POV: Professor Xavier

Even though it was only ten in the evening, I was more than ready for sleep. The administration of a school is a full-time job. Just because tomorrow is a Saturday doesn't mean I don't have work to do. After being gone last week with Jean on our lobbying trip, it'd taken a week just to catch up with the school's business, not to mention my classes.

Jean has told me on more than one occasion to focus on the affairs of the school and turn my classes over to another teacher, but I can't bear to lose those two hours I have with the students, one-on-one. It makes me feel connected to them. Of course, it is also very draining, but the benefits are worth the extra hours and lost sleep.

Speaking of which, I planned to gain back some of those lost hours tonight. I was already half-way there, propped up comfortably in bed against a mound of pillows, having spent the past half-hour reading. Most of my students would probably think that I read Dickens or Lewis whenever I have a spare moment. Although I do enjoy the classics, my collection is not nearly so limited. I am currently reading Rowling, specifically the first Harry Potter book.

It would be impossible not to notice how popular the series had become with the younger teen and pre-teen students. However, after several months, I began to notice the books in the hands of even the junior and senior students. When I casually mentioned that I thought it was just a children's book, Jubilee corrected me, saying it was "mega cool" and loaning me a copy.

Now that I'm half way through the Sorcerer's Stone, I understand completely why the books have become a part of life here. They are allegorical tales, using magic and witchcraft as a means of communicating the difficulties faced by newly manifested mutants. The idea of Harry discovering himself to be different from his family who summarily rejects and mistreats him and going to a school where he could be not only accepted but encouraged to seek out his full potential was so similar to some of my own student's experiences as to make me wonder whether the author was a mutant herself. It might be something worth researching. She was already bringing understanding of the mutant condition to the hearts of the general population, even if they didn't seem to realize it.

It was something I'd have to do another time, though. I set the book on the nightstand, discarded my extra pillows, and lifted the covers. It's easier to shimmy my way down into a prone position without the covers twisting up around my unmoving legs. When I was first injured, it was a clumsy process of moving and adjusting over and over until I was down. Now, with decades of practice, I can do it with one quick downward shift and then sit up to straighten out my legs afterwards.

The last step in my bedtime routine is to fortify my mental shielding. During the day, when I am awake and alert, I like to keep my shields lower so I can get a sense of the overall feelings of the student body. I also like to be able to pick up projected hints from my students as to how they are so I can advise and guide them more effectively.

At night, however, I need more protective shields for the benefit of both myself and my students. Several of the teenagers who live at this school and even some of the teachers have occasional nightmares. If my shields are not strong enough, I will experience the emotions if not the actual sights and sounds associated with the dreams. It would be a horrible breach of privacy on my part.

The privacy and self-determination of others has been of paramount concern to me since about a year after my powers manifested. I first learned that I was a mutant when I was twelve, waiting for my parents outside of my headmaster's office. I can't remember the exact circumstances resulting in the meeting, but I know it was something bad. I was what my mother called a "spirited boy" and what the headmaster called a "disruptive troublemaker." Meetings with my mother had become commonplace, but this was the first time my father had left his office to attend a meeting. I had to have done something heinous for him to be present.

I remember the anxious worry I felt, sitting on that hard wooden chair next to the headmaster's door. My ear was up against the wall, and I was straining with all my might to catch any word or phrase that might give me a hint as to how much trouble I was in.

Suddenly, I realized that even though I couldn't hear what they were saying, I could sense their emotions. Father was furious. Mother was worried. The headmaster was righteously indignant. Just as I was coming to understand their emotions, words, phrases, half-thoughts, and disjointed images filled my head. At first, it was only the three of them, but soon it expanded until a cacophony of voices filled my head. It was confusing agony. I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even think. I was completely overwhelmed by the thoughts of those around me.

I had to protect myself, so I tried my best to ignore the voices and started creating bricks. I stacked them around me, creating floor, walls, and ceiling entirely out of the sturdiest material my imagination could provide. As I laid the last brick into place, my mind became my own again, the overpowering voices suddenly gone, leaving behind the deafening silence of a mind that was my own again.

I opened my eyes to find myself in a hospital bed. I'd been in a coma-like state for a month.

Over the next year, I modified my brick fortress, pushing it out away from my body so it was less like a vertical tomb and more like a fort. In fact, I started thinking of it like that. The brick changed to a thick, sturdy wood, and the fort moved up into a tree, away from the jabbering masses, I added accessories including a sealed window, a spy glass, and a flag with an X emblem on it.

When I was thirteen, I met Bridget Campbell. She was a stunning blonde, my age but over two inches taller than me and seemingly so much more mature. I wanted her to like me so much. I would sit and stare and her in class, wishing that she would come up and talk to me. One day, I saw her in the park. I stared at her as usual, wishing and hoping that she would approach me. Without even realizing it, I'd trained my imaginary spy glass on her through the window in my mental fort.

She looked up, saw me, and smiled. She pranced over to me and immediately began telling me everything I'd ever wanted to hear from her but never dreamed would be a possibility. Then she bent over and started kissing me passionately. It was a little too much sensation for my thirteen year old mind to take in, and I lost whatever concentration I'd been holding. Bridget immediately backed away from me putting her hand to her lips with a shocked expression. She ran away, never to speak to me again, and I realized that I had been controlling her. I had been making her do the things that I'd dreamed of for so long.

It wasn't real. It felt wrong, almost dirty, to force my will upon another person. I vowed that day that I would do everything in my power to learn how to control my gifts. Now, here I am, a headmaster of a school of my own. Teaching others how to control their gifts as well.

I settled into sleep tonight only to be aroused no more than an hour later by overwhelming emotions, despite my stronger shielding. It took only a second to realize that no one student's nightmare had woken me. Something very real and very frightening was occurring right now. Logan's barely controlled rage and terror for Marie, Rogue's fear after being attacked and touched again, Jean's professional concern barely covering frantic worry for her patients, Scott's confusion and shock at discovering Venom, and Venom, my one failure, experiencing a mixture of guilt, fear, pain, and joy.

She'd been quiet for eight years, but I should have known her self-imposed isolation wouldn't last forever. I just hadn't wanted to face it. I had failed her so horribly.

I'd made her to do too much too quickly. I should have let her move at her own pace. I should have waited until Henry had finished formulating the antidote before forcing her to mingle with the other students, but I didn't.

Henry had been the first of my students, a child shunned by all who looked upon him, but gifted with an extraordinary mind. Under my tutelage and encouragement, he'd excelled becoming a medical doctor as well as a Ph.D. several times over. His death crushed me.

For the first few years after his loss, it was easier to blame the reclusive woman who had accepted the guilt wholeheartedly than to take into account the circumstances resulting in his death.

I'm ashamed to say that I hated her. She had not purposefully taken away a man I'd come to think of as my son, but I'd treated her as if she had. I'd allowed her to fade into the shadows of the mansion, becoming a ghost herself.

After several years, my feelings towards her changed as my anger gave way to understanding, but I felt it was too late. How could I approach her now after ignoring her for so long? I buried myself in my work, trying to hide from the knowledge of my failure as she hid from the residents of the mansion.

Now, she had revealed herself, and from the increasingly worried thoughts, mixed with unrecognizable medical terminology I was getting from Jean, her blood was killing someone again.

My mind might be powerful, but no one will ever say that my body is strong or fast again. It took me time to maneuver out of bed and into my chair so I could make my way down to the Med Lab. Jean's thoughts were racing, and I didn't want to disturb her just to have my curiosity satisfied, so I was forced to wait for my answers. Still, from the emotions crashing over me in waves, I could surmise how events were playing out below me.

Rogue's presence had weakened for a moment only to be dramatically strengthened while Logan faded away from me almost completely. I could only surmise that he had touched her, allowing her to absorb his healing abilities, but at what price to him?

It took a maddeningly long time to reach the Med Lab and when I arrived, no one was in the main area. I could hear voices down the hall, so I proceeded in that direction.

I found Jean and Scott standing next to a seated Rogue all looking through the observation window of the first isolation room. Jean adjusted the speaker, and I could hear Venom's voice for the first time in eight years, raspy and weak from disuse. She was repeating a number to herself. "Thirty-four."

The first few weeks after Henry's death, I could feel her dreams. She'd reverted to sleeping during the day so that she could get her meals at night while the halls were empty. Even though I pushed her away from my mind, I couldn't block myself completely off from my students, so I ended up catching a few stray thoughts. Every time I heard her, her guilt-ridden mind was repeating a number, "Thirty-two."

I understood what the number meant. When I'd first introduced myself to her, she'd warned me away saying that she'd killed thirty-one people and would likely kill more. Upon Henry's death, her number changed to thirty-two, and now, here in the Med Lab, it sounded like she'd added two more people to her tally.

Even before I could open my mouth to ask who else besides Logan was injured, Venom had adjusted her number down to thirty-three, and Rogue had answered thirty-two.

I moved my chair forward to join them. Jean and Scott turned to acknowledge my presence, but Rogue's attention was focused completely on the room before her.

Now that I had moved, I could see Venom crouched in the far corner of the room. Her eyes were bruised and her nose looked out of joint, but most striking was her skin-and-bones figure. She'd always been small in stature, but now her extreme thinness made her seem even smaller. Pity and guilt flooded though me as I realized my role in her decline.

As I watched, Venom shook her head sadly in response to Rogue's correction and said, "Thirty-three."

Rogue, who had been slumped in her wheelchair and was to all appearances exhausted, sat up straight, anger blazing in her eyes. "Look here, you bitch. He's not dying so you can shut your trap about that number thing right now."

Jean's pager vibrated at her waist and she pulled it up sharply.

"No!" she yelled, turning on her heel and running into the next quarantine room without saying a word to any of us. I could feel her rising concern, and when I searched for Logan, his presence was too faint to keep a fix on.

Rogue was sitting frozen in her chair, her eyes wide and her breaths coming in short gasps. She started whispering "No," over and over, each time increasing the volume of the word until she was yelling. "No! Logan!"

"Scott, get her back to her bed."

"No! Stop! I need to see Logan!" Rogue protested as Scott wheeled her away.

Unable to help Scott or Jean, I remained with Venom.

"Why did you attack Logan?" I asked, confused as to what had caused her to come out of hiding.

"He attacked me," she answered, starting to pound her head back against the wall.

"Why?"

"I don't know... She's mine," Venom answered, confusion mingling with her pain and guilt.

"Who?"

"The girl. She cures mutation. She's the answer to my prayers. She came here to save me."

"Rogue? Did she tell you that?"

"No, but I heard them talking about it. She's here for me, Xavier. Just let me touch her and I'll leave. I'll never kill anyone again."

I shook my head. "I can't let you touch her."

"But... she's mine." she answered, clearly not understanding what the problem was.