And Harry didn't.
Holding on to the steering wheel for dear life, the younger Osborn leaned forward, attempting to get a better view of the car he was following or, perhaps, the road. Neither came, and frustration found its way to his features, not for the first time that night.
"Damn it, Peter," he mumbled, eyes narrowing in concentration and annoyance.
Earlier that night, his roommate, Peter Parker, had asked him to follow him somewhere. Where exactly, Harry wasn't sure. Whether it was because the other boy hadn't told him, or because he just couldn't be bothered to break his concentration in this weather, he couldn't remember. And for that reason, the auburn-haired youth pinned it on the weather. The weather was too bad, he couldn't be expected to try and remember what Peter had said, though half of him wanted to try to remember why he had agreed to this. He had known how bad the weather had been when the two of them set out.
Beeping drew him out of his train of thought, and his eyes made out the blurs of taillights directly in front of him. Not Peter's though, the metal around the lights was too light to be Peter's dark car. Either way, however, his foot found the breaks swiftly, but the young Osborn's car did not stop - the water on the road wouldn't allow it. So Harry tried the next best thing. Swerving.
Turing the wheel like a madman, he managed to escape a crash just barely, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. Now he had to worry about slowing down for the wicked curve in the road up ahead that he could just make out in the rainy blur. Again, he turned the wheel, foot riding the break steadily, all knowledge of driving in the rain he had learned at school fluttering out the window in his near panic.
This time, however, his wild attempt to escape an accident didn't work. This time, the wetness of the road made his car skid towards the curve - and the ditch beyond it - instead of away.
And as his car slid helplessly towards the curve, the rain stopped dead, allowing him to make out Peter's car. Peter's car, which sat safely on the road's shoulder. Peter's car, which had Pete himself hanging out the window, calling to the young Osborn, as if protesting his spin out would actually get him to stop. Instead, however, Harry just continued to glide down the rain slick road in what felt like slow motion.
I'm going to die, Harry thought, taking a final glance at what would be his fate before closing his eyes. It's over.
The sound of shattering glass a second later, however, caused his eyes to open again. He was still skidding towards the ditch - no, now the car was falling into it - but the air seemed thick somehow, slowing time. Beyond that, above him, feet still firmly planted on the road was his father, arm extended, hand offered to his son.
"Dad!" he called back, his words falling into the ditch, as though they had been weighted down.
"Grab on, Harry!"
Fingers that were now wet with rain that had suddenly started up again reached out to wrap around his father's hand, only to miss. And, still in slow motion, the earth continued to reach up for him and his car, distancing him from the one thing that could save him. Not Liz, not Peter, but his own father.
"Dad!" the younger Osborn shouted again, this time more out of fear than relief.
Norman's reply came in the form of something he had heard his father say the day before. "The offer still stands. ...But you have to show me that you want it."
"Please, don't go. Don't leave me again."
Reaching out a second time, Harry's hand found his father's and in a single lift, Norman had pulled his son out of the falling car. Time snapped back into place, and a second later, something crunched loudly in the pit below, the pit that he had until just seconds before been falling into.
He was safe, his father had saved him, not Peter. Not Peter.
It was with that thought that Harry snapped awake suddenly. Blinking, his eyes searched his empty room at Tudor Hills for the rain, or the car he had been driving, or his father. But none of the things he had been looking for seemed to be there, seemed to even exist. As the disorientation of dreaming passed, the younger Osborn realized that it had been just that. A dream. Yet, somehow, he felt that it was a message. A warning. And that brought a frown to his face.
Maybe his father had been right...