❝ time cast
a spell on you ❞

017. sixth time's the charm!

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊 (punctuated by Peter’s relentless complaints that they should just “swing there already”), Peter and Ingrid finally stood across the street from 177a Bleecker Street. The building loomed ahead, tall and dignified, its dark red bricks and stonework blending into the neighborhood with an air of studied mystery. But its uniqueness shone through. The deep, green-blue tiled roof arched over them, and in the center, a caged glass globe caught the autumn sunlight, scattering shards of color onto the sidewalk and giving the entire place an otherworldly glow.

Ingrid took a deep breath, squeezing Peter's hand with a mixture of anticipation and nervous energy. Her gaze trailed up the old, ivy-draped columns framing the entrance, each inch steeped in age and secrecy. Peter, meanwhile, fumbled with his phone, flicking it off in a quick, almost nervous gesture before turning to her, his expression softened by a small, reassuring smile. She met his eyes, finding a flicker of courage in his look that made her feel braver too.

“Ready?” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.

Ingrid nodded, steadying herself, and together, they crossed the street, stepping toward the Sanctum Sanctorum’s imposing doors. The double doors were a deep, rich blue, their brass handles faded from years of use, worn like ancient relics. Peter paused, glancing uncertainly at the doors, his eyebrows knit together. There was no doorbell and no buzzer. He looked to Ingrid, who gave him a slight shrug, the hint of a smirk ghosting her face.

Peter sucked in a breath and, after a quick glance at Ingrid, raised his fist to knock. But before his knuckles could touch the wood, the doors swung open, wide and abrupt. A sudden gust of icy wind blasted out, throwing him back a step as he instinctively grabbed at the railing to steady himself. Ingrid’s hand shot up, summoning a small but fierce flicker of warmth that cut through the cold breeze swirling around them, her eyes narrowed as if daring the wind to push her back.

Inside was... surreal. The grand entrance hall looked as though it had been overtaken by a full-blown snowstorm. The marble floors, once opulent and gleaming, were buried under ankle-deep snow, and the grand staircase was blanketed in frost. Dim, antique lamps flickered through the haze, their soft glow casting shadows over frozen curtains that clung to frost-crusted windows. Every surface was a pale, untouched white, like the place had been caught in some ancient, silent winter.

Ingrid’s breath clouded in front of her face as she took a careful step forward, her gaze following a slant of sunlight that pierced the ice-coated glass dome at the top of the staircase, throwing an almost blinding glow over the snow. Her skin prickled as she felt the cold settle into her bones, but her curiosity held her there, grounded.

A sound broke her trance, and she turned sharply to see two figures bundled up in bulky parkas, shoveling snow with all the determination of people in a losing battle. They were desperately trying to clear the snow into two small metal buckets. It was almost absurd — two people, shoveling a whole room’s worth of snow into barely anything. She bit her lip, half-amused, half-curious, but waited for them to notice.

When they didn’t, Peter cleared his throat, his voice breaking the stillness. “Uh... hi!” he called, raising his hand in a small, hesitant wave.

The two figures looked over, and Ingrid saw their eyes go wide with surprise. They stared at Peter and Ingrid as though they'd stumbled upon ghosts, unmoving, unspeaking. Peter’s hand slowly fell, and his face twisted in an awkward grin. “Um... hi?”

Silence. The two figures continued to stare, not a word passing their lips, and Peter shifted his weight uneasily, glancing back at Ingrid, who stifled a laugh, both nervous and amused.

Then, with a crackling hum, the cold air split to their right. Bright yellow sparks twirled in a perfect circle, swirling faster until they formed a shimmering portal. Beyond it, Ingrid could make out a dark room lined with towering shelves, the rich wood floors glinting softly. And through the portal stepped a man, hauling two heavy, weather-beaten suitcases. He was bundled up in a thick parka, the hood obscuring most of his face, and his boots crunched against the snow as he set down his suitcases with a grunt.

“The most famous person in the world,” the man grumbled, his voice dry and rough. “I know.”

With a quick tug, he threw back his hood, revealing a familiar face — Wong. Peter hesitated for a moment before lifting his hand in a shy wave. “Um, hi!” he ventured, voice soft and tentative.

“Wong,” he replied with a short nod, his expression unreadable as he brushed stray snow from his jet-black hair. Straightening his parka, he glanced over them with a cool, assessing look. “Try not to slip.” His eyebrow quirked slightly. “We don’t have liability insurance.”

Wong’s attention shifted, and his brow furrowed slightly as he studied Ingrid. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, his gaze narrowing thoughtfully as if combing through memories. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked, head tilted slightly. The look on his face suggested he was rummaging through his mind, trying to pinpoint exactly where.

Ingrid’s stomach tightened briefly as memories of battles, sacrifices, and the weight of cosmic wars flickered through her mind. She could have said “Thanos” or even hinted at the name, but the reminder felt heavy, a burden she wasn’t eager to unearth here. Instead, she met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah,” she replied, her tone steady but soft, allowing her answer to speak for itself.

Wong seemed satisfied, nodding in acknowledgment before turning on his heel and disappearing back through the swirling portal without another word, as though magical doorways, snow-covered sanctuaries, and unexpected visitors were just part of his routine.

As the portal vanished with a fiery, crackling whirl, Peter slipped his phone back into the pocket of his flannel and took Ingrid’s hand in his, rubbing it between his palms. “Jeez, your hands are like a personal heater,” he murmured, a smile quirking his lips as he leaned closer, savoring the warmth radiating from her.

Ingrid chuckled, threading her fingers through his as they took a few tentative steps further into the snow-covered lobby. Each step crunched beneath them, and the snow shifted, soft and dense, against their boots. Sunlight streamed in from the frosted windows, casting a cold, blue light.

“Is all this for a holiday party?” Peter asked, his voice barely more than a whisper as he took in the icy wonderland around them, his eyes wide with equal parts awe and bewilderment.

Just as Peter spoke, Wong reappeared with a faint pop, the portal closing behind him in a fiery whirlwind. “No,” he said with a weary sigh, brushing yet another layer of snow from his shoulders. "One of the rotunda gateways connects to Siberia. A blizzard blasted through."

Ingrid’s eyes traveled over the walls, the frosty patterns etched into the windows, and the snow drifts piled in the corners of the grand lobby. She felt a strange, quiet thrill at the surreal beauty of it, her breath catching for just a second as she took it all in.

Her gaze drifted over to the two figures still working diligently, shoveling snow with almost comically small buckets. They moved with an air of determination, each scoop of snow landing in their buckets only for the mounds to spill right back onto the floor. Ingrid felt a pang of sympathy mixed with amusement, and after a quick pat on Peter’s shoulder, she stepped forward, warmth gathering in her hands as she walked toward the shoveling pair.

They looked up at her with a mix of surprise and relief as she approached. “You know,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice, “it might be easier to mop this up instead.” But she was only met with puzzled glances, both of them blinking at her, clearly unsure if she was serious.

With a sigh, Ingrid extended her palm. Heat gathered instantly, and with a small, controlled pulse of her power, she directed it toward a patch of snow near her feet. The snow sizzled, steaming as it dissolved into a dark, wet puddle on the floor. The two strangers exchanged a look, eyes wide with a mix of awe and gratitude, and hurried to collect rags to mop up the melting snow.

“Thank you,” one of them muttered, glancing back at her with a nod. The other gave her a quick, bashful smile before darting off to help scoop up the water before it spread.

Ingrid gave a small, triumphant smile, then glanced around at the still-frosted lobby. “Great, now we just have to do…” She trailed off, looking at the winter wonderland around her. “…this whole place.”

A familiar, exasperated voice interrupted her. “Because…” The person they’d come to see had arrived, and Ingrid turned abruptly. Dr. Strange strode into the room with a grumbling tone, coffee in hand. “Because someone,” he said pointedly, casting an accusatory look at Wong, “forgot to cast a monthly maintenance spell to keep the seals tight.” As if on cue, his boot slipped on a slick patch of ice, and he flailed momentarily, struggling to keep his coffee from spilling as he regained his balance with a muttered curse.

Ingrid waved, stifling a laugh as she returned to Peter, who took her hand once more, his fingers squeezing hers for reassurance and warmth. She caught a glimpse of the shoveling strangers watching them, their brief disappointment clear as Peter and Ingrid moved away together.

“That’s right,” Wong replied dryly, his eyes narrowing at Dr. Strange. “He did, because he forgot I now have higher duties.”

“Higher duties?” Strange echoed, arching a skeptical brow at him.

Wong nodded, looking slightly smug. “The Sorcerer Supreme has higher duties, yes,” he replied, savoring the title as he shot Strange a pointed look.

Ingrid frowned, her gaze shifting between the two. “Wait, I thought you were the Sorcerer Supreme?” she asked, pointing at Dr. Strange, confusion knitting her brow.

Dr. Strange grumbled into his coffee, clearly not thrilled with the explanation. “No, he got it on a technicality,” he muttered, a hint of irritation in his tone. “Since I ‘blipped’ for five years, he ended up with the title by default.”

“Oh…” Peter blinked, then turned to Wong, offering an awkward but sincere smile. “Uh, well — congratulations?”

Dr. Strange let out a frustrated sigh, opening his mouth to retort, “If I’d been here, then—”

“You’d burn the place down,” Wong interrupted smoothly, dismissing him with a wave. Then he turned sharply to the two strangers, who had stopped shoveling snow, clearly absorbed in the bickering between the sorcerers. “And you two — no one said stop shoveling…”

The pair jumped, quickly resuming their work with muttered apologies, leaving Wong to go about his business as he disappeared down a side hall. Dr. Strange, looking exasperated, let out a sigh, like even the simple act of breathing felt burdensome in that moment. His gaze shifted back to Ingrid and Peter, a mixture of fatigue and curiosity in his eyes. “So,” he began, gesturing with a halfhearted sweep of his hand, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He started to walk around the side of the grand staircase, and Peter rushed to keep pace, Ingrid trailing close behind. “Right — um — we’re really sorry to bother you, sir, but—”

“Please,” Dr. Strange cut him off with a slight wave of his hand, and with a flick of his fingers, he conjured a warm, crackling fire in a nearby fireplace. The soft orange glow immediately filled the room, casting shadows that danced over the frost-covered walls. He turned to face them, his expression softening slightly. “We saved half the universe together. I think we’re beyond you calling me ‘sir’.”

Ingrid scoffed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the icy wall. “Yeah, well, I’m not calling you Stephen either,” she retorted. “You’re, like… my dad’s age. We’re not friends.” Her tone was casual, almost dismissive, but there was a glimmer of humor in her eyes, one that didn’t quite mask the underlying tension in her posture.

Dr. Strange raised an eyebrow. “Colleagues, then,” he suggested, a trace of challenge in his voice.

“Acquaintances,” Ingrid corrected flatly, meeting his gaze with a look that dared him to argue.

Dr. Strange sighed, giving a slight, almost resigned shrug. “Fine. I’ll settle,” he muttered, a trace of amusement in his eyes as he turned back to Peter. “Now, continue.”

Peter had been wringing his hands, his fingers twisted in a nervous knot. He glanced up, meeting Strange’s expectant gaze, and inhaled deeply, his words tumbling out in a stammer. “Uh… okay. So, um… Stephen,” he began, stumbling slightly over the name. It felt strange, wrong even, to address him so casually, and he scrunched his face, almost regretting it.

Dr. Strange pursed his lips, tilting his head as if weighing the sound of his own name in Peter’s mouth. “That feels weird,” he admitted with a hint of a frown, “but I’ll allow it.”

“Told you it’s weird,” Ingrid chimed in, her tone matter-of-fact as she gave Peter an almost knowing nod.

Peter managed a weak smile, drawing strength from the banter, if only momentarily. But his gaze dropped again, his fingers starting to fidget as he tried to collect himself. “Okay, so… When Mysterio revealed my identity… everything in my life just—” He paused, visibly struggling, swallowing down the mix of frustration and hurt lodged in his throat. “It’s like my entire life got turned upside down overnight,” he continued, his voice cracking slightly. “And I was wondering… I mean, I don’t know if this could actually work, but…” His voice grew small, almost tentative. “Maybe you could go back in time? Make it so he never did?”

Dr. Strange regarded Peter in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the request. His gaze, intense and unreadable, settled on Peter for a long moment, and then drifted to Ingrid. She didn’t know whether he was calculating, concerned, or pitying. The uncertainty in his eyes unsettled her; it was rare for Strange to hesitate, and that hesitation brought a twinge of fear to her chest.

Finally, he exhaled, looking back at Peter. “Peter,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “we tampered with the stability of space-time to resurrect countless lives. You want to do it again now, just because yours got messy?”

Peter flinched as if struck, his head bowing slightly under the weight of Strange’s words. “It’s not just me,” he said quickly, his voice thick with emotion. “This is really hurting a lot of people. My… my Aunt May, Happy, my best friends, Ingrid—” His voice broke as he glanced at her, the guilt clear in his eyes. “Their futures are ruined just because they know me. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

Ingrid stiffened beside him, a fierce spark lighting in her eyes. “Our futures aren’t ruined!” she argued, her voice hard-edged with conviction. But as she looked at Peter’s face, the intensity in his gaze, the desperate edge of his plea, her words faltered. She stopped, swallowed, and felt the weight of the reality Peter was carrying. She could see the shame written across his features, how deeply he blamed himself, and her heart softened, just a little.

Strange sighed, his expression finally softening into something almost sympathetic. “I am so sorry, Peter,” he said, each word weighted with a gravity that surprised them both. “But even if I wanted to help… I don’t have the Time Stone anymore.”

The weight of his words hit Ingrid like a cold wave, pulling her back to memories she’d buried. She remembered Thanos towering over Tony, Strange offering up the stone, the look in his eyes — a sacrifice made with cold resolve. And she remembered Steve, quietly packing the stones in that suitcase, stepping through the time machine, and then… gone. Both of them, lost to time, threads that couldn’t be retraced.

“That’s right,” she whispered, barely aware she’d spoken aloud. Her voice was a ghost of sound, carrying the burden of memories she wished she could forget.

Peter looked at her, the sorrow in her eyes mirroring his own, and he felt a familiar, suffocating guilt grip his chest. He tried to speak, but his throat felt tight, choked by the weight of his own emotions. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice thin and cracking. “I didn’t mean to waste your time, I just…”

But Dr. Strange’s eyes had softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. He shook his head, cutting Peter off gently. "No, you didn't"

Peter turned away, his voice catching in his throat. “Just… forget about it, please,” he mumbled, feeling the sting of disappointment settling like ice in his chest.

“Oh, he will,” a voice broke in, cutting through the cold. Peter looked up to see Wong trudging through the ankle-deep snow, his face half-hidden beneath a thick scarf as he lugged two oversized suitcases. “He’s very good at forgetting things.”

The remark seemed to spark something in Strange’s eyes. Ingrid watched as his gaze shifted, a glimmer of intrigue lighting his face as he slowly straightened, fingers poised in thought. “Wong… you’ve actually generated a good idea,” he mused, snapping his fingers as if he’d just stumbled upon some grand revelation.

Wong paused, suitcases in hand, and shot Strange an incredulous look. “What?”

Strange turned back to Peter and Ingrid, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips. “The Runes of Kof-Kol,” he said, a hint of excitement lacing his voice.

Peter’s eyes went wide, a spark of hope rekindling in his expression. “The Runes of Kof-Kol?” he echoed, his voice soft with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

But Ingrid only frowned, glancing between Dr. Strange and Wong. “Am I supposed to know what that is, or…?”

Strange waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s just a standard spell of forgetting,” he explained, though his smug smile suggested it was anything but standard. “It won’t turn back time, but it will make everyone forget you were ever Spider-Man.”

Peter’s face lit up, a smile breaking through the weariness as a flicker of real hope surged in his eyes. “Seriously?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid speaking too loudly would break the spell.

But Wong’s expression darkened, and he shook his head with a fierce disapproval. “No, not seriously!” he snapped, stepping forward. "That spell travels the dark borders between known and unknown reality. It's too dangerous!"

Strange let out an exasperated sigh, looking up to the ceiling as if seeking patience. “We’ve used it for less,” he argued, casting a sidelong glance at Wong. “Do you remember that full moon party at Kamar-Taj?”

Wong’s brows furrowed as he hesitated, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…No,” he admitted, the single word weighted with realization.

“Exactly,” Strange replied, a triumphant glint in his eyes.

Wong kept his narrowed gaze fixed on Strange, clearly weighing the risks and ethics of such a spell. After a long, tense moment, he glanced over at Peter, his stern gaze softening just slightly. Strange took the opportunity, rolling his eyes before nodding in Peter’s direction. “Come on, Wong,” he urged quietly, his voice almost pleading. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”

Peter looked down at his feet, shoulders slumped in a mixture of hope and shame. Ingrid, noticing the defeated slump in his frame, reached out instinctively, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into a gentle side hug. She felt him lean into her touch, if only for a moment, his eyes fixed on Wong with a quiet, unspoken plea.

Wong let out a sharp breath through his nose, resigned, and after a long, reluctant pause, he nodded. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and reluctant sympathy. With a swift motion, he opened a portal behind him, revealing the vast courtyard of Kamar-Taj, its archways and red-brick roofs bathed in the golden glow of the early morning sun. Wong glanced back at Strange, his tone stern and unyielding. “But leave me out of this.”

Then, with a final look that was both warning and weary, he stepped through the portal, dragging his luggage with him. The portal closed with a soft, swirling whoosh, leaving Strange, Peter, and Ingrid standing alone in the snow, the weight of the moment settling around them.

As the last of the portal sparks faded at their feet, Dr. Strange turned to Ingrid and Peter, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. Ingrid caught his smirk, but something about it sent a shiver down her spine, stirring a mix of excitement and unease within her. With a slight nod, he motioned them forward. “Follow me.”

They trailed him down a steep, narrow stairwell that spiraled deep beneath the Sanctum Sanctorum. The cold, damp air grew heavier as they descended, each footstep echoing ominously. The further they went, the more Ingrid felt an inexplicable tension weaving into her bones. She glanced at Peter, who looked equally apprehensive, yet he pressed on without a word, his determination evident.

Finally, they reached a vast underground chamber, dimly lit and filled with eerie silence. The ceiling stretched high above, barely visible in the shadows, while fallen rubble and crumbling pillars hinted at the chamber’s ancient history. Strange led them toward the center of the room, where a small, seemingly unimpressive stone basin hovered, suspended in the air. In such a grand, desolate space, the basin seemed oddly anticlimactic—like it was almost too simple for the powerful magic it was supposed to hold.

Peter cleared his throat, his voice echoing through the stillness. “Uh…what is this place?”

Dr. Strange’s gaze remained fixed on the basin as he began to sprinkle a glowing powder into it, each grain casting a faint orange glow that filled the basin. “The Sanctum’s built at the intersection of cosmic energy currents,” he explained, his tone almost reverent. “We weren’t the first to seek them out. Some of these walls are thousands of years old.”

As the basin lit up, swirling with glowing patterns that shifted and twisted in intricate designs, Strange added, almost as an afterthought, "And they shot an episode of The Equalizer her in the eighties."

Ingrid raised a hand, conjuring a small flame to illuminate the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls. The flickering light danced over the faded runes, her eyes tracing each line and curve with curiosity. She could sense the ancient magic woven into them, a faint pulse of energy that lingered from centuries past.

Peter, watching Dr. Strange with a mixture of awe and gratitude, managed a small, nervous smile. “I… really appreciate you doing this for me, sir.”

Strange didn’t look up, his focus on the glowing dust as he poured a shimmering liquid from a vial into the basin. “Don’t mention it. And don’t call me ‘sir.’”

Peter nodded, a sheepish smile breaking through his anxious expression. “Right. Sorry.”

With a final glance, Dr. Strange met Peter’s gaze, his expression suddenly solemn. “You ready?”

Peter took a shaky breath, exhaling slowly as he gathered his resolve. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

Crossing his arms, Strange pressed his fingers together in a deliberate motion, locking his gaze onto Peter. “Nice knowing you, Spider-Man.”

Ingrid, who had been tracing the runes on the wall, frowned, turning sharply toward them. “Wait, what?”

Without waiting for a response, Strange thrust his hands forward, and a blaze of golden energy erupted from his fingers, matching the glow from the basin. Peter’s heart pounded as the realization hit him, and he instinctively stepped forward, panic flashing in his eyes. “Wait, excuse me?”

A rune materialized in front of Strange, encased in a vibrant orange circle, and he deftly drew a glowing thread from it. With intense precision, he began to trace it around him, encircling Peter as if sealing him inside a ring of magical ink. His voice echoed through the cavern, solemn and unwavering. "The entire world's about to forget that Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Including me."

Peter’s stomach churned as the spell whirled around them, the fiery orange runes spiraling overhead, illuminating the room in a haunting glow. “E-Everyone?” He darted forward, ducking beneath the arc of floating runes that had begun circling above them. His voice cracked with desperation. “Uh — can’t some people still know?”

Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat as she took a cautious step closer, her gaze locked onto Peter. She couldn’t find words; the shock held them all captive.

Dr. Strange clenched his jaw, not breaking focus as he meticulously drew out each glowing rune in the air. "That's not how the spell works. And it's very difficult and dangerous to change it mid-casting."

A horrible realization settled in Peter’s chest. His eyes darted to Ingrid, her face mirroring the same distress. “So Ingrid’s just…gonna forget everything we’ve been through? Is she even still going to be my girlfriend?”

The swirling circle above them faltered slightly, pulsing with unsteady light. Dr. Strange glanced briefly over Peter’s shoulder at Ingrid, raising an eyebrow. “That depends—were you his girlfriend just because he was Spider-Man, or…?”

Ingrid’s shock gave way to a soft, sad smile as she shook her head. “No, no. Of course not.” She locked eyes with Peter, giving him a reassuring nod. “Of course not.”

Dr. Strange sighed, reluctantly gesturing as he re-stabilized the spell. “Fine,” he said curtly, swiping his hand across the air. The spiraling light dimmed momentarily before a new thread of orange magic glowed from his palm. “Everyone in the world’s gonna forget you’re Spider-Man…except Ingrid.”

Peter exhaled in profound relief, his shoulders slumping. “Thank you so much.” But another thought hit him like a bolt. “Oh, my God — Ned. Ned and MJ! They need to remember too!” His words tumbled out as two runes peeled away from the spiral, gravitating toward Dr. Strange’s hand.

The sorcerer scowled, catching the stray runes and tossing them back into the basin. “What is a ‘Ned and MJ’?” he muttered, clearly annoyed.

“They’re my best friends,” Peter blurted out, his words practically tripping over each other. “It’s—it’s really important they know!”

The energy around them vibrated violently as the spell seemed to protest. Dr. Strange fought to maintain control, flinging his hand in precise, frustrated motions as he restrained the chaotic energy. The room grew cold, and a spectral blue mist rose from the basin, hanging overhead like a ghostly fog. Ingrid squinted, feeling a strange, prickling sense of dread as faint whispers filled the air, sending chills down her spine.

Around them, the room started to grow cold a blue mist lifted up from the basin and hung over their heads like fog clouds. For a moment, Ingrid thought she heard whispers, and it terrified her.

"Okay," Dr. Strange growled through clenched teeth, tracing another arc in the air. "Let's not change the parameters of this spell any more while I'm casting it."

Peter nodded fervently, wringing his hands, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Right, okay, I’m done. I swear I’m done. I—” But then another thought hit him, and he winced as he looked back up. “Actually, um, my Aunt May really should know too…”

Dr. Strange’s hand quivered as the angry runes pulsed erratically, and his control visibly wavered. “Peter…” he hissed through gritted teeth, the spell crackling with fury around them. The rings of glowing symbols whirled faster, spinning out of alignment as the magic began to fracture.

“Stop tampering with the spell!” Dr. Strange’s voice reverberated in the chamber, a harsh edge of warning clear in every syllable.

Peter’s heart pounded as he tried to explain, words spilling over each other. “When she found out I was Spider-Man, it was… it was really messy. I-I don’t think I could go through that again.” His eyes flicked up, searching Dr. Strange’s face, almost pleading. “So… so, my Aunt May?”

“Yes,” Dr. Strange muttered, barely containing his irritation.

“Oh! Thank you, thank you…” Peter breathed out a sigh of relief, only to freeze as another name popped into his mind. "Happy."

Dr. Strange's patience snapped. “No!” he barked. “I’m annoyed!”

Peter gulped, realizing his mistake. “N-No, it’s a nickname! Harold ‘Happy’ Hogan. He used to work with Tony Stark and he was… he was kinda dating my aunt—”

“Would you just stop talking?” Dr. Strange shouted, exasperated.

And with that, the spell imploded. Ingrid’s hands flew up instinctively as the circles of runes detonated into a blinding burst of fiery sparks. Dr. Strange was thrown backward, his spell spiraling chaotically out of control. The stone walls around them groaned as the entire chamber shook violently. Ingrid screamed as her feet lifted off the ground, floating in the strange weightlessness caused by the spell’s violent rupture.

She grabbed onto Peter, her fingers digging into his arm as they both spun, helpless, in the air. Below them, the stone floor fractured and fell away, revealing a gaping void beneath — a surreal ocean of twisting blues, purples, and pinks, swirling together in unnatural waves that defied gravity, pulling and twisting in every direction at once.

Peter’s face went pale as he looked around, his voice barely a whisper but still carrying in the strange silence. “Basically, everyone that knew I was Spider-Man before should still know!” he yelled into the abyss, his words swallowed by the infinite void beneath.

Dr. Strange’s eyes were wide with horror as he fought to regain control, his hands clawing at the air, trying to pull the runaway magic back. But the spell had fractured completely, hurling the three of them into a nightmare of disorienting color and unbound energy. His expression turned grim as he fought against the torrent of wild magic, desperation clear on his face.

Then, with a sudden, fierce motion, Dr. Strange forced the rings of his spell back together. The ground reassembled beneath them, the stone sealing itself with a heavy, finality as the strange world of color faded. Ingrid dropped to her knees, panting, the terror of the past few seconds still coursing through her.

Peter reached down, pulling her up gently as she tried to steady her breathing, their surroundings settling back into something close to reality. The room was silent once more, save for the faint, furious hum coming from the glowing amber casing Dr. Strange now held in his hands. Inside, his spell churned and bounced against its confines like a swarm of trapped hornets, a volatile, barely-contained force.

Peter looked up at Dr. Strange, voice hoarse. “Did… did it work?”

Dr. Strange met his gaze, his face twisted with frustration and anger. “No,” he replied, his voice taut with barely-restrained fury. “You changed my spell six times!”

Ingrid noticed the flash of anger in Strange’s eyes, the way his hand clenched at his side. Hoping to diffuse the tension, she gave a nervous laugh. “You know what they say — sixth time’s the charm!”

Peter winced, his shoulders hunching up defensively as he muttered, “Five times.”

Dr. Strange’s head whipped back toward him, his glare sharpening. “You changed my spell!” he snapped, his voice thunderous as he pointed an accusing finger at Peter. "You don't do that! I told you and that is why!" His hand sliced through the air, gesturing furiously at the pulsing amber container in front of them, where the spell’s unstable energy lashed out like a caged storm. "That spell was completely out of control. And if I hadn't shut it down, something catastrophic could have happened!"

Peter’s mouth fell open, and he took a shaky step back, his eyes wide with realization. He swallowed hard, struggling to find words. “S-Stephen, listen, I am so—”

“Call me sir!” Strange cut him off, his voice cracking through the air like a whip.

Peter’s face flushed, shame flooding through him. He looked down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “S-Sorry… sir,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Dr. Strange exhaled a long, weary sigh. The tightness in his expression softened, just a little, as he pressed his fingers to his temple. “After everything we’ve been through, somehow I always forget…” He looked between Peter and Ingrid, his gaze gentling with a hint of exasperated sympathy. “You’re just kids. Both of you.”

Peter looked up at him, his face flickering with relief but still tinged with guilt. Strange’s voice dropped, his tone almost regretful now. “Look, Parker, the problem isn’t Mysterio. It's you trying to live two different lives. And the longer you do that, the more dangerous it becomes. Believe me. I'm so sorry about you and your friends not getting into college, but if they rejected you, and... you tried to convince them to reconsider, there is nothing else you can do."

Ingrid closed her eyes and let out a groan, smacking her palm to her forehead so hard she was sure she’d leave a red mark. How had that not crossed their minds?

Peter shifted on his feet, his cheeks flushing deeper with a mix of embarrassment and surprise. He suddenly felt very small and very foolish under Strange’s gaze. “Um…” He glanced away, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “W-When you say ‘convince them’… you mean, I could have just… called them?”

“Yes,” Strange replied, his tone flat.

Peter blinked. “I can do that?”

Strange’s stare was blank, bordering on disbelief. “You… You haven’t called?”

Peter’s shoulders hunched up even further, and he looked down at the floor, visibly flustered. “W-Well, I mean, I got their letter… I just assumed…”

"I'm sorry," Dr. Strange rubbed his temple, muttering something under his breath before fixing Peter with a hard stare. He stepped forward, his robes swirling with the movement as he waved a hand to clear the basin. “Are you telling me,” he began slowly, each word like a stone dropping in silence, "that you didn't even think to plead your case with them first before you asked me to brainwash the entire world?"

Peter swallowed, his face burning with embarrassment as he tried to formulate a response. "I-I mean when you put it like that, then..."

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 !!!

a very long chapter because splitting this into two doesn't make sense buuuut the plot is starting and I AM SCARED

anyways i watched the trailers for thunderbolts and brave new world and have been thinking about them the whole day 2025 really can't come any sooner i can't wait