A/N: Some parts of the first scene are taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Credits where credits are due.
May 2, 1998
"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" called The-Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Fucking-Die from across the Great Hall. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does…then it knows I am its true master."
"Your bluffs won't work on me, Potter," Voldemort spoke softly, gripping the Elder Wand tighter but feeling its power grow progressively distant.
"Oh yeah," Potter said gravely, a small smile tugging at his lips, "but you also have to know, I'm now the Master of Death, too."
A red-gold glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces at the same time, so that Harry Potter's was suddenly a flaming blur. Voldemort heard the boy's raspy voice cry as he too yelled the only spell he could wish to cast at that moment, pointing the Elder Wand:
Like a child having his favourite toy taken away, Voldemort felt the shaft of the Elder Wand being pulled from his bony fingers. The Killing Curse rebounded itself and was making its way back to its caster, but at that very last second, Voldemort let go of his wand and disapparated.
A crack broke the silence of the Malfoy Manor as Voldemort apparated to it. His veins angrily flowed dark red, making his pale skin appear much whiter.
He snapped his gaze to the sound of the cracks that came after his, relieved to see only Death Eaters. The manor's apparating wards are still intact, unlike Hogwarts', so only his most trusted followers could follow him here.
Voldemort flicked his hands towards a witch and summoned her wand. Shaking uncontrollably, Voldemort slashed across the room and jets of green light flashed against every witch and wizard he could see.
He then let out a shrill scream.
His breathing was heavy and his blood boiled, but for the first time since his resurrection, he felt exhausted.
"Master," said a voice from behind a sofa, "if you would please lower your wand. It is I."
Voldemort recognized the distinct American accent and hissed: "Come out, Baron Mordo."
A man in green robes slowly stood up to reveal himself from behind a couch. "I have returned from my mission to find the Power Stone."
"You came back too late," said Voldemort coldly. "You have better succeeded."
"Even better, milo'd," Baron said with a sly smile.
Voldemort jerked his head impatiently. "I don't have time for this," he hissed.
"With me is something I believe to be even more powerful than the Power Stone itself." Baron parted the front of his robes to reveal a golden necklace with a pendant resembling an eye.
"Do you think I care for anything but what I asked of you?" Voldemort's temper riled. "The Power Stone, Mordo, have you retrieved it?"
"No, Master," Baron said though he remained calm. Smug, even. "I have retrieved the Time Stone."
Five-year-old Peter Parker's mom tucked him up in his bed and kissed him on the forehead. They had just said their goodnights, but he still felt no desire to sleep so he asked her his age old question anyway.
"Can Dad tell me one of his joke stories tonight?"
"I'm sorry, but your dad is very busy right now." She pursed her lips in regret. "I can read you a book, if you'd like?"
"Okay," Peter said, though he couldn't help but feel disappointed.
She ruffled his hair and walked over to the bookshelf containing many of his children's books. Looking for something good, she tapped each one animatedly, making Peter laugh merrily at her theatrics.
She finally stopped her finger on one book and deftly slid it out. She spun around on her feet to face Peter, holding her choice out in front of her like a prize, grinning. Tadaa!
The Giving Tree.
He smiled. It wasn't a funny story, but it was still one of his favourites. He closed his eyes and laid his head down comfortably on his pillow as his mother sat on a chair beside his bed. She began reading.
"Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy..."
It didn't take long before he fell asleep with her sweet words in his ears.
Her soft voice faltered and was replaced by a deeper one. He felt confused, but the jovial tone was warm and made him feel safe.
"Oh, Peter…" came an old, matronly voice.
A beautiful face caught Peter's eyes. He raised his camera to take a picture of her, but before he was able to do so, intense pain coursed through his body. So much pain, in fact, that he thought he was going to wake up. But he didn't, couldn't.
"You'll pay for that, Park...er…" said a different voice, followed by many more.
"I don't want to fight you, Flash."
"I wouldn't want to fight me eith…"
"With great power… responsibility…"
"No…" Peter cried as he hugged an old man's body. "Unc… B..."
Everything happened too quickly. Limbs and strings tangled up in chaos. He heard the sound of bones cracking, guns shooting, and men screaming. It was too much for him.
Suddenly, he was at peace. The wind blew against his face, and his stomach dropped in such a way that felt so familiar to him. Like it was the most ordinary, soothing sensation.
Aunt May. Oh, please not Aunt May.
Then everything went black.
And all Peter remembered when he woke up was a long yet dreamless sleep.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Peter!" came his mom's voice. She sounded so distressed. "What have you done to my boy?"
"You bastard—!" His dad's cry was cut short by a hiss and a slashing sound, followed by a loud thump.
He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a different room, on a different bed. There was a different woman sitting on a different chair beside him. He first noticed her elegant gown, but as he trailed his eyes upward, he saw that she had a slim face with ice blue eyes. Her long blonde hair fell along her sides as she looked down on him. She raised an eyebrow when she realised he's awake.
"What's your name, boy?" she asked in a cold, but oddly calming voice.
Peter immediately tried to sit up, but he more like jumped out of bed. His muscles never felt so strong. He looked around the large white room decorated with silver and green furniture. He looked down at himself and saw the body of a five-year-old. What the fuck? Why was he so small?
Wait…why shouldn't he be? Since when did he start using the F-word?
"What?" was all that came out of his mouth.
"I asked you what your name is," she repeated. She spoke so differently that he could barely understand her.
"Well, Peter, I'm your mother now."