma Kent was serving large slices of American pie.

"Is it really a holiday about genocide?" Harry asked in a low voice, looking down at his plate.

Tim frowned, sitting up slightly. "Sort of?" he offered a beat later. "When white settlers first came to America, they didn't know how to survive here, so the Indigenous people helped them. Taught them how to farm, what plants were edible, how to handle the climate... that sort of thing," he explained. "But the English accidentally passed on diseases like smallpox and influenza to the Indigenous people, which killed millions of them. Sometimes, it wasn't so accidental. War and greed did the rest." Tim shook his head. "Barely 10% of the continent's Indigenous people survived, and most of their culture and language were wiped out too."

The food in Harry's stomach turned to lead. "Why would anyone celebrate that?" he asked.

Tim shrugged. "Tradition, I guess," he said at last, picking at a roll. "The government and most Americans treat Thanksgiving as a celebration of family and togetherness, so most people forget the true history behind it. By the time people understand, they're so used to celebrating the holiday that they don't want to stop."

Harry mulled it over. "Makes sense," he said at last. "Back home—"

"Never say I don't do anything for you Timmy!" Two plates with large slices of pie were unceremoniously dropped in front of each boy. Harry looked up to see Dick, grinning broadly.

"Thanks Dick," Tim said with a smirk. When the jubilant man walked away, Tim leaned toward Harry. "I knew he couldn't resist," he snickered. "He's too nice. He tries to be cool, but honestly he's just a big dork."

Harry turned to the rest of the family and spotted Clark gesturing with his arms as he talked to Bruce. The teen smiled. "I know the type."

A/N: I am so sorry for the three-year delay on this! I know that's no excuse, honestly, but I do have reasons. The last time I updated this fic, it was October 2020, and the world was basically falling apart at the time. (When isn't it?) My teaching gig picked up around then and kept me busy for the rest of the year through to the summer. Then I was offered a position writing on a DC comics video game project. Dream come true, am I right?! I was pretty stoked and quit my day job to take this on. I thought it was my big break.

And then my white male boss white-manned all over the place and between that and the mistakes I made as a newbie in the writing world… well, let's just say it was short-lived. After that mess, I honestly couldn't read or write anything DC for a while. The whole experience was a bit traumatic and made me doubt if I was meant to be a writer or if I had a future in it professionally. Not in the writing aspect, but the whole writing in a group with other adults thing. Working on anything DC just reminded me of this shitty time in my life, so I sunk myself completely into anime and Boku No Hero Academia, which I had already been obsessing over. Am still obsessing over. Lol

Obviously, I'm working my way through it and have been able to come back to DC on the fanfic side. I'm choosing to see that terrible experience as a chance to grow and all that adult shit. ? I guess that just means you'll get to read more about half-Kryptonian Harry!

This chapter was completely written before my impromptu hiatus, but I wanted to write Chapter 13 before I posted this one. I'm about halfway through it, but some big HP canon events are about to unfold, so I hope to finish it off by early next year? I honestly can't say for sure – I have some big work things coming up in the next few months and if that takes over my life, I can't guarantee anything. I'll do my best to have Chapter 13 out as soon as I can. Have a Happy Halloween!