Chapter 29: The Hogwarts Express

Sunlight poured into Clark Kent's guest room at Privet Drive, casting golden rays over his packed trunk. Anticipation buzzed through him, keeping sleep at bay. Today, he'd board the Hogwarts Express, stepping into a world where his wand's power and Kryptonian strength would shape his destiny.

He checked his supplies with care—robes folded, books stacked, Black Dragonwood wand tucked in his pocket, its dual cores humming faintly. The pocket universe ring on his finger glowed softly, holding Petunia in a crafted room, her submission from last night a testament to his dominance. The Dursleys' public scorn—calling him a freak—had crumbled under his private control, freeing him to claim his future.

After a quick breakfast, Clark left the quiet suburb, navigating London's bustling streets to King's Cross Station. The terminal thrummed with commuters, the air thick with coffee and newspaper ink, their mundane lives blind to the magic around them. His sharp senses caught clacking heels and train whistles, but he played the lost first-year, a strategic choice to scout allies.

His gaze settled on a brood of redheads weaving through the crowd, led by a matronly woman who looked like she could eclipse the sun. Molly Weasley, herding her children like a general, her worn robes straining against her well-fed frame. Clark stifled a smirk, noting the sheer number of them—six, maybe seven, a chaotic swarm of freckles and hand-me-downs. Among them, a young girl, maybe ten, lingered in the shadows, arms folded, her face a storm of frustration. Ginny Weasley, he guessed, her red hair falling past her shoulders, brown eyes flashing with defiance. She radiated intelligence, sharper than the lanky boy slumping beside her, whose smudged nose and poor posture made second-hand robes look like they'd been dragged through a pigsty.

"That's a lot of children," Clark murmured under his breath, his tone dry as he assessed the Weasley clan. Molly was fussing over the boy—Ron, probably—her voice loud enough to carry. "What's the platform again, Ronald?"

"Nine and Three Quarters, Mum," Ginny snapped, rolling her eyes so hard Clark thought she might strain something. Her tone dripped with exasperation, as if she were the only one with a functioning brain. Clark's lips twitched. She was sharp, smarter than the boy droning on about how he'd be "best mates" with Harry Potter, his seven-year plan at Hogwarts already mapped out. Clark caught Ginny's muttered, "As if he's guaranteed Gryffindor," and filed it away. She was perceptive, resentful of being left behind, and clearly not her mother's favorite. Useful.

Molly, oblivious to her daughter's simmering rebellion, scanned the crowd, muttering about "that poor Potter boy, all alone, no mother to guide him." Clark caught the pity in her voice, the assumption that any orphan needed fattening up like a Christmas goose. He adjusted his expression—wide-eyed, slightly lost—and approached, his voice polite, calculated. "Excuse me, ma'am, I'm looking for Platform 9¾. Not sure where to go."

Molly turned, her brown eyes warm with concern. "Oh, dear! First time at Hogwarts?"

Clark nodded, feigning eagerness. "Yes, ma'am."

She smiled, her matronly warmth softening her worn robes. "Not to worry, love. We're crossing now. Come along."

Clark followed, his eyes sharp, noting her every move. Ginny trailed behind, her gaze flicking to him, curious but guarded. She blushed when he flashed a disarming smile, her shyness a spark he tucked away for later. Molly led him to a brick barrier, saying, "Walk straight through, Harry. Don't hesitate." Clark nodded, pretending uncertainty, and passed through, the wall parting like a curtain.

The Hogwarts Express loomed, a scarlet vintage train billowing steam, its golden lettering glinting under the platform's lamps. The air carried hot metal, parchment, and the sweet scent of nearby candies. Students swarmed, lugging trunks, their chatter a lively hum.

"There you are, Harry," Molly said, her voice fond. "Have a wonderful term."

Clark gave a respectful nod, his smile warm but calculated. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. You're very kind." He noted her maternal instinct, marking her as a potential ally—perhaps more, if he played his cards right. Ginny, still lingering, shot him a look that was half-curious, half-defiant, as if she knew he wasn't just another lost first-year. He'd keep an eye on her. A mind like that, trapped in her mother's shadow, could be molded.

Molly turned to her children, unaware of his plans. Clark boarded the train, his smirk deepening, the platform's energy fueling his ambition.

Clark moved through the Hogwarts Express's narrow corridor, glancing into compartments filled with chattering students and fluttering owls. The scent of leather seats and pumpkin pasties filled the air, the train's sway a steady rhythm. Finding an empty compartment, he settled in, placing Hedwig's cage beside him. The snowy owl blinked, tucking her head under her wing.

He leaned back, his mind racing. Hogwarts was a stage, and he'd play every role—hero, charmer, conqueror. The Dursleys' chains were gone, Petunia's submission proof of his power. Now, he'd build alliances, starting here.

The compartment door slid open, revealing a bushy-haired girl clutching a heavy book. Hermione Granger. Her untamed curls framed a tanned face, her brown eyes sharp with intelligence. Her oversized robes and stuffed bookbag marked her as studious, her stance confident yet cautious.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice brisk. "Everywhere else is full. May I sit?"

Clark met her gaze, his smile easy, calculated. "Sure. I'm Harry."

She hesitated, then stepped inside, her movements precise. "Hermione Granger," she said, settling across from him, smoothing her robe.

Silence fell, Hermione opening her book, her eyes scanning the pages with fierce focus. Clark watched discreetly, amused by her relentless drive—a bookworm, sharp and determined, a potential asset if guided right.

Minutes passed, the only sound in the compartment being the rhythmic turning of pages.