[Stephen Strange could jokingly be called a permanent fixture of the library by now, and it would only be half a joke. Like some specimen always accompanied by a stack of books and sequestered in his own space, seated at a table that he’s claimed for himself, he’s a prime subject for quippy, “seen in its natural habitat” wisecracks, subsuming knowledge in the only way he knows how — the constant, studious application of effort and lots of reading.

But even he looks up from his studies now and again, pulled back into reality by way of necessity, if nothing else. Today, he looks up after closing a tome and sliding it to the “done” pile when a figure catches his attention from his periphery. Someone perusing a shelf brimming with books on the subject of magic, which has him nigh double-taking, staring for a good long moment in case his eyes were deceiving his brain.

No, that’s Peter Parker, all right. So many considerations filter into his head at once, and Stephen actively pushes them aside to focus on the obvious — a new arrival, he assumes, brought in just like he was; that, or someone has definitely neglected to inform him of this critical piece of information.

He rises, chair scooting out from under him. He crosses over to where Peter stands, only to reach out and magically compel the book he’s holding to hover into Stephen’s hand, instead.]

Even I can’t make sense of this one yet. If you manage to cast any of the magic in here before I do, I’ll eat my hat.

[He doesn’t have a hat; but he does have his cloak, which hangs at his shoulders as one might expect when it’s not flying about with a mind of its own.

Hi Peter.]