The first thing Harry noticed as they approached the mansion was that entirely too many lights were on for three-thirty in the morning on Christmas Day. The second thing he noticed was the distinctive silhouette of Logan standing in the window of Professor Xavier's study, his posture suggesting the kind of barely controlled fury that usually preceded lectures about responsibility, safety, and the various ways teenage mutants could get themselves spectacularly killed.
The third thing he noticed was that Logan wasn't alone.
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, his enhanced vision picking out the additional figures in the study window. "We're dead. We're absolutely, completely, thoroughly dead."
"Maybe they're just having a late-night Christmas Eve party?" Jean suggested hopefully, though her telepathic abilities were probably already picking up the emotional signatures from inside the mansion, and those signatures were likely painting a picture that had very little to do with holiday celebrations and quite a lot to do with impending doom.
"With Logan?" Daphne asked skeptically, her ice powers unconsciously responding to her rising stress levels by dropping the temperature around them several degrees. "The man who thinks 'fun' is a four-letter word and considers celebrating to be a tactical disadvantage?"
"Besides," Susan added with the kind of analytical precision that made hope seem like a mathematical impossibility, "if they were having a party, they wouldn't be standing in the window watching for us to come home from our completely unauthorized patrol that we definitely weren't supposed to be on."
"How do you know they're watching for us?" Harry asked, though he was already mentally preparing for the kind of conversation that would probably involve words like 'grounded,' 'restricted,' and 'disappointed in your life choices.'
"Because," Susan replied reasonably, "Professor Xavier is telepathic, Logan has enhanced senses that probably picked up our scents the moment we left the building, and we've been gone for four hours on Christmas Eve without telling anyone where we were going. The only question is whether they're planning to kill us quickly or draw it out for educational purposes."
"I vote for quickly," Jean said with the kind of optimism that came from dating someone whose life was basically one long string of disasters punctuated by brief moments of happiness and fast food. "Less suffering that way."
"We could try the window in my room," Harry suggested without much conviction. "Maybe if we're quiet enough—"
"Harry James Potter."
The voice that cut through the night air was female, authoritative, and carried the kind of cold fury that made Arctic winters seem tropical and welcoming. It also belonged to someone Harry had only recently learned was his aunt—his mother's twin sister who had been kidnapped at birth and sold to the Red Room, where she'd been trained to become one of the world's most dangerous assassins before defecting and eventually finding her way to the X-Men.
Natasha Romanoff stood in the mansion's main entrance, silhouetted against the warm light spilling from the hallway behind her. Even from a distance, her posture radiated the kind of deadly calm that suggested someone was about to receive a lecture that would make Logan's usual safety speeches seem like gentle suggestions about proper study habits.
"And Jean Grey, Susan Bones, and Daphne Greengrass," she continued, her voice carrying clearly across the mansion's grounds despite the fact that she wasn't shouting. That was probably some kind of spy technique designed to make her voice sound more ominous and authoritative. It was working. "Inside. Now."
"We're dead," Harry repeated, though this time his voice carried the kind of resignation that came from accepting inevitable doom and deciding to face it with as much dignity as possible. "Completely, utterly, irreversibly dead."
"At least we'll die together," Jean said, trying for romantic and achieving something closer to fatalistic.
"How comforting," Daphne muttered, but she was already moving toward the entrance with the fluid grace of someone who had been trained from birth to face unpleasant situations with poise and excellent posture.
The walk from the mansion's grounds to the front entrance felt like it took approximately seventeen years, though Harry's enhanced senses suggested it was probably closer to two minutes. Two very long, very uncomfortable minutes during which he became increasingly aware of exactly how much trouble they were in and exactly how many different ways this conversation could go wrong.
The entrance hall was warm and welcoming in the way that homes were supposed to be on Christmas morning—decorated with garlands and lights, filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon, and absolutely radiating the kind of holiday magic that made people believe in things like peace on earth and goodwill toward men.
It was also filled with four very angry adults who looked like they were considering whether peace on earth might be improved by the selective removal of certain teenage vigilantes from the general population.
Logan stood near the staircase, his arms crossed and his expression suggesting that he was mentally calculating exactly how many different ways he could express his disappointment without actually using his claws. Sirius Black was leaning against the wall with the kind of studied casualness that didn't quite hide the fact that he was probably torn between pride in his godson's initiative and terror at the risks they'd taken. Remus Lupin occupied the space near the sitting room door, his posture radiating the kind of quiet disapproval that was somehow worse than shouting.
And Natasha Romanoff stood in the center of it all like a redheaded angel of vengeance wearing comfortable sleepwear and an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River.
"Sit," she said simply, gesturing toward the couches in the sitting room.
They sat.
"Four hours," Natasha continued once they were arranged in a neat row like particularly attractive defendants awaiting sentencing. "Four hours you've been gone. On Christmas Eve. Without permission, without backup, and without telling anyone where you were going or what you were planning to do."
"We left a note," Harry said hopefully.
"'Gone out for a bit, back later' is not a note," Logan growled, his voice carrying the kind of gravelly menace that suggested his patience was hanging by a thread that was already showing signs of serious structural damage. "It's what people write when they're planning to do something stupid and don't want to be stopped."
"Which is exactly what you did," Remus added with the kind of disappointed tone that made Harry want to apologize for every poor life choice he'd ever made, up to and including the time he'd decided that being born was a good idea.
"We fought crime," Susan said, because Susan believed in honesty and probably thought that explaining their motivations would somehow make the situation better instead of significantly worse. "We prevented four different criminal incidents, saved a girl's life by paying for her surgery, and defeated an alien symbiote that was threatening the city."
The silence that followed this explanation was the kind of silence that occurred when adults were processing information that challenged their understanding of what constituted reasonable teenage behavior and coming to conclusions that involved words like 'psychiatric evaluation' and 'military school.'
"You did what now?" Sirius asked, his voice climbing several octaves and his carefully maintained casual posture beginning to show cracks.
"We were very responsible about it," Jean added quickly. "We used code names, we wore disguises, we made sure no one got seriously hurt, and we coordinated our attacks to maximize effectiveness while minimizing collateral damage."
"You coordinated your attacks," Natasha repeated slowly, her voice carrying the kind of dangerous calm that suggested someone was about to receive an advanced course in exactly why trained assassins made terrible enemies and worse disappointed relatives.
"The symbiote required a combined approach," Daphne explained, apparently deciding that if they were going to be in trouble anyway, they might as well be in trouble for the complete truth. "Heat and sound disruption to break down its biochemical cohesion, plus physical restraint to prevent it from finding a new host while it was vulnerable."
"And you determined this how, exactly?" Logan asked.
"Jean's telepathic analysis, Susan's theoretical knowledge, my practical application of cryokinetic principles, and Harry's natural talent for hitting things until they stop being a problem," Daphne replied with the kind of precision that suggested she'd already written a complete after-action report in her head.
"Natural talent for hitting things," Remus muttered, rubbing his temples like he was developing a headache that would probably last until Harry turned thirty-five and developed some semblance of common sense.
"It's a very useful talent," Harry protested. "Practically applicable in a wide variety of situations."
"Including situations where you're supposed to call for backup instead of attempting to handle alien threats by yourselves," Natasha said, her voice dropping to the kind of whisper that made people wonder if they were about to discover what it felt like to be strangled by someone who had been professionally trained in creative violence.
"We did have backup," Harry pointed out. "We met Spider-Man. He's surprisingly competent for someone who wears primary colors and has questionable taste in secret identities."
"Spider-Man," Logan repeated flatly.
"Another teenage vigilante who's been operating in New York for about two years," Susan supplied helpfully. "Appears to have enhanced strength, speed, and agility, plus web-shooters that allow for rapid urban mobility and crowd control applications. Also has some kind of precognitive danger sense and a tendency toward sarcastic commentary during combat situations."
"You analyzed another teenage vigilante," Natasha said.
"We like to be thorough," Susan replied.
"Thorough," Sirius echoed weakly, his earlier pride in Harry's initiative apparently giving way to the realization that his godson had managed to pack approximately six months' worth of poor life choices into a single evening.
"Look," Harry said, leaning forward with the kind of earnest expression that usually preceded explanations that made situations worse instead of better, "I know this seems like we were being reckless and irresponsible, but we were actually being very careful about everything. We planned our approach, we coordinated our abilities, we minimized civilian risk, and we made sure to document our methods for future reference."
"You documented your methods," Remus said faintly.
"Susan's idea," Harry said, because credit should be given where credit was due. "She thinks we should maintain detailed records of our crime-fighting techniques so we can analyze our effectiveness and improve our tactical approaches for future encounters."
"Future encounters," Logan growled.
"Well, yes," Jean said, apparently deciding that they were already in maximum trouble and additional honesty couldn't make things significantly worse. "I mean, we live in New York. There's always going to be crime, and we have the power to help people. It would be irresponsible not to use our abilities to make the city safer."
"What would be irresponsible," Natasha said with the kind of precision that suggested she had been practicing this speech in her head for the past four hours, "is four teenagers with more power than experience attempting to single-handedly solve urban crime without proper training, backup, or adult supervision."
"We have training," Daphne pointed out. "Logan's been teaching us combat techniques, Professor Xavier's been helping us develop our powers, and we've all been studying tactical theory and crisis management."
"Combat training," Logan said, his voice carrying the kind of dangerous edge that suggested his legendary patience was finally reaching its breaking point, "is not the same thing as field experience. Tactical theory is not the same thing as real-world application. And studying crisis management is not the same thing as actually managing a crisis while people's lives are at stake."
"But we did manage it," Harry said reasonably. "Successfully. No one got hurt, the criminals were apprehended, the alien threat was neutralized, and we even made a new ally who can help with future situations."
"That," Sirius said, his voice carrying the kind of exhausted resignation that came from realizing that his godson had inherited every single one of James Potter's worst character traits and several that were probably uniquely Harry's own contribution to the family legacy of poor decision-making, "is not the point."
"What is the point?" Susan asked, genuinely curious.
"The point," Natasha said, moving closer with the kind of predatory grace that made people understand why she was considered one of the world's most dangerous individuals despite being approximately five and a half feet tall and probably weighing less than most professional athletes, "is that you're children. Brilliant, powerful, extraordinarily capable children, but children nonetheless. And children—even extraordinary children—should not be attempting to solve problems that trained adults find challenging."
"We're not exactly normal children," Harry pointed out.
"No," Natasha agreed, her voice softening slightly, "you're not. Which is exactly why you need to be more careful, not less. The more power you have, the more important it becomes to use that power responsibly. And using power responsibly means recognizing when you're in over your heads and asking for help."
"We weren't in over our heads," Daphne protested. "We handled everything that came up, and we handled it well."
"This time," Logan said grimly. "What about next time, when the symbiote is bigger? Or smarter? Or when there are more of them? What about when you encounter something that doesn't respond to heat and sound? What about when you run into a problem that can't be solved by hitting it until it gives up?"
"Then we'll adapt," Harry said with the kind of confidence that made adults wonder whether teenagers were naturally suicidal or just naturally optimistic to the point of clinical delusion. "We'll figure out new approaches, develop new techniques, and find ways to solve whatever problems come up."
"And if you can't?" Remus asked quietly.
"Then we'll call for backup," Jean said. "We're not stupid. We know our limitations."
"Do you?" Natasha asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like four teenagers just went out and engaged multiple dangerous situations without considering what would happen if things went wrong. What would you have done if one of you had been seriously injured? What would you have done if the symbiote had taken one of you as a host? What would you have done if Spider-Man had turned out to be hostile instead of helpful?"
The silence that followed suggested that maybe they hadn't considered all of these possibilities as thoroughly as they probably should have.
"We would have figured something out," Harry said finally, though his voice carried less conviction than it had a few minutes earlier.
"That," Natasha said with the kind of finality that suggested the conversation was reaching its conclusion, "is exactly the problem. 'Figuring something out' is not a plan. It's what you do when your plan fails and you're out of options. And if you're going to insist on putting yourselves in dangerous situations, you need better plans than 'figure something out.'"
"So what are you saying?" Jean asked, her voice small. "That we should just ignore problems we could solve? Let people get hurt when we have the power to help them?"
"I'm saying," Natasha replied, her tone gentling slightly, "that you should work with us instead of around us. You want to help people? Good. That shows character and compassion. But help them properly. With training, with backup, with adult supervision until you're experienced enough to handle things on your own."
"We are experienced enough," Harry began, but Natasha cut him off with a look that could have stopped a charging rhinoceros.
"Harry," she said quietly, "I've been doing this for longer than you've been alive. I've seen what happens when people with good intentions and powerful abilities go into dangerous situations without proper preparation. I've seen them get hurt. I've seen them get killed. I've seen them get other people hurt and killed because they thought they were ready for something they weren't."
Her voice carried the weight of personal experience, and suddenly Harry understood that this wasn't just about rules or authority or adults wanting to control teenage behavior. This was about someone who had watched people she cared about make mistakes that couldn't be fixed.
"I don't want that to happen to you," she continued. "Any of you. Because you're family, and you're important, and the world is a better place with you in it. But that means keeping you alive long enough to become the heroes you're clearly meant to be."
"So what happens now?" Susan asked practically.
"Now," Logan said, his voice carrying the kind of grim satisfaction that suggested he'd been looking forward to this part of the conversation, "you go to bed. You get whatever sleep you can before the mansion wakes up for Christmas morning. And tomorrow, we start discussing what proper training looks like for teenagers who are determined to fight crime whether or not the adults in their lives approve."
"We're not in trouble?" Daphne asked, suspicion evident in her voice.
"Oh, you're in trouble," Sirius said, his earlier pride now completely replaced by parental concern and probably several new gray hairs. "You're grounded until further notice, your training schedule is about to become significantly more intensive, and you're going to be writing essays about risk assessment and tactical planning until your hands fall off."
"But," Remus added with the kind of gentle smile that suggested not all hope was lost, "you're in trouble for doing the right thing the wrong way, rather than for doing the wrong thing entirely. That matters."
"Besides," Natasha said, her expression softening just enough to show that underneath the scary spy exterior was someone who actually cared about their wellbeing, "it's Christmas morning. Even grounded teenagers deserve to enjoy Christmas morning. We'll start the lectures and the additional training tomorrow."
"Get some sleep," Logan said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "All of you. And next time you get the urge to save the world, try talking to us first. We might surprise you."
They made their way upstairs in a subdued group, the adrenaline from their evening's adventures finally giving way to exhaustion and the realization that they had approximately three hours before the mansion would be awake and celebrating Christmas morning.
Harry's room was warm and comfortable, decorated with the kind of understated elegance that suggested Professor Xavier had excellent taste in interior design and unlimited resources for making his students feel at home. The dragon hide armor came off piece by piece, each component carefully stored in the wardrobe that had been magically expanded to accommodate both his regular clothes and his vigilante equipment.
The Acromantula silk bodysuit peeled away like a second skin, and Harry hung it carefully next to the armor before pulling on his regular sleepwear—soft cotton pants and a t-shirt that had somehow survived multiple washings without losing its shape or comfort.
As he settled into bed, Harry reflected on the evening's events. They'd done good work—real work that had made a difference in people's lives. The fact that the adults were concerned about their safety was understandable, but it didn't change the fundamental truth that they had the power to help people and the responsibility to use that power effectively.
He was drifting off to sleep, his mind already beginning to process the night's experiences into the kind of dreams that mixed memory with imagination, when something small and cool touched his ankle.
Harry's enhanced senses picked up movement—something liquid and metallic, flowing across his skin with the kind of purposeful motion that suggested intelligence and intent. For a moment, he thought it might be sweat or condensation from the night air, but sweat didn't move with that kind of deliberate precision, and condensation definitely didn't feel like it was exploring his body with curious, gentle touches.
He opened his eyes and looked down to see small droplets of what appeared to be liquid metal spreading across his skin. In the dim light from his window, the droplets gleamed with the same green-silver luminescence they'd seen at the crater site.
"Oh, bloody hell," Harry muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion and the realization that their alien encounter apparently wasn't as over as they'd thought.
He tried to sit up, but his body felt strangely heavy, as if the symbiote—because that's obviously what this was—had somehow interfaced with his nervous system and was gently overriding his motor functions. Not paralysis, exactly, but more like his body was being convinced that movement was unnecessary and sleep was much more appealing.
The sensation wasn't unpleasant. If anything, it felt like being wrapped in warm silk that hummed with a low, soothing vibration that made his enhanced senses relax and his magical aura settle into a more peaceful configuration. His body felt stronger, more balanced, as if the symbiote was somehow optimizing his already enhanced physiology for peak performance.
*We mean no harm,* a voice whispered directly into his mind—not telepathy like Jean's abilities, but something more intimate and immediate, like his own thoughts speaking in a voice that wasn't quite his own. *We seek only partnership. Mutual benefit. Enhancement of existing capabilities.*
Harry tried to respond, but his voice came out as little more than a drowsy mumble. The symbiote's presence in his mind felt strange but not threatening—curious and eager, like a particularly intelligent pet that wanted to understand how its new environment worked.
*Sleep,* the voice suggested gently. *Rest. We will integrate slowly, carefully. No harm will come to the host. We are... complementary. Your power, our knowledge. Your determination, our adaptability. Together, we become more than the sum of our parts.*
Despite every instinct that told him he should be fighting this, calling for help, or at the very least staying awake to monitor what was happening to his body, Harry found himself relaxing back into his pillows. The symbiote's presence felt warm and reassuring, like having a conversation with someone who understood him completely and wanted nothing more than to help him become the best possible version of himself.
His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was that the others were probably experiencing something similar, and that tomorrow's Christmas morning was going to be significantly more complicated than anyone had anticipated.
But for now, sleep seemed like an excellent idea.
—
Three doors down, Jean Grey was discovering that telepathic abilities and symbiotic integration created feedback loops that were both fascinating and deeply concerning from a neuroscience perspective.
The symbiote that had attached itself to her wasn't trying to control her mind—if anything, it seemed to be learning from her telepathic abilities, studying the way her consciousness interfaced with the world around her and adapting its own neural network to complement rather than override her existing mental architecture.
*Fascinating,* it whispered in her thoughts, its mental voice carrying harmonics that sounded like music played through crystal. *Your mind touches other minds. You see thoughts, emotions, memories that belong to others. Such capability... such potential for connection.*
Jean tried to establish telepathic contact with Harry or the others, but the symbiote's presence seemed to be creating some kind of psychic interference—not blocking her abilities, exactly, but redirecting them in ways that made her telepathic senses focus inward rather than outward.
*Do not fear,* the symbiote continued, its mental touch gentle and reassuring. *We do not seek to silence your gifts. We seek to enhance them. Through partnership, your telepathic range could expand beyond current limitations. Your pyrokinetic abilities could burn hotter, brighter, more controlled. The cosmic force within you... the Phoenix... we could help you understand it, channel it, become one with its infinite potential.*
The mention of the Phoenix force should have alarmed her, but instead Jean felt a strange sense of recognition, as if the symbiote understood something about her abilities that she had never fully grasped herself.
*We are not invaders,* the symbiote explained as Jean's consciousness began to drift toward sleep. *We are partners. Symbionts in the truest sense. Your species has such potential... such capacity for growth, for evolution, for becoming something greater than what you are. We offer enhancement, not replacement. Augmentation, not control.*
As sleep claimed her, Jean's last thought was that the Phoenix force seemed unusually quiet, as if it too was listening to what the symbiote had to say and finding it... interesting.
—
In her room, Susan Bones was having the kind of analytical conversation with an alien parasite that would have made xenobiologists everywhere weep with professional envy and possibly existential terror.
*Your mind is... structured,* the symbiote observed, its presence feeling less like an invasion and more like having a research partner who happened to exist inside her head. *Logical. Systematic. You categorize information, analyze patterns, construct theoretical frameworks to explain observed phenomena. Remarkable.*
"You're a previously unknown form of extraterrestrial life that appears to exist as a liquid metal collective consciousness capable of forming symbiotic relationships with carbon-based hosts," Susan replied, though her voice was becoming increasingly drowsy as the symbiote's presence spread through her nervous system. "Of course I'm analyzing you. It's what I do."
*And you do it exceptionally well,* the symbiote agreed with what felt like genuine admiration. *Your analytical capabilities could be enhanced through our partnership. Faster information processing, expanded memory storage, accelerated pattern recognition. Together, we could solve problems that currently seem impossible.*
"What's the catch?" Susan asked, because she was Susan Bones and she believed in examining the fine print before signing any contracts, especially contracts involving alien life forms and symbiotic relationships.
*No catch,* the symbiote replied, though its mental voice carried undertones that suggested the situation was more complex than that simple statement implied. *We offer enhancement in exchange for partnership. Your knowledge helps us understand this world, this reality. Our capabilities help you exceed your current limitations. Mutual benefit.*
"And what do you get out of it, exactly?" Susan pressed, even as her analytical mind began cataloging the various ways symbiotic enhancement could improve her magical abilities, her intellectual capacity, and her overall effectiveness as both a student and a vigilante.
*Purpose,* the symbiote said simply. *For too long, we have existed without direction, without meaning. We are builders, enhancers, partners... but we had no one to build with, enhance, or partner alongside. Your species offers us the chance to become what we were meant to be.*
As Susan drifted toward sleep, her last coherent thought was that the symbiote's explanation sounded reasonable, logical, and probably too good to be true. But then again, her life had become a series of things that seemed too good to be true but turned out to be exactly as advertised.
Maybe this would be one of those situations.
—
Daphne Greengrass was having a very different conversation with her symbiote, one that involved considerably more negotiation and significantly less immediate trust.
*You are... cold,* the symbiote observed, its presence carefully testing the boundaries of her cryokinetic abilities like someone examining a particularly complex piece of machinery. *Not merely in temperature, but in emotional resonance. Controlled. Disciplined. Dangerous.*
"All accurate assessments," Daphne replied, her voice carrying the kind of icy precision that made people remember why crossing a Greengrass was generally considered a poor life choice. "The question is whether you consider those to be positive or negative qualities."
*Positive,* the symbiote replied immediately. *Control is valuable. Discipline is essential. Danger... danger is useful when properly directed. We could enhance these qualities. Your cryokinetic abilities could reach temperatures that would make molecular motion cease entirely. Your control could become so precise that you could freeze individual atoms while leaving their neighbors untouched.*
"And in exchange?" Daphne asked, because Greengrasses were raised to understand that every partnership came with costs and benefits that needed to be carefully evaluated before any agreements were reached.
*Partnership,* the symbiote said simply. *Your knowledge of this world, your understanding of its systems and structures. Your goals become our goals. Your enemies become our enemies. Your victories become our victories.*
"My goals include protecting the people I care about and destroying anyone who threatens them," Daphne said, testing the symbiote's reaction to her more... intense... personality traits.
*Excellent goals,* the symbiote replied with what felt like genuine approval. *We excel at protection and destruction. Together, we could ensure that nothing and no one could threaten those you care about ever again.*
As sleep claimed her, Daphne's last thought was that the symbiote understood her better than most people did, and that was either very promising or very terrifying.
Probably both.
—
Christmas morning at Xavier's mansion dawned bright and clear, with enough snow on the ground to make everything look like a postcard and enough warmth in the air to suggest that the weather was cooperating with everyone's holiday plans.
Harry woke up feeling better than he had in months—stronger, faster, more alert, as if every system in his body had been upgraded overnight and was now running at optimal efficiency. His magical aura felt more controlled, more responsive, and when he experimentally conjured a small flame, it burned with perfect clarity and exactly the temperature he intended.
*Good morning,* a familiar voice whispered in his mind, warm and friendly and definitely not his own thoughts. *How do you feel?*
"Different," Harry said aloud, testing his voice and finding that it sounded exactly the same as always. "But good different. Enhanced, maybe."
*That is the purpose of symbiosis,* the voice explained. *We enhance what already exists rather than replacing it. Your abilities remain your own, but they are now more precise, more powerful, more refined.*
Harry stretched experimentally and discovered that his already enhanced strength felt even more enhanced, his reflexes were faster, and his magical sensitivity had increased to the point where he could sense the emotional states of everyone in the mansion without even trying.
"Are the others...?" he began.
*Safe. Enhanced. Adapting well to the integration process. Each symbiosis is unique, tailored to the individual host's physiology and abilities. We are... pleased... with how well this partnership is proceeding.*
Harry nodded and began getting dressed for Christmas morning, his mind already working through the implications of their new situation. Enhanced abilities would be useful for their vigilante activities, but they would also raise questions if anyone noticed the changes. And given that they lived in a mansion full of telepaths, enhanced-sensory mutants, and people who were professionally trained to notice unusual developments, subtlety was going to be essential.
"Can you... hide yourselves?" he asked as he pulled on his Christmas morning clothes—nice but not formal, the kind of outfit that suggested he was taking the holiday seriously but wasn't trying to impress anyone.
*When necessary,* the symbiote replied. *We can withdraw into dormancy, allowing your natural abilities to function without obvious enhancement. But constant suppression would limit the benefits of our partnership.*
"Just when we're around people who might ask uncomfortable questions," Harry clarified. "When we're being MageX, you can be as enhanced as you want."
*Acceptable terms,* the symbiote agreed, and Harry felt its presence recede slightly, settling into what felt like the background of his consciousness rather than the foreground.
By the time he made it downstairs to the main living area, where the Christmas tree was surrounded by carefully wrapped presents and the smell of breakfast was drifting from the kitchen, Harry looked and felt exactly like his normal self—if his normal self had gotten an excellent night's sleep and was feeling particularly optimistic about life in general.
Jean, Susan, and Daphne were already there, and when they looked at him, he could see the same subtle changes he felt in himself reflected in their expressions. They looked... more, somehow. More alert, more composed, more like the best possible versions of themselves.
"Merry Christmas," Jean said, her smile brighter than usual and her eyes carrying depths that suggested her telepathic abilities had undergone some kind of refinement overnight.
"Merry Christmas," Harry replied, and when he kissed her good morning, he could swear he felt their symbiotes greeting each other through the connection—a brief, warm touch that felt like recognition and approval.
This was going to be an interesting day.
And an even more interesting future.
But first, Christmas morning with the people he loved most in the world. Enhanced abilities and alien symbionts could wait until after presents and breakfast and all the normal, wonderful, perfectly ordinary parts of the holiday that made everything else worth fighting for.
After all, what was the point of having superpowers and alien enhancements if you couldn't enjoy Christmas morning with your family?
---
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