Magic //Peter Parker x Reader

Seeing the Impossible

The three of you make your way down the slope.

"I find it astonishing that someone who prides herself on being so logical can be in such denial." Peter says.

"______. Will you explain to your friend Mr.Parker that he has absolutely no proof whatsoever that my sweet, unassuming cat ate his shabby, decidedly decrepit rat." Michelle growls.

"______ was there! She'll tell you how it was. Go on, ______, tell her." Peter says.

You frown at the both of them, "No, I won't. Truth be told. Know why? Because I don't care about your stupid rat! I don't care about your stupid cat! I've got few other things on my mind right now!"

"Really? Wasn't you had to roll under the bed last night to avoid getting cut to ribbons! A person could die being your friend, _____!" Michelle shouts.

She stops, and looks like she wishes she could take it back. You wish she could. Avoiding each other's eyes, you all turn, and continue on.
_

Bruce, wearing a nice suit and perhaps the world's ugliest yellow and orange tie, stands knee deep in the shallows of the Black Lake, skimming rocks as big as flagstones across the water's shiny gloss. As he turns, the three of you catch a brief sight of his eyes, red with tears, then he looks away.

"How'd it go, Bruce?" You ask.

"Buckbeak liked London." He says.

"I meant the hearing."

"Oh. That." He sighs, "Well, I got up and said my bit. You know, how Buckbeak was good and as long as you treated him with respect, he'd treat you the same. Then Adrian Toomes got up and said his bit, you know, how Buckbeak was a deadly, dangerous beast that no teacher in their right mind would expose their students to..."

"And...?" You ask, dreading the answer.

Bruce slings another rock into water.

"Buckbeak's not going back to the forest..."

"Where's he going, Bruce?" Michelle asks.

"Adrian asked for the worse. And the Committee granted it. Buckbeak's been sentenced to death."

A grim chill sears the air.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Bruce." Peter says, "Liz. It's her the Committee should punish. It's her who they should send off to the forest, not Buckbeak."
_

Silent. A room of shadows. While those around you slumber, you lie awake, unable to sleep. Finally, you turn to your cupboard, and take the Marauder's Map.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." You whisper.

The crooked corridors and serpentine passageways
Midgards radiate across the parchment, then, a name catches your eye. You frown. It reads: "Neb Luphomoid."
_

You move down a dark corridor, map in hand, wand aglow. In the paintings you pass, the subjects snore softly.

You glance at the map.

"______ Marvel" and "Neb Luphomoid" draw closer and closer.

You squint toward the end of the corridor. Down at
the map. Neb moves quickly down the adjoining corridor. Twenty yards away. Ten.

Only seconds away, wand and trembling in your hand, you glance from the map to the dark corridor ahead, again and again. Then as the two dot are about to collide you looks slowly up, then turn the corner, heart in your chest and meet...yourself.

Reflected in a mirror. You blink, startled, then glance back down at the map. Neb Luphomoid has moved past you. Confused, you wheel, casting your wand along the walls.