Round 1, Bahrain - Qualifying
Aside from the engine – heart of a F1 car – the other fundamental parts are the wings. During races, if one of the two is broken, the car is essentially fucked up.
The front and rear wings are the equivalent of lungs in the human body: without them, air cannot flow through the body. The same applies to an F1 car, which is why during a race, when damaged, wings are to be replaced ASAP.
At this exact moment, all Sirius can think is that what he feels must be how a racing car would feel with broken wings.
No air in, no air out. Losing grip of reality. Unability to move, a puddle in the ground.
Sirius had always known his family was damaged. However, he never understood the extent until this very moment, when the mere sight of his former baby brother has the destructive force of an atomic bomb.
Ironically, Sirius had spent a week preparing for this moment. In front of the mirror, with James and Peter – even Minnie – they imagined all the possible scenarios for the encounter. Sirius thought he had built a shield, strong and impenetrable.
Nobody anticipated Regulus would have no reaction, simply ignoring Sirius. Which, honestly, was an oversight on his part. Indifference is the worst medicine – Walburga often repeated – indifference means you are superior. It was hilarious when Sirius wielded indifference against anything associated with the Black family during his last year living with them. Against everyone except Regulus, of course.
Being at the receiving end of indifference, though, is no fun.
Sirius had hoped Regulus still love him. Or hate him. Hate is only another face of love, isn’t it? Indifference, however, is nothing.
To Regulus, Sirius is nothing.
It should feel good. It should lift a weight off his shoulders, allowing him to finally pretend he no longer feels responsible for his brother.
But Sirius cannot unlearn more than two decades of caring for him. He cannot forget spending more than a decade with one goal: loving his baby brother, protecting the one perfect thing the Blacks ever created.
Somewhere in the paddock, Sirius feels as though his heart has just been ripped from his body. Without lungs or a heart, he cannot function. Even though Sirius is vaguely aware of movement around him, somehow still breathing, a loud and rapid thudding resonating in his ears.
>>
After the briefing with the mechanics, Peter is walking back to Pegasus’ paddock to check in with James and Sirius. He’s quite happy with how things are going, practice yesterday was pretty good – Pegasus and PitSnake were neck to neck, promising a tight but rewarding season.
Peter is whistling a little tune, feeling confident for the qualy later today. The weather is great, the cars are ready, and no major incidents between Sirius and his family have occurred. Well, aside from the heavy glaring with Bellatrix and the light hysterical tantrum Sirius threw when Walburga falsely congratulated Dumbledore for last season’s work. But Peter is counting any minor incident as a win.
Suddenly, Peter is shoved aside by a man sprinting wildly – which, rude. He turns to check if the guy is okay, because Peter is a very considerate person, but the man is already back on his feet and running. However, Peter is observant, and he notices two things:
First, the Star-Racing attire. Second, tears falling to the ground.
Unfortunately, the guy had his face buried in his hands, so Peter couldn’t catch who it was.
Peter shudders and continues on his way, hoping his shoulder won’t bruise.
It will.
Peter is going to sport a big, fat bruise on his left shoulder tomorrow as another guy aggressevily stumbles into him.
Rude, again.
“Sorry, sorry, uh… have you seen a crazy man?” the guy asks, grabbing Peter’s arm to steady him.
Crazy man, indeed.
“Went that way,” Peter replies bitterly, pointing in the direction the rude sprinter had gone.
This time, Peter gets a good look at the guy’s face. He recognizes him as Evan Rosier. As Peter is about to reprimand the dumb rookie, Rosier is already running off again.
Whatever.
Why is Rosier, a rookie from Meteorace, chasing someone from Star-Racing?
Curious.
As Peter ponders the situation, he arrives back at the Pegasus paddock, where the atmosphere is alarming, to put it lightly. Qualifying starts in less than two hours, and James is hovering nervously over a spooked and unresponsive Sirius.
The only possible cause of such distress is Reg-
Okay, everything makes sense.
“What did he do?” Peter doesn’t need to specify who.
James, startled by Peter’s sudden appearance, looks up, but Sirius doesn’t even register that Peter has joined them.
“I wish it had been something, but…” James hesitates, searching for the words. “He ignored Sirius, and then Sirius started hyperventilating.”
Worst-case scenario. Wonderful.
Peter glances at his watch, calculating how much time he has to pull Sirius out of his panic attack and ensure he’s in a safe state to drive.
One hour and 43 minutes to qualification, with 20 minutes needed to get to the pit.
>>
Finally, he catches up on Regulus, but Evan is not sure how to proceed. Yeah, as much as the lie felt like a betrayal, Evan can’t deny that he has always cared deeply for Regulus. Maybe not as much as he does for Barty, but close. However, with all the secrecy surrounding Regulus, seeing him now – dried tears on the cheeks and a murdereous look on his face – leaves Evan completely clueless about what to do.
Ignoring him and heading back to the paddocks would surely be the wise choice.
But Pie would kill him if he turned his back on a friend who clearly needs reassurance that someone is standing by his side, no matter how ugly the situation gets.
So, Evan gathers some courage, channels his inner Pandora – cause she always knows what to do – and, despite Regulus is indeed plotting at least ten different ways to get away with murder, Evan stops right in front of him.
“As much as a murder sounds delightful, I’m not eager to die Reg. Quit plotting my demise and let me be here for you,” Evan says, cringing at his own horrible attempt at a joke. It doesn’t help that Regulus seems to have settled on a particularly promising idea – for Evan’s end.
“Here to report to my dear family, Rosier?” Regulus asks with anything but kindness. “Didn’t think you wanted to be Walburga’s bitch.”
If there’s one thing Evan is proud of, it’s his ability to find beauty in everything. Beauty in the small and the big, the bad and the good, in people who believe they don’t deserve it. Evan values this ability because it allows him to see the world differently from others – well, except for his sister, but Pie never cared much about beauty for its own sake. Evan’s perspective helps him see the best in the world.
But this doesn’t make him naïve. He’s not blind to deception, nor does he tolerate people who are willingly, unapologetically bad.
What truly makes him lose his composure, though, is when people he cares about are cruel to him for no reason.
That’s why Evan isn’t shy about confronting Regulus anymore. It’s okay to be hurt – it’s not okay to insult someone for no reason.
Instead of being careful, Evan steps menacingly toward Regulus, making him flinch.
He doesn’t care.
Evan is dead silent. Words aren’t necessary when his eyes are saying it all: a big fuck you.
Regulus is going pale, paler than he is already, the murderous look on his face fading. The mask is slipping leaving raw hurt exposed on his features.
Evan doesn’t care.
All he’s waiting for is an apology. Because many things can be forgiven in friendship. Regulus is a web of flaws, held together by sheer force of will, and Evan admires and respects him for it.
But there is no excuse for cruelty when someone is trying to be there for you. Fuck Regulus if he doesn’t understand that.
By now, Evan has managed to corner Regulus against a wall. He could turn his back, leave him there alone, because this is the brand of cruelty that Evan is sure would break Regulus.
Then, Regulus says the most unlikely thing:
“Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice small.
In that fleeting moment, Evan catches a glimpse of all the abuse Regulus has endured.
That is not an excuse for cruelty.
>>
Vulnerability and fragility.
Two seemingly silly words, yet two feelings that cut deeply into Regulus.
To be vulnerable is to expose himself to Walburga’s violent words.
To be fragile is to willingly ask Orion to “toughen him up.”
Vulnerability and fragility are two friends Regulus welcomes only when he is alone, in the quiet hours of the night, with Sirius’s star as the sole witness to his absolute crumbling.
Vulnerability and fragility are the kind of friends Regulus keeps close to his heart, hidden, because to show them to the world would be shameful.
Shame is exactly what he feels in front of Evan. The only shield left to defend himself and his dear companions is, to Regulus, cruelty. This is what he has learned. This is what he has become.
Cruel to the world.
Cruel to people who might care about him.
But Regulus is no fool; he knows affection is a tool, a weapon to be wielded when it’s convenient.
He won’t willingly surrender his control over vulnerability and fragility, handing it over to someone else.
But Evan isn’t speaking. He’s standing there, hurt by Regulus’s cruel words, yet unyielding. Intimidating. Cornering him.
It’s reminiscent of what Sirius used to do whenever Regulus let himself become the worst version of a Black. Sirius, taller and stronger, would look him up and down with that expression that clearly said Regulus better change his attitude – because behaving like this made him undeserving of Sirius’s love.
And despite everything, Regulus has always wanted one thing: his older brother’s love.
It’s the only love he’s ever had, the only love he never wanted to lose.
He had to let it go eventually, though, because that love would never return.
But now, as Evan towers over him, taller and stronger, Regulus feels a memory stir and unblocks something deep inside him. His vulnerability and fragility seep through the cracks, and with them, his forbidden need for love.
Sliding down the wall, Regulus sits there, back pressed still against it. He arches an eyebrow, a silent invitation for Evan to join.
It’s cold despite the warm February air in Bahrain.
The silence is heavy. Regulus doesn’t know what to say or whether he even can explain the turmoil twisting inside him.
Evan leans back, resting his head against the wall with his eyes closed, unbothered.
“I...” Regulus starts. He should say something, shouldn’t he? But nothing feels right. Everything is wrong.
“Spare the words; they won’t make this better,” Evan says flatly, the simplicity of his words hitting Regulus like a slap. So simple, as if patience can mend the broken pieces of his soul.
“You shouldn’t have seen me like this” Regulus mutters, feeling at least this much needs to be said.
“Better me than your bitch of a mother.”
“Indeed.”
For a while, they stay like this, silent, eyes closed, drowing in the distant hum of acitvity in the paddocks. Slowly, Regulus feels himself calming down. He begins to sort through his emotions, rearranging them into priorities and needs.
Right now, sadness and anger are useless. Determination and the need to prove himself – those are what matter.
“Looks like you found Bob,” surprised by the interference in his thoughts, Regulus snaps back to reality and his met by a petite girl with blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, a silver suit and golden boots. She looks oddly familiar.
“Pie! When did you get here? I didn’t get any texts,” Evan exclaims, standing to hug the girl.
“You didn’t want to be interrupted. And Barty kept me entertained,” she replies with a smile.
“Yeah, we should probably head back.”
“Not to be rude, but who are you, and who is Bob?” Regulus asks, still thoroughly confused.
Only now do Evan and the girl seem to remember his presence, too caught up in their reunion.
Smiling sheepishly, Evan makes a theatrical bow. “Regulus, meet my twin sister, Pandora.”
Ah. That explains the similarities.
“And Bob?” Regulus presses, not letting it go.
“Bob is the wall,” Pandora says matter-of-factly. “It’s my favorite this weekend.”
She says it as though naming a wall is the most normal thing in the world.
Regulus stares, incredulous. Her favorite wall? How many times was she dropped on her head as a baby?
“Come on, Regulus, don’t be stubborn. Bob helped you out of your early disarray. You should be grateful,” Pandora adds, completely unfazed.
Regulus is on the verge of laughing. He glances at Evan, searching for a hint of humor. Shockingly, he finds none.
This conversation is absolutely nuts.
“Let’s get back…” mutters Regulus, completely incredulous of Bob the wall.
>>
Fifty minutes.
Sirius is at least responsive enough to have drunk some water, changed into his racing suit, and is now speaking in one-word sentences.
Peter will take it as a win.
He is pondering whether he should ask James for some help – though James is already worried enough and needs to focus on his own qualifying – bring Sirius to the paddock already (but he would need to face Moody and his unhelpful lack of empathy), or ask McGonagall to come.
The woman might be strict, authoritative, and strong-willed, but she is an absolute force when Sirius has his moments. Minerva has a nurturing aura and tender grace when she wants to – it doesn’t even affect her professionalism – and over the years, Sirius has started to regard her as a maternal figure.
Well, not the best thing, but whatever makes Sirius more comfortable.
“Peter, you can go with the mechanics, make sure all is in order. I can take it from here,” McGonagall says, chin up, hands clasped behind her back, perfect slick bun, and impeccable appearance.
Peter glances one last time at Sirius, waiting for his nod of approval to leave, and heads to the pit lane. On his way, he makes a mental to-do list.
First, make sure the car settings are good. Then, check the data, let the AI run through all the strategies, and finally, check on James.
James, who is ready in the pit lane, focused with his headphones on and making a little dance. He’s definitely listening to One Way or Another, judging by the choreography.
Moody is glaring at James. Probably, when Moody told James to "get in the zone," he meant deep breathing, meditation, or reflex exercises – not James giving his best concert on the pit lane, with Mary MacDonald and Marlene McKinnon joining in. When people say camaraderie doesn’t exist in Formula 1, they clearly never met these three.
Peter waves to Ted, who’s chatting with his wife Andromeda, smiling while watching their daughter. The little monster is bossing around a poor engineer assigned to babysitting duties.
Unfortunately for this GP, Pegasus's box in the pit lane is positioned right between PitSnake and Star-Racing. Peter is pretty sure it’s not a coincidence – someone (cough Orion Black cough) must have had something to do with it.
Twenty minutes till qualifying.
Peter sees Minerva in the box. He looks for Sirius, who seems focused on the drive ahead. Sirius gives Peter a quick thumbs up.
Alright, Peter is slightly less stressed.
James is heading to his car and quickly hugs Sirius on the way. Peter catches up to James and asks if all is good. They have a last-minute check-up, and James promises to keep an eye out for Sirius on the track.
Peter takes his position on the engineer wall.
Looking around at the chaos, Peter makes a mental note of everything he notices.
Riddle and Bellatrix have been oddly discreet, while Crouch has been loud since stepping into the paddock yesterday. Peter catches a glimpse of blonde hair – not the Malfoy kind – in the Meteorace box and sees the Rosier twins. He makes a mental note to have a chat with Pandora. She might be weird, but she always has the best insights for the race.
Peter also notices that things are unusually still in the Star-Racing box. Orion and Walburga are in the stands, looking like hawks ready to catch their prey. A chill runs down Peter’s spine.
Five minutes.
Cars are lining up in the pit lane.
James will be the first on track, followed by Riddle and Snape. None of the Blacks are heading out yet – Sirius, Bellatrix, and Regulus are all waiting. Meteorace is at the end of the line, with Ted closing it.
Two minutes.
Everybody is ready on Pegasus's wall. Moody is to Peter’s right, Minerva to his left, as always. Dumbledore is somewhere in the stands, likely with Crouch Sr., discussing politics and nonsense.
Thirty seconds.
The tension is at its peak.
Only Narcissa Malfoy, a diva amid the chaos, remains as calm as a monk.
Green light: qualifying begins.
>>
Qualifying has begun. James is on track, starting his lap to set his first time. Sirius is entering the pit lane now, followed by Regulus. He knows it's no coincidence – just a way to put pressure on him. But Sirius is determined to ignore everything around him. All he has to do is one thing: make it to Q3.
“Remember, Sirius, precision is key. Be careful on the braking at turn 10, and avoid track limits,” Minnie gives her final advice through the radio. It calms Sirius.
The outlap goes smoothly, and the track is clear for his first qualifying lap.
“Purple in sector 1, Sirius. Keep it up,” Minnie announces. “Careful on understirring, too much pressure on the rear left tire.”
“Car on turn 11,” she continues. “Last turn, Sirius. Go full throttle for the straight.”
Sirius crosses the finish line. “What’s the position?”
“It’s provisional P5, Sirius,” Minnie answers.
“Who’s ahead of me?”
“P1 to P4: Regulus, James, Riddle, and Snape.”
“Shit!” Sirius exclaims.
“Get back to the boxes. You’ll get another shot.”
He does, but it's not enough. Sirius finishes its Q1 in P5.
>>
Back in the paddock, waiting for Q2 to start, Regulus focuses on clearing his mind. He’s asked the mechanics to bring a screen so he can review his laps.
He’s not ashamed to admit that taking P1 in Q1 felt almost too easy. Mimicking Sirius’ driving worked well, but he made key adjustments at turns 5 through 7 and turn 10, maximizing his car’s traction and eking out just enough of an advantage.
Now, however, Regulus needs to find ways to further differentiate his driving. The gap between the top five is razor-thin – mere milliseconds. Riddle, in particular, is too close for comfort. To solidify his lead, Regulus knows he’ll need every edge he can muster.
For Q2, he insists on starting first to ensure a clear track.
Two minutes to go.
Regulus takes position at the front of the pit lane. Everything is running according to plan – until James Potter appears at the last moment, stealing the lead position in line. Now, Regulus has no choice but to shadow the Gryffindor-red car for the session. As if following that obnoxious color through Q1 hadn’t been enough, now it’s back to haunt him.
It’s not entirely Regulus’ fault. His engineer, Slughorn, is an utter disaster – a jolly buffoon treating Formula 1 like a personal meet-and-greet with celebrities. Regulus often wonders how Star-Racing ended up with engineers like Slughorn and Umbridge. Did Dracula and Cruella select them via stupidity contest, or did they simply kill all competent candidates?
The red light turns green.
Outlap begins. Regulus focuses on bringing the tires to temperature, testing braking points, and managing overstirring. The traction feels fantastic, but the understirring still needs work.
As James begins his lap, so does Regulus. Sticking close enough for DRS, he plans to exploit every opportunity to gain speed on the straights.
James is fast – faster than Regulus expected. The red car pushes the limits of traction, taking turn 8 with precision and blazing through turn 9 at full speed, braking only at the last possible second.
For a split second, Regulus is distracted, caught off guard by Potter’s boldness. He nearly loses the car, losing 0.04 seconds in the process.
“Fuck, Regulus, get your shit together,” he snarls to himself.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, boy,” Slughorn chimes in over the radio.
“Shut the fuck up,” Regulus snaps. “Keep your useless commentary to yourself.”
The engineer wisely goes silent, save for a brief update: Potter has gone purple in sector 2. If Regulus wants P1, he’ll have to dominate sector 3.
Regulus tightens his grip on the wheel and focuses. Using DRS to its full advantage, he closes the gap between his car and Potter’s. His braking is razor-sharp, each turn executed with surgical precision. By the final corners, Regulus is inches from Potter’s car, his determination palpable.
Crossing the finish line, Regulus sees the result: Purple in sector 3. P1.
He exhales sharply, already strategizing his next lap. For now, though, he heads back to the box. He’ll wait until the final three minutes of Q2 to return to the track and seal his lead.
>>
Evan crosses the finish line, it is provisional P9. He exhales, already strategizing how to shave off milliseconds and secure a spot in Q3. Evan also wonders how Barty is going. It would be epic if they both made it through.
Back in the box, Evan watches the screen in front of him as Barty starts his lap. It’s just him and Lockhart on track.
Barty’s driving is as chaotic as ever – like he’s in a rally, not F1. Hugging the walls with reckless precision, he takes turns with such aggression that it feels like he’s barely clinging to control, drifting through each corner as if daring the car to betray him. Lockhart, trailing behind, looks laughably out of place – a grandpa on the highway, utterly outclassed.
Evan can’t stop himself from smirking. That’s just Barty. Wild, unpredictable, but undeniably skilled. Watching him drive feels like a window into his personality. Barty’s approach to racing probably mirrors his approach to… other things.
Rough. Unforgettable. Mighty. Right on the edge, yet never tipping over.
Evan can feel it, in his stomach and in his hands, how it would be to tame Barty, having full control of the beast. Showing him what intimacy truly should feel – or, well, this is what Barty should show Evan actually. Because Evan is not sure what is so effable in intimacy.
The thought evaporates as Evan’s focus snaps back to the track.
Red flag.
Wait, why is there a red flag on track? Did Barty just do some bullshit that put him in danger?
Evan shoots to his feet, his eyes glued to the monitors, searching for any sign of Barty’s car. His breath catches in his throat.
A car approaches the pit lane.
It’s silver.
It’s Barty.
Evan lets out a long, shaky breath as relief washes over him.
“Why so white, Rosier? Seen a ghost?” Barty calls out, his grin wild and teasing as he steps out of the car.
“Just making sure you’re not mad about scraping into P10, Crouch.” Evan’s reply is casual, but his voice is steady now, his cool facade slipping back into place.
Barty leans closer, voice low but playful. “Why would I be mad, when the view of your back is always such a pleasure, darling?”
Evan freezes for half a second, his composure threatening to crack. But the blood rushing to his cheeks ensures one thing – he’s no longer pale as a sheet.
>>
"Take that man’s license already. He’s a hazard for us competent drivers,” mutters Regulus, watching Lockhart’s dramatic spin into the wall. A spin that, tragically, didn’t land the idiot in the hospital where he belongs.
“Little cousin’s got some venom for a star,” Bellatrix chimes in, her voice smooth and mocking.
Regulus rolls his eyes, deeply annoyed at having his perfectly enjoyable rant interrupted. “Don’t you look cheery, Bellatrix,” he retorts, biting his tongue before he adds – did you finally get laid, or are there spiderwebs growing down there? Façade and all, after all.
“Someone is bitter not to be first,” Bellatrix drawls with a smirk that could sour milk.
Oh, of course. Regulus clenches his jaw, a flicker of irritation flaring in his chest. He’s just lost P1 to both her and Riddle, thanks to the improving track conditions. Easier laps, simpler gains. Not that Riddle’s lap wasn’t objectively impressive—it always is—but Bellatrix’s placement was pure dumb luck.
“Bellatrix,” Riddle’s low, commanding voice cuts through the air. “Do not bother the little star. He’s proving to be worth something.”
Regulus stiffens under the weight of Riddle’s gaze, sharp and calculating, a laser burning through his skin like it’s cataloguing every secret he might bear.
To his slight satisfaction, Bellatrix looks almost embarrassed. Well, as embarrassed as someone like her can manage – which, apparently, looks a lot like hanging on Riddle’s every word as though they’re gospel.
And now, Regulus has a new, horrifying thought: have they…? Oh, Merlin, no. He banishes the image as quickly as it comes.
Riddle, however, doesn’t let up. “Little star,” he says with a tone that feels less like a compliment and more like a reminder of some unspoken threat, “keep this up, and we might…” have a problem, a thin smile spreads on his lips, veiling a clear threat “...get along.”
Regulus bites the inside of his cheek so hard he almost draws blood. He hates that nickname. Despises it.
Once upon a time, as a boy, he had loved hearing it. When a certain nameless ex-brother would use it, it had felt warm, safe, like a secret gift meant just for him. But not anymore. Things are different now. No one is allowed to call him that – not Sirius, not anyone.
And certainly not Tom fucking Riddle.
Regulus clenches his fists at his sides, his expression smooth and unaffected, even as his thoughts rage.
How does no one see it? The rotten soul hiding beneath Riddle’s forced smiles and calculated kindness. His aura of decay that no amount of charisma or perfect bone structure can conceal.
Honestly, Sirius and Potter have nothing on Riddle’s ability to worm his way under someone’s skin and take up residence there.
Regulus would slap himself for having such thoughts. Oh, he is going to punish himself later. Perhaps an icy shower followed by an extended evening of adressing his procreators in a reventful manner would be distraction enough to VERY profane thoughts.
Down the pit lane, Regulus spots the figure of a thoroughly disgruntled Lockhart. It’s honestly a hilarious sight – the man strutting as if he didn’t just obliterate a wall with his car. There’s a stiffness in his gait, an air of overblown confidence that might have been more convincing if he weren’t trailing a metaphorical cloud of embarrassment behind him.
Regulus doesn’t laugh, though. He has a reputation to maintain, unlike Sirius, whose laugh rings out over the roaring engines, loud and unapologetic.
It’s almost distracting – almost – until Lockhart does the thing.
Walking. Waving.
And all in one direction.
Straight toward him.
Regulus doesn’t hesitate any longer. He turns on his heel and escapes without so much as a glance back. There’s only one thought on his mind:
Barty and Evan better be ready to get hysterically yelled at.
>>
As predicted, the stewards have decided not to resume Q2. Peter feels the decision is utter bullshit, but at least James and Sirius made it through to Q3. Surprisingly, Meteorace still has both drivers in, while Star-Racing lost Snape, who’s stuck at P11. Mary MacDonald’s frustration at finishing P12 is plain to see—her wild gesturing in the Amazones’ box could rival Moody on a bad day – but at least Marlene McKinnon is still in contention. Bluebird, though, owes its survival to Meadowes, the sole competent driver on their team this season. It’s a sentiment widely shared in the paddock – Lockhart’s ability to drive remains highly questionable.
Sure, they say he’s all charm. Peter can see the appeal: the hair even a Malfoy might envy, the dazzling smile that could rival the Prewett twin (the one who models), the lean physique Sirius dreams of achieving. But brains? Not part of the package.
Anyhow, Peter is observing the chaos around him and he is sure he might be temporarly dreaming when he notices a casual Lockhart walking, waving, at none other than Regulus Black. And Regulus Black, very unelegantly, flying the scene, likely interrupting rudely a conversation he was having with Riddle and Bellatrix.
Guess where is Regulus running away? To Crouch and Rosier. Ready to yell at them, perhaps, ponders Peter.
This screams drama. And gossip. And Peter is here for this.
Unfortunately, it’ll have to wait – his attention snaps back to the numbers and data flashing before him. Q3 strategies need to be finalized. Sirius is doing better than expected; he might manage the second row. James, meanwhile, is performing spectacularly, with stats that rival Riddle’s and match Regulus’.
Regulus has been the revelation of the season. Peter never doubted he’d be good, but this good? Unbelievable. Every lap Regulus runs either mirrors the last or improves upon it. He played the long game, hiding his talent during free practice and revealing it only at the most opportune moment.
“Reckon who’s taking P1?” Peter asks aloud, half to himself.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle. “James.”
“Albus, you’re jinxing the boy,” grumbles Moody, sotto voce but full of irritation. “The little Black is…” He stops short, refusing to admit Regulus’ superiority.
McGonagall, unbothered by such hang-ups, speaks plainly. “The Black boys were raised for this. It’s not surprising. James, Sirius, and Regulus all have talent, but each has different strengths. Adding Riddle to the mix… This season will be a long one.”
“Ever so wise, Minerva,” Dumbledore replies with a smile, earning a mostly unnoticeable blush from her.
Peter remains silent, running through his mental calculations. He’s already devised a strategy to secure James the lead and Sirius second place: ensure they’re the last to run their laps in Q3, one following the other.
It’s the perfect way to knock baby Black off his perch.
>>
Evan is ready. He’s excited. This is Q3 – Barty is right on his heels, and he feels electric. Whatever happens now, he’s determined to give it his all. Pie will be proud of him, no matter what. And that’s what really matters: securing points tomorrow.
As he drives, Evan decides to borrow a touch of recklessness from Barty. He loosens his grip on caution, allows himself to be a little less attentive, a little more daring.
For a moment, he feels sexier. Not that it should matter, but the surge of dominance, the power coursing through him, feeds his ego. It’s intoxicating.
Then, a flicker of realization: adrenaline is taking over. His thoughts are spiraling into the unfiltered chaos of a man possessed, teetering on mania. Almost like Barty’s way of thinking.
Does that bother Evan? Not in the slightest.
He enters Turn 7, narrowly avoiding a collision with a reckless Fabian Prewett, who nearly cuts him off. Ahead, Meadowes is also on her lap. Evan can’t help but admire her. The girl’s got talent – fearless, though not unhinged like Barty. There’s a sharpness to her style that commands respect.
Evan’s met her a few times since moving in with Barty. She’s formidable, worthy of the Amazones, though that team already has McKinnon and MacDonald embodying its fiery spirit. Still, Meadowes deserves her place in F1, even if it means driving for Bluebird with that guy – Lockhart.
Well, dickheads are everywhere, Evan muses.
He pushes harder, full throttle now. The sensation is pure ecstasy. For a moment, nothing else exists. The wind burns his eyes, the g-forces press heavily on his neck, and he’s completely breathless. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating all at once – feeling everything and nothing at the same time.
“It’s P9 for you, Rosier,” his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. “Crouch is P10. You’ll both start from the fifth row tomorrow.”
It doesn’t matter.
What matters is getting out of the car and sharing this euphoric moment with Pie, his twin, his sister. And with Barty.
Always Barty.
>>
Peter had been crystal clear: stick close to James. Stay right behind him, and you can lock in P1 and P2, he said. Sirius thought it was a brilliant plan, a stroke of genius. Honestly, it was amazing he was still driving so well after his earlier meltdown – Sirius himself wouldn’t have bet on it.
Things were looking up.
But of course, Regulus Black, that motherfucker, had to ruin everything. Sirius’s baby brother, with his infuriating poise, had decided to slip between him and James in the slickest, most annoyingly flawless maneuver imaginable. Sirius almost wanted to compliment him.
Almost.
Now Sirius was stuck staring at the back of Regulus’s car – black, sleek, and soul-crushingly obnoxious. All black. What is his obsession with black, anyway? Sirius chooses to ignore the glaring irony of his own wardrobe. Black makes him look devastatingly handsome, obviously. Regulus, though? It washes him out.
Typical.
Sirius channels his annoyance into his driving, pushing the car to its limits. This is his last shot to secure P2 in this insane Q3. James is doing brilliantly up ahead, but Regulus... well, Sirius grudgingly admits that his little brother is keeping up. That’s all it is. Keepingup.
“James purple sector one,” comes Minnie’s voice over the radio. “Now Regulus purple.”
Sirius clenches his jaw.
“Focus, Sirius,” she continues sharply. “No understeering here. Green sector one for you. You’re down by 0.03.”
Minnie doesn’t let up. “Keep it steady. Your lap’s comparable to Riddle’s.”
“James purple sector two.”
And then: “Regulus is P1. James P2.” A pause. “You’re P4, Sirius. Good job. You’re only 0.01 behind Riddle. Tomorrow’s another day, get back to the box.”
Sirius exhales sharply. P4 isn’t what he wanted. But how can he be upset when James—his brother, his realbrother – was absolutely phenomenal today? Sirius could see it, feel it, even from the track. James was unstoppable.
Tomorrow, though? That’s Sirius’s turn.
As he pulls into the pit lane and climbs out of his car, the weight of the day begins to lift. Sure, there’s still that suffocating black cloud – the same one that’s been looming over him all day – but Sirius feels oddly light. Weightless, even.
And then, he sees him.
But, how can Sirius forget about the light in the dark when, there, in the pit lane, Remus Lupin is interviewing his best friend, with a bright smile plastered all over their faces?