# Xavier Institute — Medical Bay — 10:15 AM
The doors to the medical bay slid open with a smooth *whoosh* that absolutely belonged in a sci-fi movie, and May Parker stepped inside like she'd just been teleported onto the bridge of the *Enterprise*. Not the old, clunky one from the '60s—no, this was the sleek, high-tech version designed by people who actually understood what "comfort" and "infection control" meant.
"Holy—" May stopped mid-step, her hand flying to her chest. "Peter. *Peter*. Are you seeing this?"
"I am definitely seeing this," Peter said, grinning as he watched his aunt's face cycle through approximately seventeen different emotions in three seconds flat.
The place was *massive*—easily twice the size of the ER where May worked back home, and that was saying something. The walls practically glowed with embedded lighting that shifted to match natural daylight cycles, the floors were so spotless they could've doubled as mirrors, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and... was that lavender?
May inhaled deeply. "Is that *lavender*?"
"Automated aromatherapy system," Jean said from behind them, clearly enjoying May's reaction. "Professor Xavier insisted. He said healing environments should engage all the senses, not just smell like bleach and regret."
"I like him more every minute," May muttered, taking another step forward.
But the real showstoppers were the beds.
They weren't really *beds*—more like something Apple might design if it decided to branch out into medical tech. Each one hovered a few inches off the floor, surrounded by holographic displays that projected glowing 3D body scans like something out of *Iron Man's* workshop. The displays pulsed gently with heart rates, brainwaves, and data streams that looked so advanced they probably required a PhD in *science fiction* just to interpret.
"Oh my *God*," May breathed, stepping closer to the nearest one like it might vanish if she blinked. Her hands hovered over the control panel, torn between reverence and the bone-deep curiosity that came from two decades of emergency medicine. "This is... Peter, do you understand what I'm looking at? The diagnostic potential alone must be—"
She leaned in, squinting at the readouts. "Wait. Is this real-time cellular monitoring? And neural pathway mapping? *And* automated blood chemistry analysis? All at once?"
"Yep," Peter said proudly, hands shoved in his pockets in that casual *I'm-totally-not-nervous-please-don't-touch-anything-expensive* way. "Dr. McCoy gave me the full demo earlier. These things can set bones, monitor brain waves, and—this is my favorite part—detect when someone's lying about how they got hurt."
May's head snapped toward him. "They can *what*?"
"Lie detection," Peter repeated, grinning wider. "Stress hormones, elevated heart rate, micro-expressions. The system flags inconsistencies in patient testimony. Which, around here, is apparently a *daily* occurrence."
Harry laughed from where he was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed and looking far too entertained. "Last month, someone claimed they'd 'tripped' during training. The system immediately flagged them. Turns out they'd tried to show off with an experimental move, botched it completely, and crash-landed into a wall. The bed *knew*."
"I love this bed," May said fervently. "I *need* this bed. Do you know how many patients have lied to me about 'just slipping' when they were clearly doing something monumentally stupid?"
"Roughly seventy percent of your caseload?" Peter guessed.
"Closer to eighty-five," May corrected, still staring at the holographic display like it held the secrets of the universe.
**"Sophisticated integration of mutant detection capabilities with standard diagnostic protocols,"** Bond's voice rumbled in Peter's head, deep and gravelly like someone gargling espresso and bad decisions. **"The adaptive scanning systems could identify us in seconds. Analyze our symbiotic bond. Fascinating use of biotechnology. Perhaps we should volunteer for examination. For *science*."**
Peter's eye twitched. "Yeah, no. Absolutely not. We're not volunteering for full-body scans today, buddy."
**"But the knowledge we could gain—"**
"The knowledge we could gain about how to get kicked out of school for being a *science experiment*? Hard pass." Peter kept his voice low, barely moving his lips. "I'm *just* starting to get people used to you being real. Let's not add 'sentient goo specimen' to my student file on day one."
Bond made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. **"Coward."**
"*Pragmatist*," Peter corrected under his breath.
"Did you just argue with yourself?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Bond wants to volunteer for medical testing," Peter said flatly. "I vetoed it."
"Smart," Susan said from across the room, where she'd been quietly examining another console. "The last time someone volunteered for 'routine testing' here, Dr. McCoy discovered they had three extra organs no one knew about. Caused a minor existential crisis."
"For the patient or Dr. McCoy?" Jean asked.
"Both."
May, meanwhile, had moved to the next bed, her professional curiosity fully engaged. "The mattresses are *self-adjusting*," she said, running her hand just above the surface. The material rippled and shifted beneath her palm, responding to the proximity of her hand like it was alive. "They're using pressure-mapping and real-time feedback to optimize patient comfort and prevent bedsores. This is—Peter, do you have any idea how much a system like this would cost in a regular hospital?"
"A lot?" Peter guessed.
"Try *millions*," May said, her voice somewhere between awe and despair. "And that's assuming you could even *get* the technology, which you can't, because apparently it only exists in secret mutant schools."
"To be fair," Harry said, pushing off from the doorway and strolling closer, "most hospitals don't need beds that can handle patients who accidentally phase through the mattress or spontaneously combust in their sleep."
May blinked. "I'm sorry, *what*?"
"Mutant powers don't turn off just because you're unconscious," Jean explained, like this was a perfectly normal thing to say. "We've had students accidentally teleport out of their beds, freeze their blankets solid, or—my personal favorite—magnetize every metal object in a ten-foot radius."
"One kid pulled an *entire IV stand* across the room in his sleep," Susan added. "Dr. McCoy had to redesign half the equipment to use non-magnetic materials."
"I'm starting to understand why you need specialized medical care," May said weakly.
"Starting to?" Harry grinned. "Mrs. Parker, you haven't even *heard* about the Quidditch injuries yet."
"The *what* injuries?"
"We'll get to that," Peter said quickly, shooting Harry a look that clearly said *please stop terrifying my aunt*. "Let's maybe ease her into the whole 'flying sports equipment' thing."
Daphne, who'd been standing near the window with the kind of composed detachment that only someone raised in an aristocratic household could manage, finally spoke up. "In fairness," she said, her voice calm and measured, "the medical bay is one of the safest places in the Institute. The monitoring systems are comprehensive, the staff is exceptional, and the beds are enchanted with enough protective wards to survive a small explosion."
"Why would you need beds that survive explosions?" May asked, though from her tone, she wasn't sure she wanted the answer.
"Precaution," Daphne said simply. "Students with unstable abilities sometimes... react poorly to stress. Better to have beds that *can't* explode than to find out the hard way."
May looked at Peter. "Your school has explosion-proof beds."
"Yep."
"Because students might *accidentally explode*."
"It's only happened twice!" Peter said defensively. "And both times, everyone was fine!"
"*Fine* is doing a lot of work in that sentence," Harry muttered.
**"The young Potter speaks truth,"** Bond rumbled approvingly. **"This facility demonstrates exceptional foresight. We are impressed."**
"Bond says he's impressed," Peter translated. "Which is his way of saying 'I want to live here forever.'"
"We do *not*—"
"You *absolutely* do."
Jean laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "I like Bond. He's got good instincts."
"Thank you," Peter said.
"I was talking to Bond, not you."
"Wow. Okay. Rude."
Professor Xavier's voice cut smoothly through the banter, warm and amused. "Mrs. Parker, I can see you're already analyzing the potential applications of our technology. Your technical observations are quite astute."
May turned, and for the first time, seemed to remember that she was standing in front of one of the most powerful telepaths on the planet. She straightened slightly, her professional mask sliding into place. "Professor Xavier, this equipment is extraordinary. The diagnostic resolution alone could revolutionize emergency medicine. If this technology ever went public—"
"It's a discussion we've revisited many times," Xavier said gently, guiding his wheelchair closer. The lights reflected off its polished chrome frame, and his blue eyes held that quiet weight of experience that said he'd had this *exact* conversation before. "How much of our technology should be shared with the world, and what safeguards would be necessary to prevent its misuse."
His expression softened. "Much of what we develop here is tailored specifically for mutants—individuals whose physiology and abilities differ significantly from baseline human biology. Adapting it for the broader population would require not only extensive modification but also navigating legal and ethical frameworks that were never designed with such diversity in mind."
"Translation," Peter whispered to Bond, "bureaucratic nightmare."
**"Humans fear what they do not understand,"** Bond rumbled, his tone somewhere between philosophical and threatening. **"And they would *definitely* misunderstand this place."**
"Not helping, buddy."
"Also," a new voice said from the doorway to the connected lab, smooth and deep and laced with wry humor, "some people would use this technology to *identify* and *target* enhanced individuals rather than help them."
May turned toward the source—and froze.
A massive figure stepped into the light, easily seven feet tall and covered head to toe in blue fur. He wore reading glasses perched on a distinctly leonine nose, and a pristine white lab coat that somehow made the fur look like a deliberate fashion statement rather than a genetic quirk.
Dr. Hank McCoy.
To her credit, May didn't scream, faint, or reach for the nearest sharp object. Years in emergency medicine had taught her that once you've treated a man who'd gotten a bowling ball stuck somewhere it absolutely shouldn't be, you stopped judging by appearances.
"Holy shit," she said instead, very calmly. "You're blue."
Hank blinked, then let out a booming laugh that seemed to fill the entire room. "I am *indeed* blue! And covered in fur. And possessed of an inconveniently large frame that makes doorways a perpetual challenge." He spread his arms, grinning. "But I promise, I'm far less intimidating than I look."
"You look like a seven-foot teddy bear with a PhD," May said, still processing.
"*Several* PhDs, actually," Hank corrected cheerfully. "But who's counting?"
Xavier cleared his throat, clearly trying not to smile. "Dr. McCoy, allow me to introduce Mrs. May Parker—Peter's aunt and legal guardian. May, this is Dr. Henry McCoy, our resident genius and the closest thing we have to a medical authority at the Institute."
Hank extended one massive, fur-covered hand with the kind of gentleness that comes from years of practice at *not* accidentally crushing things.
"Please, call me Hank," he said warmly. "I like to think I've developed a reasonably competent bedside manner over the years."
May shook his hand without hesitation. His grip was firm but careful, and she could feel the barely restrained strength in it. "So you're a research scientist who got drafted into emergency medicine?"
"He's being modest," Harry said, still grinning. "Last week, one of my teammates got hit with Venomous Tentacula venom during a training exercise. Hank synthesized an antidote, ran a full-body diagnostic, and gave us a lecture on venom-based biochemistry *while* the guy was actively dying. It was simultaneously terrifying and educational."
"Multitasking is an underappreciated skill," Hank said mildly.
"You *lectured* someone while they were *dying*?" May asked, torn between horror and grudging respect.
"Education is a powerful analgesic," Hank replied, utterly serious. "Besides, he survived with no lasting damage, and now he knows *exactly* why one should never attempt to pet carnivorous magical plants."
"That's... actually kind of impressive," May admitted.
**"The blue medical professional demonstrates exceptional knowledge and compassion,"** Bond rumbled approvingly in Peter's head. **"We like him. He is noble."**
"Bond says Hank has his seal of approval," Peter translated. "Which is kind of a big deal. Usually, his opinions about people fall into three categories: 'would they taste good,' 'could they kill us,' or 'both.'"
**"We have *evolved* beyond such primal criteria,"** Bond protested, sounding genuinely offended. **"We now assess beings based on tactical competence, moral integrity, and quality of conversation."**
"Oh, sure, *now* you're sophisticated."
May pressed a hand to her forehead. "My nephew is arguing with an alien about personality assessments. This is my life now."
"Symbiote," half the room corrected automatically.
"Right. Symbiote. Because that's *so* much better." May lowered her hand and fixed Peter with a look. "We're having a very long conversation later about your life choices."
"Can't wait," Peter said cheerfully.
Hank, meanwhile, was studying May with the kind of keen interest usually reserved for particularly fascinating lab specimens. "Mrs. Parker," he said slowly, "your technical observations about our medical systems are remarkably sophisticated. You mentioned diagnostic resolution and treatment protocols—do I detect a fellow healthcare professional?"
May's posture shifted slightly, settling into the brisk confidence of someone who'd spent twenty years keeping people alive against increasingly ridiculous odds. "I'm a nurse," she said. "Emergency department at Queens General Hospital. Twenty years on the floor dealing with everything from papercuts to bullet wounds to the occasional patient who insists 'it's just a scratch' while actively bleeding on my shoes."
"That's her superpower," Peter said proudly. "Guilt-tripping stubborn people into staying alive."
May didn't deny it. "This equipment," she continued, gesturing toward the hovering medical beds, "is extraordinary. The patient monitoring capabilities alone could cut diagnostic time by seventy percent. And the automated treatment protocols—" She stopped, her eyes narrowing with professional curiosity. "You said you're the *closest thing* to a medical authority. What's your actual background?"
Hank's ears twitched—a surprisingly human gesture for someone who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. "Ah. Well. My background is... *interdisciplinary*." He spread his massive hands, the claws glinting softly under the medical bay's lighting. "Multiple doctorates in biochemistry, genetics, and biophysics. Plus several decades of field experience treating enhanced individuals whose biology doesn't fit nicely into any existing medical framework."
"So you're brilliant but not technically qualified," May said.
"A succinct and devastatingly accurate assessment," Hank agreed. "I can identify mutant genetic anomalies, design custom treatment plans for powers-related injuries, and invent medical devices for problems that only exist because evolution decided to get *creative*. But I am not, strictly speaking, licensed to practice medicine."
"Which is why," Xavier said smoothly, "we've been discussing the need for a qualified medical professional on staff. Someone who can handle routine patient care while Hank focuses on research and mutant-specific cases."
May's eyes narrowed. "Professor Xavier, are you trying to recruit me?"
"Would it be working if I were?"
"Maybe."
Harry laughed. "I *knew* I liked you, Mrs. Parker."
Jean had drifted over to one of the control stations, her fingers flying over holographic keys with practiced ease. "The neural monitoring systems are amazing," she said, half to herself. "They can detect a power surge before the person even knows it's happening. Basically an early warning system for emotional meltdowns that involve telekinesis or spontaneous combustion."
"The system can be... overly sensitive," Susan said dryly from another console. She had that calm, scientist vibe—the kind of person who'd already mentally disassembled the entire setup and was writing a research paper about it. "During my first three weeks here, the system flagged me fourteen times for 'unusual stress patterns.' Turns out it was just *normal teenage anxiety*. The machines are very thorough. Sometimes pathologically so."
"Sounds like the mutant version of a helicopter parent," Peter muttered.
"Accurate," Jean agreed.
Daphne, still standing near the window like she'd been posed there by a fashion photographer, glanced back at them. "Still, it's rather comforting to know the systems are watching. Most hospitals aren't equipped to handle patients who can accidentally freeze surgical tools or magnetize the operating table. At least here, we don't have to worry about setting off every metal detector in a ten-mile radius just by existing."
May had circled back to the nearest medical bed, her professional brain clearly running overtime. "The diagnostic resolution on this thing must be *insane*," she murmured, almost to herself. "Cellular activity monitoring, real-time blood chemistry analysis, neural pathway mapping... Professor, if this technology ever went public, it could revolutionize healthcare. Early disease detection, precision treatment, personalized medicine—"
"All true," Xavier said gently. "And all reasons why we must be extraordinarily careful about how—and if—such technology is shared. The potential for misuse is significant."
"Translation," Peter whispered to Bond, "people would definitely weaponize this."
**"Humans have an unfortunate tendency to weaponize everything,"** Bond agreed grimly. **"Even healing."**
"Cheerful thought."
Before Peter could say anything else, Hank suddenly straightened, his yellow eyes brightening with the kind of wild enthusiasm that usually preceded either a breakthrough discovery or a minor explosion.
"Charles," he said, turning to Xavier with barely contained excitement. "We need to hire this woman."
Xavier blinked. "Hank—"
"No, no, hear me out." Hank started pacing, his massive frame somehow managing not to knock over any of the delicate equipment. "You've been saying for *years* that we need proper medical staff. Someone who can handle actual patient care while I focus on research. Mrs. Parker is *perfect*."
He gestured emphatically, nearly clipping a hovering monitor. "She's got the technical knowledge, the practical experience, *and*—most importantly—the ability to adapt when the patient's condition includes 'accidentally phased through three walls' or 'got stuck in a time loop.'"
"I'm sorry," May said faintly. "Did you say *time loop*?"
"Twice," Susan said. "It was very confusing for everyone involved."
Hank ignored the interruption, fully committed to his pitch now. "With a trained medical professional on staff, I could finally focus on developing treatments for mutant-specific conditions rather than spending my time reattaching limbs, treating plasma burns, or explaining to students why licking experimental chemicals is *not* a valid scientific methodology."
"That happened?" May asked.
"*Twice*," Jean said. "Different students, same horrible judgment."
"With respect, Dr. McCoy—Hank—I appreciate the offer, but I have a job," May said, though her tone suggested she was at least *considering* it. "And a home. And, you know, a *life* in Queens that mostly involves making sure my nephew doesn't get himself killed in his spare time. Which is apparently harder now that his extracurriculars involve fighting crime as *Spider-Man*."
"We could provide housing," Hank said immediately, like he'd been waiting for exactly this objection. "The Institute offers private staff apartments with full amenities. Your commute would be approximately forty feet. You'd never have to deal with New York traffic again."
"That alone is tempting," May admitted.
"Competitive salary," Xavier added smoothly, clearly joining Hank's impromptu recruitment campaign. "Full benefits, comprehensive health insurance—though somewhat redundant given our facilities—retirement plan, and, most importantly, the satisfaction of helping young people who desperately need someone with your level of compassion and competence."
Harry pushed off from the console he'd been leaning against, grinning. "Plus, you'd be close to Peter. You could make sure he eats actual food instead of surviving on protein bars and coffee. You could monitor his sleep schedule, make sure he's not staying up until 3 a.m. researching alien biology—"
"Symbiote biology," Peter corrected.
"—and generally prevent him from doing anything *too* stupid," Harry finished. "Basically, it's like being a dorm mom, but with higher stakes and occasional telepathic emergencies."
Jean nodded enthusiastically. "Having family nearby makes a huge difference. Harry's aunt lives on campus when he's here. It helps—you don't feel like you're facing all the weirdness alone."
"My Aunt Natasha's great," Harry agreed. "Though she's also a former Russian spy, so her parenting style is... let's say *unconventional*."
"Your aunt is a *what*?" May asked weakly.
"Long story," Harry said. "Involves the Red Room, international espionage, and a *lot* of complicated family dynamics. But the point is, having her here helps. It'd be the same for Peter."
Susan looked up from her console, her expression clinical. "However, Mrs. Parker should be aware that medical cases here can be... unconventional. Power surges, telekinetic strain injuries, spontaneous molecular disassembly, accidental invisibility that won't reverse—the list is extensive."
"Honestly?" May said slowly, and something that looked suspiciously like *excitement* flickered across her face. "That sounds kind of... *fun*?"
Everyone stared at her.
"Which probably says something deeply concerning about my mental state after twenty years in emergency medicine," May continued, "but normal injuries just don't feel *challenging* anymore. Last week, I treated three drunk college students who'd tried to recreate a YouTube stunt and failed spectacularly. It was *boring*. I actually found myself thinking, 'I wish something *interesting* would happen.'"
"Be careful what you wish for," Peter said. "You might end up treating someone whose biology rewrites itself mid-surgery."
"*Exactly*," May said, and she actually sounded *excited*. "That sounds *amazing*. Terrifying, obviously, but amazing."
Daphne smiled faintly. "Then you'll fit right in, Mrs. Parker. The Institute tends to attract people who think 'normal' is more of a suggestion than a strict requirement."
Xavier steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful but clearly pleased. "Mrs. Parker," he said warmly, "I'm not expecting an immediate answer. This would be a significant change for you, and you deserve time to consider it properly. However—"
He gestured around the medical bay with quiet pride. "—I'd like to officially offer you the position of the Institute's first full-time school nurse. You would have full authority over student medical care, access to all our facilities, and Dr. McCoy's expertise for research or mutant-specific cases. Your presence would be invaluable, deeply appreciated, and—quite frankly—would probably prevent at least five disasters per semester."
"Five *minor* disasters," Hank corrected. "The major ones are inevitable."
"That's not reassuring," May said.
"It's not meant to be," Hank replied cheerfully. "It's meant to be *honest*."
May laughed—a real, genuine laugh that made her look ten years younger. "Okay. What kind of disasters are we talking about?"
Harry's grin turned absolutely *wicked*. "Well, last week, three students got into an argument about whose powers were cooler. It escalated. Two of them ended up magnetically glued together—like, *actually fused* at the shoulder—and one got stuck invisible."
"Stuck... invisible," May repeated.
"Couldn't figure out how to turn it off," Jean explained. "We had to triangulate his position by having him hold objects. It took two hours and a lot of trial and error."
"Before that," Susan added, "someone miscalculated their teleportation coordinates and ended up with their arm *inside* a wall. Just the arm. The rest of them was fine."
"How is that even *possible*?" May asked.
"Quantum mechanics," Susan said, like that explained everything.
"It took us an hour to extract him without demolishing half the building," Hank said. "And another hour to explain why precise spatial awareness is *critical* when manipulating reality."
"And don't even get me started on Quidditch injuries," Jean said, shaking her head.
"Yes," Harry said proudly. "Who doesn't like flying fifty feet in the air while being attacked by enchanted sports equipment? We've had broken bones, concussions, and what Hank diplomatically calls 'impact-related dignity issues.'"
"Someone crashed into the goalposts at forty miles per hour," Susan said flatly. "Broke three ribs and his broom. Hank fixed the ribs. The broom was a total loss."
"Another student tried a complex aerial maneuver, miscalculated, and collided with another player," Daphne added. "Both of them fell. Thankfully, Harry caught them before they hit the ground."
"Define 'caught,'" Harry said.
"You used a Slowing Charm."
"Oh. Right. Yes, I did do that."
May pressed both hands to her face. "Okay. Let me make sure I understand. My nephew is attending a school where students can teleport into walls, magnetically fuse to each other, get stuck invisible, *and* play a flying contact sport that regularly results in mid-air collisions."
"Don't forget the spontaneous combustion," Peter added helpfully.
"Or the time someone accidentally turned themselves into a tree," Jean said.
"A *tree*?" May's voice climbed an octave.
"A very small tree," Hank clarified. "More of a shrub, really. We reversed it within the hour."
"Though he did have leaves for a week afterward," Susan said.
May slowly lowered her hands. "Professor Xavier," she said, her voice remarkably steady, "I think I need a little time to process all of this."
"Of course," Xavier said, his smile understanding. "Take all the time you need. The offer will remain open."
"But seriously," Hank said, leaning forward with puppydog eyes that should *not* have been possible on a seven-foot-tall blue mutant, "please consider it. I would *love* to work with someone who understands that 'don't do that' is medical advice, not a *suggestion*."
"Most of our students treat safety warnings as a challenge," Daphne said.
"They really do," Jean agreed.
May looked around the medical bay again—at the hovering beds, the holographic displays, the state-of-the-art technology that could save lives and revolutionize medicine. Then she looked at Peter, who was watching her with that hopeful expression he'd perfected as a kid.
"Can I give you an answer after Christmas?" she asked finally. "I'd like time to think. Talk to Peter when we're not surrounded by—" She gestured vaguely at the glowing monitors and Harry's *very* amused expression. "—all of *this*."
"Of course," Xavier said warmly. "Though I should mention, Hank has an uncanny ability to identify people who belong here. He's rarely wrong."
"It's pattern recognition and psychological profiling, Charles," Hank said. "Not magic. Just observation, instinct, and years of experience predicting who won't run screaming when confronted with the extraordinary."
"Genius and instinct," Xavier translated.
May laughed, shaking her head. "Alright. I'll think about it. *Seriously*." She turned to Peter. "Now, someone mentioned a cafeteria. I want to see what kind of food my nephew would be getting. Because teenage boys with spider DNA and alien metabolism probably need more than pizza and soda."
**"The maternal figure exhibits excellent understanding of our nutritional requirements,"** Bond announced proudly in Peter's head. **"We fully endorse her involvement in meal oversight."**
"Bond says he's thrilled," Peter translated. "Apparently, you just became his favorite person."
"I'm everyone's favorite person today," May muttered. "The alien—"
"Symbiote."
"—*symbiote* wants me for meal planning, the doctors want me for medical supervision, and I just wanted to visit a school." She paused. "This is the weirdest Friday of my life, and I once treated a guy who'd superglued his hand to a subway pole on a dare."
"Why?" Harry asked.
"He lost the bet," May said. "And most of his dignity."
As the group started moving toward the exit, Harry fell into step beside May, his usual humor giving way to something quieter and more sincere. "For what it's worth, Mrs. Parker," he said softly, "you'd be incredible here. Peter needs someone who understands both sides of his life—the normal and the extraordinary. Honestly? So do the rest of us."
May looked at him for a long moment, then smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "You're a good friend to Peter, Harry. Thank you for watching out for him."
Harry shrugged, his grin returning. "That's what friends are for. Besides, someone has to make sure he doesn't do anything *too* stupid."
"Hey!" Peter protested.
"Case in point," Harry said.
As they walked through the halls toward the cafeteria, past students and staff who greeted them with varying degrees of curiosity and warmth, May Parker realized something both terrifying and exhilarating:
She was actually *considering* this.
Uprooting her entire life. Moving to Westchester. Working at a school for teenagers with superpowers.
And the truly scary part?
It actually sounded like a *good idea*.
Which probably said something deeply concerning about her mental state after twenty years of emergency medicine.
But right now, walking beside her nephew—who was bonded with an alien symbiote and making friends with teenage wizards and mutants—it felt less like a mid-life crisis and more like an opportunity.
Maybe even an adventure.
*God help me*, May thought.
And then, surprising even herself:
*I think I might actually do this*.
—
# Xavier Institute — Cafeteria — 10:45 AM
The cafeteria looked less like a school dining hall and more like someone had crossed a high-end restaurant with a tech startup's break room and then sprinkled in just enough chaos to keep things interesting. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with natural light, modern furniture was arranged in casual clusters that encouraged mingling, and the smell of fresh coffee, bacon, and something that might have been cinnamon rolls hung in the air like a promise.
It was also *loud*.
Twenty-four teenagers with superpowers, magical abilities, and varying levels of impulse control had created a symphony of noise that would have given most teachers migraines. Conversations overlapped, laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and somewhere near the back, someone was apparently having a very passionate debate about Quidditch statistics versus baseball analytics.
May Parker stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene with the kind of careful assessment she usually reserved for overcrowded emergency rooms on Friday nights.
"This is a cafeteria," she said slowly. "You have a cafeteria that looks like it belongs in a Silicon Valley startup."
"Professor Xavier believes in creating comfortable communal spaces," Jean said, clearly pleased by May's reaction. "He says good food and good company are essential for building community."
"Also, teenagers eat like locusts," Harry added. "So you need infrastructure that can handle mass consumption without complete collapse."
**"The young Potter speaks truth,"** Bond rumbled in Peter's head. **"Adolescent metabolism combined with enhanced abilities requires substantial caloric intake. We approve of institutions that prioritize proper nutrition."**
"Bond's excited about the food options," Peter translated. "Which is his way of saying 'feed me or I'll start making suggestions about alternative protein sources.'"
"We've discussed this," May said firmly, not even looking at him. "No eating people."
"I keep *telling* him that!"
At the nearest cluster of tables, the MageX contingent had established what could only be described as organized chaos. The Weasley twins occupied prime real estate near the food stations—strategic positioning that suggested years of practice at optimizing access to snacks while maintaining conversation with the maximum number of people.
Fred was gesturing enthusiastically with a piece of toast, crumbs flying in all directions. "I'm telling you, George, if we modified the basic Puking Pastille formula to include—"
"Absolutely not," Hermione interrupted without looking up from her book. She'd somehow managed to find a thick academic tome titled *Advanced Theoretical Applications of Transfiguration* and was reading it while simultaneously eating breakfast and apparently listening to every conversation within twenty feet. "Whatever you're about to suggest involves either property damage, bodily harm, or both. The answer is no."
"We haven't even finished explaining!" George protested.
"You said 'modified' and 'formula' in the same sentence," Hermione replied, turning a page. "That's sufficient for preemptive veto."
"She's not wrong," Ron said through a mouthful of eggs. His plate looked less like breakfast and more like someone had challenged him to eat one of everything available. "Last time you two 'modified' something, we had to evacuate the common room for three hours."
"That was *one time*," Fred said.
"It was four times," Percy corrected from across the table, where he was methodically working through his own breakfast with the kind of precise organization that suggested he'd calculated optimal nutritional intake. His plate was divided into geometric sections—proteins, carbohydrates, fruits, and vegetables all carefully portioned. "I documented each incident. Would you like me to provide dates and detailed descriptions?"
"Please don't," Ginny said, rolling her eyes while spreading jam on her scone with more force than strictly necessary. "It's too early for Percy's incident reports."
"It's nearly eleven," Percy pointed out.
"Still too early."
At the next table, Cedric Diggory was having what appeared to be a very serious discussion with Cho Chang about flying techniques, though his gestures suggested he was also trying to subtly show off his athletic prowess. His enhanced physicality—courtesy of his Badger abilities—made even casual movements look like they'd been choreographed by professionals.
"The key is maintaining speed through the turn," Cedric was saying, his hands moving to demonstrate angles and trajectories. "If you slow down too much, you lose momentum and give your opponent time to adjust."
"Except when you're flying against someone with better reflexes," Cho countered, her dark eyes sharp with competitive analysis. "Then speed becomes less important than unpredictability. You need to vary your patterns, keep them guessing."
"Both valid points," Tracey Davis called from where she was lounging with Hannah Abbott, both of them looking like they'd just rolled out of bed and decided that breakfast didn't require actual effort beyond grabbing coffee and pastries. "Though personally, I prefer the 'fly fast enough that if you crash, at least it's impressive' methodology."
"That's not a methodology," Hannah said fondly. "That's just recklessness with good publicity."
"Same thing."
Neville Longbottom sat slightly apart from the main group, but his presence was impossible to ignore. Even sitting still, he radiated the kind of quiet strength that came from enhanced abilities combined with years of building confidence despite early setbacks. His Thorn symbiote was apparently making suggestions about the botanical composition of his breakfast, because he kept having what looked like internal conversations with himself.
"The orange juice is *fine*, Thorn," Neville muttered. "It's from actual oranges, not synthetic additives. You don't need to analyze every beverage for potential toxins."
Luna Lovegood, seated beside him, looked up from her own breakfast with dreamy interest. "Your symbiote worries about poison? How thoughtful. Mine mostly comments on the spiritual resonance of different foods. Apparently, scrambled eggs have very chaotic energy."
"That's... actually kind of accurate," Neville admitted.
---
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