Chapter 46: A Morning of Clarity

The castle bells tolled, their chimes echoing through Hogwarts' ancient stone corridors. Morning light streamed through enchanted windows, casting golden rays across the Slytherin dormitory, where shadows lingered like quiet guardians. The air held a faint dampness, a reminder of the Black Lake's depths below.

Clark Kent stirred, his mind heavy, as if waking from a fevered haze. His fingers brushed the cool metal of Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, still perched atop his head. Removing it, a subtle fog clouded his thoughts—not crippling, but dull, like a blade losing its edge. With the diadem, spells, theories, and magical constructs had unfolded like an open scroll, his mind a beacon of brilliance. Without it, he was merely exceptional, a genius constrained by mortal limits.

He sighed, closing the thick tome on Warding Charms—his third book of the night. His fingers traced the embossed title before he stored it in his enchanted ring's pocket space, the familiar hum of power tingling his skin. Checking the Marauder's Map, he confirmed the corridors were clear, then slipped out, his footsteps silent as a shadow, navigating the dim dungeon passages toward the Slytherin common room.

Rounding a corner, he froze.

"Harry!"

Hermione Granger stood in his path, arms crossed, her bushy hair slightly unkempt, a telltale sign she'd been waiting. Her narrowed eyes betrayed exasperation, but Clark's lips twitched, amused.

"Hermione, fancy meeting you here," he drawled, his tone teasing.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, unfazed.

"Why, worried about me?" Clark stepped closer, his smirk playful but edged, testing her resolve.

Hermione huffed, her resolve wavering. "That's not an answer, Harry. You've been sneaking out again, haven't you?"

Clark leaned in, voice low, commanding. "Maybe. Maybe not. What'll you do about it?"

Her hesitation was palpable, torn between her sense of duty and her hunger for knowledge—especially when Clark seemed steps ahead. Before she could press, he redirected smoothly. "By the way, you've got a glow this morning. Quite enchanting."

Hermione's face flushed crimson. "W-what?!"

His smirk widened. "Just saying, it suits you."

"Flattery won't dodge this, Potter!" she snapped, but her sharpness dulled, the topic slipping away.

"Come on, we'll be late for class," Clark said, taking her hand with effortless charm, leading her toward Transfiguration. Hermione's protests faded, her interrogation forgotten, just as he'd planned.

Transfiguration class unfolded predictably—Professor McGonagall demonstrated a complex spell, students fumbled, and Clark executed it flawlessly, his wandwork a dance of precision. As the class ended, students filed out, but Clark lingered, his emerald eyes fixed on McGonagall, her stern presence a puzzle he aimed to unravel.

"Professor McGonagall?" he called, his voice polite but deliberate.

McGonagall, sorting parchments at her desk, looked up, curiosity flickering. "Mr. Potter, come in. Take a seat." Her tone carried warmth, a softness reserved for him, rooted in her bond with Lily Potter. Her eyes, sharp yet fond, betrayed a maternal care, unshaken by his Slytherin Sorting.

Clark sat, his posture relaxed but purposeful. "I read about a charm in a book. It caught my interest."

McGonagall's eyebrow arched. "Oh? Which charm?"

"The Gemino Charm."

Her brow shot up, surprise evident. "A Fourth-Year spell, Mr. Potter. Have you had trouble with it?"

Clark's smirk was subtle, confident. "Not quite, Professor. I've mastered it."

McGonagall blinked, her composure faltering. For a moment, she studied him, gauging his sincerity. "Forgive me, but may I see you perform it?"

Clark nodded. With a flick of his wand—silent, fluid—the cup on her desk shimmered, splitting into two identical copies, flawless in detail.

McGonagall's lips parted, her breath catching. He'd done it—nonverbally, without standard wand movements, a feat beyond most seventh-years. Even Lily Potter, her brightest student, had needed years to reach such control. Clark's spellwork was unnatural, a prodigy's mark.

"Professor?" Clark's voice broke her stunned silence.

She cleared her throat, regaining her poise. "That was… expertly done, Mr. Potter."

His smile was polite, disarming. "Thank you, Professor. But I came to ask something else."

McGonagall folded her hands, intrigued. "Go on."

He gestured to the cup. "The duplicate's temporary, a magical construct that'll fade. I want to make it permanent."

Her shock returned, sharper. Permanent conjuration was a Seventh-Year topic, mastered by few. "Are you sure, Mr. Potter? Such magic takes weeks, if not months, to perfect."

Clark's gaze was unwavering, his ambition clear. "I'm sure."

McGonagall hesitated, then began teaching, explaining the principles of stabilization with precision. To her astonishment, Clark grasped each concept instantly, his questions cutting, his wandwork adapting in real-time. What should have taken weeks took hours. By sunset, he'd conjured and stabilized a permanent duplicate, the cup solid, enduring.

McGonagall felt breathless, a thrill she hadn't known since mentoring Dumbledore. Clark's mind was sharper than any she'd seen, a genius unparalleled, his potential both exhilarating and daunting.

A question nagged her. "Mr. Potter, why come to me? Professor Flitwick, a Charms master, would be the logical choice."

Clark's smile was small, almost vulnerable, his emerald eyes shimmering. "Because, Professor… you feel like family to me."

McGonagall's breath hitched, her heart clenching. For a moment, she saw Lily in those eyes, her warmth, her fire. Emotion swelled, tears threatening, but she held them back. "Oh, Mr. Potter…" she whispered, words failing her.

She'd lost so many—Lily, James, countless others. She wouldn't lose him.

Clark's inner smirk was hidden, his manipulation flawless. Her trust was his, a key piece in his growing empire.