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Peter Parker is a wizard. Not a magical creature, not a dark arts practitioner, not a threat - a wizard. He’s a 15-ish-year-old Ilvermorny drop-out who ended up tucking his wand away after Ben’s death with his aunt May living in blissful - albeit slightly suspicious - ignorance ever since. And he’d like to keep it that way.
He’s a wizard.
Well, technically, he’s an ex-wizard. And a superhero. A superhero-ex-wizard, but an ex-wizard nonetheless.
Unfortunately, the Ministry of Magic didn’t get the full memo.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Just the one. Are you aware of your usage of underage magic in a public, no-maj-populated area, as prohibited by the Ministry of Magic’s guidelines?”
Peter tilts his head to the side, “Y’know, I don’t recall… might have some brain damage from being bumped around when I was dragged down here like a sack of potatoes.”
The MACUSA worker throws his hands up in defeat. This is the seventh time they’ve tried going down this route of questioning and he’s very much enjoying abusing his status as a minor so they can’t use any truth-spell-nonsense without a guardian’s legal consent. And, since Ben was the only other person who knew about his magic and May is a no-maj, that’s not happening any time soon.
The guy is standing with his back away from Peter, who takes his sweet time looking over the files on the table in front of him while Mister MACUSA is likely restraining himself from sucker-punching a child.
Peter stares at him for a minute before disinterestedly turning his attention back to the pictures scattered across the tabletop. There’s about a dozen there, of him in various fights as Spider-Man. They’re not especially flattering, considering most have him being flung from his webs or thrown into the sides of buildings. He’s also not especially surprised they figured out his identity - magic is useful like that.
The guy, who is starting to resemble a tomato in terms of how red-faced he’s getting, turns sharply and glares at Peter. If the teen could have spontaneously combusted from sheer force of concentrated malice he would have been a pile of ashes thirty minutes ago.
“You have been seen using magic in public on over four-hundred and fifty occasions,” He bites out, shoving a photo forward for good measure, “Do you have any idea how many no-majs would need to be obliviated? There’s no use in denying it. We have all the evidence we need. Unless you want to give me another reason you’ve been seen using the Sticky-Limb charm on a daily basis other than playing superhero?”
Peter raises a brow. He’s not quite sure how ‘oh yeah, non-magical science made a spider that turned me partially into a spider so now I can do spider-things’ would go down, so he just squints at the pictures again.
“Well,” He started, as slow as he could be without getting past this guy’s restraint for child-punching, “You wanna know what I think? I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
Mister Tomato’s - as Peter has dubbed him - face gets even redder, if possible, and Peter grins like a shark. With so many secrets in his life on a daily basis, he’s enjoying being able to speak the (not quite honest) truth with little consequences - the ‘annoying a government employee’ part is just a happy benefit.
“Let me make this clear,” Mister Tomato takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, “You are not a superhero . Tony Stark, Bruce Banner - whoever it is that you are trying to mimic - are. Not. Wizards. You are. There is no other possible explanation for your ‘superpowers'. You are at a stalemate here. Confess, or forfeit your wand. ”
Peter grits his teeth. Wizards could really be so dull. At least he had Ben to show him the benefits of no-maj science before his brain could be hammered into a ‘wizards are superior we don’t need toasters’ mentality. He’s also not sure this whole thing is entirely legal.
Instead of knocking the guy out and busting through the wall just to show the guy that his anti-magic charms were useless, because it’s not magic - and it’s not like his hands are bound - Peter sighs.
“I was actually going for a ‘Doctor Strange’ type of thing, but good guess.”
Here, Mister Tomato actually slams a hand down on the table. Peter’s spidey-sense alerts him before he does so he doesn’t jump, but his eyes do widen in surprise. That might have been a bit too far.
The guy opens his mouth, probably to berate Peter or weasel a confession out of his poorly-worded previous sentence when there’s a knock on the door.
Mister Tomato glowers at Peter and snaps out, “What?”
The door opens to reveal a meek-looking woman with a wand visibly in her side pocket. She looks almost like a nurse - if nurses were prepared to execute people via memory goo pool party. (Which, Peter would know since they passed that room on their way here - because someone - and he’d probably wring their neck when he found out who - thought he was headed for the damn execution block and not the interrogation room.)
“Mister Parker’s legal guardian has arrived.”
Mister Tomato’s eye twitches.
Peter blinks, “What?”
The nurse purses her lips at their reactions and steps aside to open the door. Peter gapes at the person that steps through.
“You’ve really gotten yourself in a mess this time, haven’t you, Peter?” Natasha quips with a raised brow, the ever-unimpressed spider-mom.
Peter can’t help the goofy grin spreading over his face, “Sorry, Miss Romanoff. It’s a… delicate situation. Couldn’t exactly call my lawyer.”
She eyes Mister Tomato disinterestedly, who has gone slack-jawed in shock, “You don’t have a lawyer. Now, come on, Stark is losing his head wondering why you’ve blipped off the grid.”
Ten minutes, one badass spider-mom, one tired and hungry Peter, two fuming MACUSA officials, one mousy, apologetic nurse, and one randomly-encountered, starry-eyed intern later, the pair are walking down the front steps like they own the place. Which, they might. Peter’s not actually sure how much sway Natasha has to be able to pull enough strings to spring him from magic-incarceration without any civilian obliviation or legal disputes.
There are more than a few people staring at her as they walk by, and Peter can tell she feels somewhat suspicious at the unwanted attention. Not uncomfortable - because this is Black Widow - but unhappy with the mass of prying eyes.
She glances across the street and then turns to Peter, “You want hot chocolate?”
The hot chocolate is, simply put, heavenly - especially after being stuck in a borderline frozen interrogation room with the coldest metal table and chair he’s ever sat on for two or three hours. He nurses his cup and gives Natasha a curious look. He feels more like a wide-eyed fanboy than ever.
“So,” He starts, grinning while stirring his drink, “Magic, huh?”
The Avenger smiles and sips her own drink - almost clear tea, with no ice, which Peter can only assume is because it’s A) easier to spy on people through a glass cup with, and B) easier to make sure your drink hasn’t been spiked. He decides to add that to the list of ‘Assumed Spy Stuff’ he’s accumulated since his total number of super-spies met increased to include Bucky Barnes. (Who he’s 90% sure still counts even if he’s an ex-evil-organization-spy).
“Magic.” She agrees.
Peter grins again, feeling giddy with surprise and more than a bit of relief. It’s a weight off his shoulders to know that if he ever has magic-based issues, he has someone he can call.
Natasha glances at the window - they’re in a corner-ish seat, another assumed-spy-thing, “We might be here a while until Stark picks you up. So,” She smiles conspiratorially into her cup, “Want to hear what really happened in Budapest?”
Peter blinks, “Wait - Mister Barton is…?”
“Yep.”
The teen grins again, feeling hyper and lightheaded with his newfound knowledge, “This is the best day of my life.”
Natasha chuckles lightly - which is usually foreign in the presence of said super-spy, though not uncommon when in the presence of one Peter Parker. He wiggles in his seat, tucking his elbows close to him to rest his chin on the edge of his mug while waiting for the story. The super-spy raises a brow in amusement at his eagerness.
“Well, it all started with a botched Stupefy Jinx on Clint’s part…”
And, as Peter found it important to reiterate, it really was the best day of his life.