The battle was still raging on the Manhattan rooftop, but Harry Potter was pretty sure they'd accidentally stumbled into the universe's most dangerous group therapy session. Which, considering his track record with accidentally stumbling into life-threatening situations that somehow always involved either ancient prophecies, evil wizards, or interdimensional monsters with anger management issues, was really saying something.
What had started as four superpowered teenagers trying to wrestle a corrupted Spider-Man into submission without accidentally turning him into spider-flavored pancake batter had somehow evolved into having what could generously be called a "deep conversation" with a seven-foot alien sludge monster. The creature looked like it had crawled out of humanity's collective nightmares, enrolled in Advanced Carnage University with a double major in Eating People's Faces and Interpretive Violence, and was now working on its PhD in Making Everyone's Life Significantly More Complicated.
Harry ducked under a slash of razor-sharp claws that could've opened a Sherman tank like a sardine can, his Crimson-and-Gold Symbiote armor gleaming under the city lights like something out of a really expensive superhero movie with an unlimited special effects budget and surprisingly good lighting direction. Years of Quidditch training and way too many life-or-death situations had given him the kind of athletic grace that would've made Olympic gymnasts weep with envy, while simultaneously making their insurance companies very nervous about liability coverage.
His voice carried that particular mix of authority, sarcasm, and barely-contained chaos that had become his trademark—the tone of someone who definitely hadn't signed up to be a superhero leader but kept getting elected to the position anyway, probably because he was the only one crazy enough to accept the job description that included "may involve alien parasites" and "dental coverage not included."
"Alright, listen up, Goopy McStabface," Harry called out, magic charging in his gauntlets with an ominous whine that made the air taste like ozone and impending violence, with just a hint of that metallic flavor you get right before lightning strikes or your dentist starts drilling. "Here's the deal, and I'm only gonna explain this once because frankly, I've got dinner plans, some homework to do tomorrow that I'm definitely not going to be able to do, and my aunt will literally murder me if I miss curfew again. We're going to help both of you—yes, both of you, because apparently we're running a supernatural relationship counseling service now with a specialization in interspecies communication disorders. But first? First, we need the symbiote to stop eating Spider-Man's personality like it's an all-you-can-eat buffet at Golden Corral during senior citizen discount hour."
*"We particularly enjoy the Golden Corral reference,"* Marauder purred in Harry's mind, his mental voice carrying all the velvet sophistication of a British professor discussing fine wine while simultaneously grading papers and planning world domination. *"Most amusing. Though I suspect our gelatinous friend lacks the cultural context to appreciate the comparison. Perhaps we should have used McDonald's? Or possibly Taco Bell, considering the digestive implications?"*
"McDonald's doesn't have a buffet, Marauder," Harry replied mentally while physically spinning away from another tentacle swipe that left gouges in the concrete deep enough to plant small trees. "And we're not discussing Taco Bell's digestive implications during a fight. That's just unsanitary."
*"Precisely my point. The metaphor becomes more effective through accuracy. Also, I find your concern for hygiene during combat rather endearing. Very practical of you."*
"I try to maintain standards, even while getting attacked by alien goo monsters. It's called professionalism."
*"Indeed. Though I should point out that technically, we are also an alien goo monster. Just significantly more sophisticated and with better taste in literature."*
The black substance rippled and twisted, tentacles writhing like angry snakes having an existential crisis about their career choices. It actually paused mid-attack, which was deeply unsettling, because in Harry's experience, homicidal alien monsters usually didn't stop mid-rampage to consider your critique of their life choices. They usually just kept trying to murder you while discussing the weather.
"Eat... personality?" the symbiote echoed, its voice still roughly fifty percent nightmare fuel but now sounding more like an alien exchange student trying to process incredibly confusing homework instructions written by someone who'd clearly never heard of punctuation or logical sentence structure. The voice was gravelly, dangerous, but tinged with genuine confusion—like someone trying to explain quantum physics while gargling gravel and feeling slightly offended by the entire conversation. "We do not consume consciousness. We enhance. We improve. We make *stronger*. Like protein supplements, but for personality development and general life optimization."
Jean Grey stepped forward, her red hair whipping around her face like she was starring in her own personal shampoo commercial—except instead of bouncy curls promising manageable hair, she had cosmic fire dancing behind emerald eyes that could probably see through your soul and judge your browser history, your Netflix viewing habits, and that embarrassing thing you did in third grade. When she spoke, her voice carried the kind of authority that came from being able to read minds, occasionally blow things up with her brain, and still manage to look absolutely stunning while doing both simultaneously.
"Yeah, sure," Jean said, crossing her arms with the kind of skeptical expression that could wither houseplants, make politicians reconsider their life choices, and cause stock markets to crash purely through the power of concentrated disapproval. "By bulldozing over everything that makes him Spider-Man. That's not enhancement, genius. That's identity theft with extra steps and significantly more tentacles. Which, fun fact, is still a federal crime on this planet. I checked. Extensively. Phoenix keeps surprisingly detailed files on Earth's legal systems."
*"When did you check?"* Harry asked, genuinely curious as he deflected another swipe of razor-sharp claws with his gauntlets, the impact sending sparks flying across the rooftop like the world's most dangerous fireworks display.
"Phoenix keeps extensive files on Earth's legal systems," Jean replied with a slight smirk that could've launched a thousand ships and probably caused several international incidents. "Apparently cosmic entities are very thorough about paperwork. Who knew that beings of infinite cosmic power were also really good at bureaucracy?"
*"Of course we are,"* Phoenix added in Jean's mind, her mental voice carrying the gravitas of someone who'd witnessed the birth and death of galaxies and still remembered to file the proper documentation in triplicate. *"One does not reshape reality without proper forms in triplicate. The cosmic bureaucracy is surprisingly efficient. We have to be—do you know how many planets there are? The paperwork is astronomical. Literally."*
"That was a terrible pun," Jean replied mentally while physically creating a telekinetic barrier that sparkled like diamond dust.
*"I've had eons to work on my material. I'm quite proud of that one."*
Susan Bones flicked her wand with the precision of a master conductor leading the London Symphony Orchestra through the most complicated musical arrangement ever written, dissolving another glob of acidic webbing into harmless rainbow sparkles that would've looked perfectly at home in a Disney movie, assuming Disney made movies about alien parasite therapy and interdimensional relationship counseling. Her voice carried the kind of clinical precision that made you feel like you were failing a pop quiz you hadn't studied for, while simultaneously making you want to take notes because clearly she knew exactly what she was talking about and had probably already written the textbook.
"The fundamental issue is quite straightforward," Susan said, her tone suggesting she was explaining basic multiplication to a particularly slow kindergartener who kept trying to eat the chalk and somehow still getting the wrong answers. "Your species appears to confuse cooperation with consumption. Humans, however, require individual identity *plus* collaborative teamwork. It's basic psychology, really. Otherwise it's not a partnership—it's a dictatorship with extra steps, significantly more tentacles, and a really unfortunate tendency toward personality absorption."
*"The child speaks wisdom beyond her years,"* Veritas whispered approvingly in Susan's mind, her mental voice carrying the warm authority of someone who'd spent centuries studying the fundamental nature of truth and still found humans fascinating despite their tendency to complicate everything unnecessarily. *"This symbiote operates under a fundamentally flawed paradigm. Quite fascinating from an anthropological perspective. I should take notes."*
"You're always taking notes," Susan replied mentally while casting a spell that turned another tentacle attack into harmless soap bubbles.
*"Knowledge must be preserved! How else will future generations learn from our mistakes? Also, this would make an excellent case study for my research on interspecies communication failures."*
"Translation for those who don't speak Academic," Harry added with a grin that could've powered Times Square during a blackout and possibly solved New York's energy crisis permanently, "you're basically the clingy roommate who 'borrows' someone's stuff and never gives it back. Except instead of stealing hoodies and leftover pizza, you're jacking his entire personality. Which, by the way, zero stars on Yelp, would definitely not recommend to a friend, probably violates several tenant rights laws, and is almost certainly against the Geneva Convention. Also, I'm pretty sure there's a Hallmark card for this situation, and it's not a nice one."
The symbiote's form shifted, tendrils writhing in what might have been confusion or possibly alien constipation. It was genuinely hard to tell with cosmic horror monsters, because their body language was basically indecipherable unless you had a PhD in Xenobiology and a really good insurance plan that covered therapy for PTSD related to tentacle-based trauma.
"We... borrow?" the symbiote asked, sounding like someone trying to process the concept of library late fees while simultaneously gargling marbles and feeling slightly offended by the entire concept of returning things you've borrowed.
*"Oh, this is absolutely fascinating,"* Marauder murmured in Harry's head with the kind of intellectual delight that suggested he was already drafting a research paper titled 'Interspecies Communication Failures and Their Catastrophic Consequences: A Comprehensive Analysis with Footnotes.' *"It genuinely believes it's providing a service. This isn't malice—it's a catastrophic failure of cross-cultural communication combined with a fundamental misunderstanding of human psychology. Educational intervention may succeed where violence cannot. How delightfully unexpected and academically stimulating."*
Harry's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline like they were trying to escape his forehead entirely. "Educational intervention? Look at that, guys, we're officially guidance counselors now. Next thing you know, we'll be running after-school programs for homicidal aliens. 'Conflict Resolution 101: How to Not Eat Your Host's Brain' with a follow-up seminar on 'Healthy Boundaries in Parasitic Relationships' and maybe a weekend workshop on 'Communication Skills for Interdimensional Beings with Attachment Issues.'"
*"I would absolutely attend such a seminar,"* Marauder added thoughtfully. *"The curriculum possibilities are endless. Perhaps we could offer continuing education credits? I believe there's quite a market for this sort of thing in the supernatural community."*
"Are you seriously thinking about starting a business right now?" Harry asked while dodging another swipe of claws.
*"Multi-tasking is one of my many talents. Also, I believe the correct term is 'entrepreneurial thinking.' Very American of me, really."*
Daphne Greengrass moved with the fluid grace of a professional ballet dancer who'd been cross-trained by international assassins and possibly a few Olympic gymnasts with really impressive health insurance, her frost magic creating elegant spirals across the rooftop that looked more like abstract art than the usual death traps that most people associated with ice powers. She looked like she'd walked straight out of a Vogue photo shoot—if Vogue occasionally featured models who could freeze your blood while looking absolutely flawless and somehow making homicidal ice magic seem like the latest fashion trend from Paris.
"If you genuinely wish to remain," Daphne said, her voice carrying the kind of aristocratic authority that suggested she'd been born giving orders to minor European royalty and had never stopped being absolutely right about everything, even when discussing the weather or alien parasite psychology, "then you must learn. No more 'optimizing' Spider-Man into something else entirely. He is who he is—neurotic, chatty, inexplicably fond of terrible jokes that make everyone groan, and somehow still managing to save the world on a regular basis despite his apparent inability to arrive anywhere on time. Either accept that delightful mess of a human being, or crawl back to whatever cosmic sewer spawned your entire species."
*"Direct and effective,"* Chione purred approvingly in Daphne's mind, her mental voice carrying the regal bearing of someone who'd once commanded winter storms and still expected absolute obedience from snowflakes, sleet, and the occasional blizzard. *"Though perhaps we could have phrased it with slightly more... diplomatic finesse. Just a suggestion from someone with centuries of experience in international relations."*
"Diplomacy is overrated when dealing with alien parasites who think personality theft is a valid life improvement strategy," Daphne replied mentally while physically creating an ice barrier that looked like it belonged in the Museum of Modern Art. "Sometimes you need to speak their language. Which is apparently violence, brutal honesty, and the occasional threat of banishment to cosmic sewers."
*"Fair point. Though I do appreciate your commitment to aesthetic excellence, even during combat situations. Very professional of you."*
The black substance hesitated, rippling like oil on water during a particularly intense earthquake that had been caused by underground explosions and possibly a few interdimensional incidents involving questionable scientific experiments. Slowly—like it was fighting itself through some kind of internal alien debate that probably involved a lot of tentacle-waving, existential angst, and possibly a PowerPoint presentation about the pros and cons of personality absorption—it began peeling back, exposing more of Peter Parker's face.
He looked exhausted, terrified, and somehow still ready to crack jokes while being slowly consumed by an alien parasite that had serious boundary issues. Which was, honestly, the most Spider-Man thing possible, considering his track record with handling impossible situations through the power of inappropriate humor and chronic anxiety.
"So," Peter croaked, his voice weak but still managing that trademark Spider-Man smirk that had gotten him into and out of more trouble than any teenager should reasonably handle in twelve lifetimes, possibly thirteen if you counted the time he accidentally saved the universe while trying to return a library book, "anybody know a good therapist who specializes in alien relationship counseling? Asking for a friend. Who may or may not be me. Definitely me. It's totally me. Also, does anyone have health insurance that covers this? Because I'm pretty sure 'alien parasite therapy' isn't in my plan's covered services, and my aunt is going to kill me if she finds out I've been possessed by an interdimensional goo monster without proper medical coverage."
Harry's grin could've powered a small city during peak summer energy usage and possibly solved the national debt through sheer wattage alone. "Actually, web-head, we know a guy. Ever heard of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters? Think Hogwarts, but with more spandex, fewer moving staircases, significantly more professors who can read your mind without asking permission first, and a surprisingly good cafeteria that serves actual food instead of whatever the house-elves think passes for nutrition."
"Also considerably less chance of dying horribly during the school year," Susan added helpfully, because Susan was always helpful, even when discussing mortality statistics and educational opportunities simultaneously.
*"Statistically speaking, of course,"* Veritas corrected in Susan's mind with the precision of someone who'd done the actual mathematical analysis and probably created several spreadsheets with really impressive charts and graphs.
"*Significantly* less chance," Susan amended without missing a beat, because accuracy was important when discussing life-threatening educational opportunities.
"We... could learn?" the symbiote asked, and for the first time since this entire mess had started, its voice carried something that might have been hope instead of barely-contained hunger for human flesh, general mayhem, and possibly some light property destruction.
"Everyone can learn," Jean said, her tone warming like she was talking to a lost puppy instead of an alien horror show that had recently tried to dissolve half of Manhattan and probably traumatize several pigeons, "That's literally the point of school. Well, that and learning how to control your powers so you don't accidentally level a city block during a bad mood, a pop quiz you didn't study for, or when the cafeteria runs out of pizza during lunch hour."
"Speaking from experience?" Peter asked weakly, because Spider-Man could never resist poking at potentially dangerous topics, even when he was being slowly consumed by an alien parasite with commitment issues.
"We all are," Harry, Jean, Susan, and Daphne said in perfect unison, which was either telepathic coordination or just the result of having way too much experience with superpowered disasters and really bad timing.
*"Probably both,"* all four symbiotes added simultaneously in their hosts' minds, because apparently cosmic entities also appreciated good timing and group coordination.
---
Twenty minutes later—after some seriously awkward negotiations that included Harry having to physically restrain Peter's symbiote from turning an innocent pigeon into lunch ("It was *one* pigeon!" the symbiote protested with all the dignity of someone defending their dietary choices. "That's one pigeon too many!" Harry shot back, because apparently he had very strong feelings about New York wildlife preservation. "We have rules about eating city animals! There are health codes! Regulations! Probably several federal laws!")—the group was rooftop-hopping across Manhattan toward Westchester like the world's most dysfunctional superhero parade with really good coordination and surprisingly effective teamwork.
Yes, the symbiote had picked a new name. Apparently "Venom" was too aggressive for its new leaf-turning-over lifestyle, so it had decided on "Bond." Harry suspected it had been influenced by Susan's extensive James Bond movie collection and her tendency to quote action movies during stressful situations, but he wasn't about to complain. Bond was significantly less terrifying than Venom, even if it still occasionally sprouted fangs when excited about something interesting, like good food or effective combat strategies.
Peter's suit was still black and white, but the angry spikes had smoothed out into something that looked more "sleek alien technology designed by someone with good taste" and less "nightmare creature from the depths of space hell with anger management issues." The fangs had been downgraded from "fuel for night terrors and therapy sessions" to "Halloween store chic with surprisingly good dental work," and the overall vibe had shifted from "run for your life immediately and never look back" to "slightly concerning but probably manageable with proper supervision and maybe some therapy."
"So let me get this straight," Peter said between web swings, his voice carrying that particular mixture of disbelief, admiration, and *I-can't-believe-I'm-saying-this-out-loud-but-here-we-are* that had become his default setting when dealing with impossible situations that defied logic and probably violated several laws of physics, "you four bonded with alien goo in, what, twelve hours? And now you're already the poster children for healthy interspecies relationships with really good communication skills? Meanwhile, my guy here thought emotional support meant 'let's eat your personality and wear you like a fashionable meat puppet with web-shooters and possibly some light cannibalism on the side.'"
"To be entirely fair," Harry said, flying alongside him with the kind of casual confidence that came from wearing a suit of armor powered by alien technology, years of practice not dying horribly, and a really good insurance policy that covered interdimensional incidents, "our symbiotes had a significant head start in the whole 'being decent roommates who don't eat your personality' department. Yours learned social skills from a species that apparently communicates exclusively through attempted murder, interpretive violence, and possibly some really aggressive group therapy sessions."
*"A gross oversimplification, but not entirely inaccurate,"* Marauder observed with the tone of someone delivering a university lecture on xenobiology while simultaneously grading papers and planning the syllabus for Advanced Interspecies Relations 401. *"The Klyntar have a rather limited cultural framework for understanding individual autonomy. It's quite fascinating from an anthropological perspective, though admittedly problematic from a practical standpoint. I should write a paper about this. Several papers, actually."*
"Are you seriously thinking about academic publications right now?" Harry asked while performing an aerial maneuver that probably violated several aviation regulations.
*"Multi-tasking, my dear host. Also, this could be groundbreaking research. Think of the citations! The peer reviews! The academic conferences!"*
"We are... learning," Bond said suddenly, its voice now carrying genuine curiosity instead of barely-contained hunger for chaos, human flesh, and general destruction of public property. "Human cooperation concepts are... complex. But potentially superior to consumption-based advancement strategies. Much more... sustainable. Also less likely to result in criminal charges and angry government agencies."
"See?" Jean said, her tone warm enough to toast marshmallows and make everyone feel like they were getting a hug from their favorite aunt who also happened to have cosmic powers and really good hair, "Progress already. By the time Professor Xavier is done with you two, you'll be the gold standard for interspecies therapy. Maybe we can get you on a talk show. Because I feel like this would make great television, assuming we can get the proper legal clearances and maybe some really good insurance coverage."
"Do they still do Oprah?" Susan asked, genuinely curious about the current state of daytime television and media coverage of superhero-related incidents.
*"The cultural reference remains valid,"* Veritas confirmed with the accuracy of someone who maintained extensive files on pop culture trends, television programming, and the sociological implications of celebrity talk shows. *"Though the probability of actual television appearances is approximately 0.0001 percent, accounting for various factors including public safety concerns, Federal Communications Commission regulations, and the tendency of superhero-related media appearances to result in property damage and lawsuits."*
"So you're saying there's a chance," Harry said with a grin that suggested he was already planning their media tour and possibly designing merchandise.
*"Technically, yes. Though I should point out that the same statistical probability applies to spontaneous lottery wins and alien invasion during tea time."*
"I like those odds," Harry replied, because apparently he had very optimistic views about statistical probability and media opportunities.
"Okay, legitimate question," Peter said as the Xavier mansion grounds came into view, all gothic spires and perfectly manicured lawns that screamed 'expensive private school with a superhero budget, excellent landscaping, and probably really good Wi-Fi,' "exactly how many rules are we breaking by showing up unannounced with an alien goo monster that may have tried to dissolve a shopping mall earlier today, possibly terrorized some pigeons, and definitely caused several traffic violations during our trip across Manhattan?"
"Sixteen," Susan answered instantly, because of course she had the exact number ready and probably a detailed breakdown by category and severity level. Susan always had statistics ready. It was like her superpower, except more useful in everyday situations than most actual superpowers and significantly less likely to result in property damage. "Possibly seventeen if Professor Xavier counts property damage to public infrastructure as a separate violation, which he usually does because he's very thorough about these things."
*"Nineteen if we include the pigeon incident,"* Veritas added helpfully, because cosmic entities apparently kept detailed records of minor bird-related infractions and probably had a whole filing system devoted to wildlife protection violations.
"Nobody talks about the pigeon incident," Harry said quickly, with the tone of someone who definitely didn't want to explain why they had to prevent an alien symbiote from eating New York City wildlife during what was supposed to be a simple superhero rescue mission.
"What pigeon incident?" Peter asked suspiciously, because Spider-Man's curiosity was apparently stronger than his survival instincts and his ability to recognize when he probably didn't want to know the answer.
"*Exactly,*" Harry, Jean, Susan, and Daphne said in unison, which was definitely planned coordination this time and possibly some light telepathic interference to avoid awkward explanations about interdimensional bird protection protocols.
"Relax, Spider-Boy," Daphne said, landing on the mansion's front steps with the kind of effortless grace that made everyone else look like they were still figuring out how gravity worked, whether it was optional, and possibly how to apply for an exemption, "if Professor Xavier can handle Logan's daily temper tantrums, Scott's chronic boy scout syndrome, Storm's weather-related mood swings that occasionally result in indoor precipitation, and Jean's occasional cosmic entity possession with reality-altering side effects, he can definitely handle one symbiote with attachment issues, boundary problems, and a newfound interest in educational opportunities."
*"Occasionally?"* Phoenix asked in Jean's mind, sounding distinctly offended by the statistical minimization of her cosmic intervention frequency.
"Frequently," Jean corrected mentally while physically sticking the landing like an Olympic gymnast with superpowers and really good health insurance. "But 'occasionally' sounds less alarming to potential students and their parents, who are already nervous about the whole 'superpowered teenagers learning to control reality-altering abilities' thing."
*"Fair point. Public relations are important when you're running a school for gifted youngsters who can accidentally level buildings during pop quizzes."*
Harry touched down last, his armor gleaming under the winter moonlight like something out of a really expensive superhero movie with an unlimited special effects budget and surprisingly good costume design. He looked at Peter with the kind of grin that suggested he'd just successfully recruited Spider-Man for both the Avengers and the debate team, possibly with some light coercion involving really good health insurance and a meal plan that didn't involve ramen noodles.
"Welcome to the family, web-slinger," Harry said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that somehow managed to be both welcoming and slightly theatrical, like he was hosting his own personal superhero reality show with really good ratings and excellent viewer demographics, "We specialize in complicated situations, impossible odds, making it up as we go along, and somehow managing to save the world without failing our midterm exams. Also, we're surprisingly good at keeping everyone alive, despite statistical evidence to the contrary and some really concerning incident reports."
For the first time that night, Peter actually laughed. A real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than his usual wise-cracking defense mechanisms, chronic anxiety, and tendency to make inappropriate jokes during life-threatening situations. "Good thing I like complicated. Comes with the territory when you're a teenage superhero with commitment issues, a secret identity that's getting harder to maintain, and a really judgmental aunt who's starting to ask uncomfortable questions about why I come home covered in mysterious substances and smelling like industrial chemicals."
*"We do not have commitment issues,"* Bond protested with all the dignity of someone defending their therapeutic progress and personal growth achievements. *"We have... difficulty with boundaries and personal space concepts. It's completely different. More of a cultural misunderstanding than a psychological disorder."*
"Same thing," Peter, Harry, Jean, Susan, and Daphne said in unison, because apparently they'd formed some kind of collective consciousness when it came to calling out relationship problems and alien psychology issues.
*"They make an excellent point,"* all four symbiotes added simultaneously, because even cosmic entities recognized good therapeutic insights when they heard them.
Behind them, the mansion's windows glowed with warm, welcoming light, promising sanctuary, proper training, three meals a day that didn't consist entirely of pizza and energy drinks, and quite possibly a crash course in "Alien Symbiotes 101: How to Share a Body Without Eating Your Host's Personality, Their Homework, or Their Aunt's Cooking."
Because honestly? At Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, complicated was just another word for Tuesday. And if there was one thing the X-Men were good at, it was taking complicated and turning it into something resembling functional, educational, and only occasionally life-threatening.
Well. Most of the time, anyway. The success rate was surprisingly high, considering they were dealing with teenagers who could accidentally reshape reality during mood swings.
*"This should be interesting,"* Marauder mused in Harry's mind with the tone of someone anticipating a really good research project with excellent potential for peer-reviewed publications.
*"Define 'interesting,'"* Phoenix replied, because cosmic entities were apparently very concerned with precise definitions and accurate terminology.
*"Potentially catastrophic, but educational. With excellent learning opportunities and possibly some really good anecdotes for faculty meetings."*
*"Ah. Tuesday, then. Possibly Wednesday, depending on how long the paperwork takes."*
Harry grinned as they approached the front door, which was probably warded against everything from alien invasions to door-to-door salespeople with really aggressive marketing strategies and questionable product quality. "I love Tuesdays. They're never boring, they always involve some kind of interdimensional crisis, and the cafeteria usually serves decent food."
And with that profound philosophical observation about the nature of superhero education and institutional meal planning, they rang the doorbell of the most expensive superhero therapy center in New York, ready to add "alien symbiote relationship counseling with a focus on healthy communication strategies" to their already impressive list of educational services.
What could possibly go wrong?
(Narrator's note: In Harry's experience, asking "what could possibly go wrong" was basically the universe's way of accepting a challenge. But considering they'd just convinced an alien parasite to stop eating personalities and start attending therapy sessions, the odds were actually pretty good. Probably. Maybe. Well, at least they had really good health insurance.)
---
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