Chapter Text
Chapter Four
March 4th, 2022
Silverstone Circuit
Towcester, UK
Race One
"This time everyone has the best intentions… Let's say you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure. You see what I mean but you're happy anyway, and that's okay, it's a love story after all, a lasting love, a wonderful adventure with lots of action." (Richard Siken).
“Take it slow,” James says, resisting the urge to put a hand out to steady the bright red metal of the motorcycle. It’s a new model, never used in the Prix before, fresh out of testing and near-impossible to tamper with unless the mechanic had the right tools. The care with which Dumbledore had taken to emphasise the last point had proved just how nervous the Gryffindor manager had been. James knew the feeling.
Sirius glares at him, but it’s half-assed. “I have ridden since last year, you know. On the Gryffindor practice track. You were there, Effie made a pie, I think Peter legitimately shed a tear? It was a whole thing.”
“I know, but…” James trails off, gesturing to the bike and the track and Sirius. He knows it’s irrational, but as soon as Sirius had moved to tie his hair back and slip his helmet on, he’d panicked. Over a year since the crash and yet, it feels suddenly as if it had happened only the day before.
It’s the start of racing season. Anything could happen. He has to be prepared.
Sirius must see the spark of fear—he’d always known James better than anyone—because he softens. “Hey, you can’t be traumatised right now. I’m supposed to be traumatised right now. Let me have my moment, damn it.”
“Sharing is caring,” James shoots back weakly, but he steps away. “Be careful. Especially on Copse corner, you know how sharp it gets—”
“Yes, dear,” Sirius indulges, though he’s already putting his helmet back on. “Home field advantage this time, remember? Détendez-vous .”
James huffs, indignant. “Oh, just drive. If you crash again, I won’t be the one lovingly weeping and cradling your dead body.”
“I lived, bitch,” the racer shoots back, and his bike revs underneath him. He’s off with a two-fingered salute before James can swat at him, and all James can do is watch him go. His new teammate—and old friend—Marlene McKinnon greets him at the grid with a wink and a wave and their practice session begins.
Regulus Black, James knows, is hidden somewhere in the top row of the audience seats. Deja vu.
James’ exposé had changed their lives—one little article rippled out to touch nearly everyone he knew. While Sirius fought to recover, the MotoGP board reviewed the piece and began digging into Slytherin’s affairs under the management of Tom Riddle. Eventually, after quite a battle, Riddle was taken down. James had come home from the final hearing to a call from Minerva McGonagall, offering him a position as a feature writer at the Prophet . Regulus had been disqualified from the 2021 Grand Prix and had disappeared off of the face of the earth for the next year.
He’s back, today. They all are—and each one of them is fueled by anger and pride and revenge.
Sirius had been eager; eager to get back on his feet, eager to get back on his bike, eager to get back in the Prix. His doctors had suggested he wait another year, but Sirius had been adamant. James wonders idly if it may be because Regulus was allowed back in the Prix this year, having been absolved of any real wrongdoing aside from association. The investigation locked up the entirety of Slytherin’s management, the entire crew and crew chief, but not Regulus, no matter how much James had fought for them all to be removed permanently.
James had never thought of himself as a particularly vengeful or angry person, not until the accident. The moment Sirius’ bike had gone up in flames, James had felt like a piece of himself had sharpened. He started on the exposé when Sirius was in surgery.
The Prix? Sirius had asked, desperate, immediately upon waking. He was pale against the starched white sheets of his hospital bed, his limbs encased in casts and wraps, a metal rod and pins holding his leg together. But he’d practically grabbed his doctor by the collar and demanded, Can I ride again?
The answer had been maybe , and the look on Sirius’ face had been devastating.
James had honestly never seen him work harder at something than he did at recovery. Sirius had been good in school—brilliant, but only when he felt like it—and was incredible on the track, but fighting to get back to where he’d been was something else entirely. He fought until his very bones knit back together. There was no getting Sirius to back down. There never had been. He pushed himself past several breaking points, endured setbacks and nerve damage and x-rays and medicines and went through half a dozen physical therapists but he’d never once quit. He hadn’t even touched the possibility.
Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, had hung up his racing jacket all-too-willingly and stepped in to take over Riddle’s newly vacated position as the manager of the French team. It was the lesser of two evils, James supposed begrudgingly. Though, he would be keeping an eye on Slytherin and a recorder running in his pocket.
Just in case.
Remus’ hands shake as he takes his room card from the concierge.
They shake as he thanks her quietly and as she replies, “of course, Mr. Lupin,” and they shake all the way to the elevator. They shake as he presses the button for his floor and as he unlocks his door and as he settles his bags down. They shake against the screen of his phone as he reassures his mother that he’s made it, and they shake as he pulls the folder from his patient’s medical team from inside his messenger bag. They shake as he leafs absentmindedly through the papers inside. They shake the entire time.
He isn’t nervous, afraid or cold. They just do that.
The folder in question is extensive and daunting in equal measure. His new patient has quite the reputation—having ploughed through half a dozen physical therapists before Remus, each one quitting in a matter of weeks. As such, when he’d been hired, he’d been thoroughly briefed.
Mr. Black demonstrates determination and incorrigibility in equal measure, one PT had written. Though he has more than ample motivation to recover, his insistence on pushing the limits of his body hinder him more than help. His decorum when doing his exercises could use some work.
Another one simply wrote: Attitude problem. Too headstrong. Needs to slow down.
That was a very common thread throughout the folder, Remus came to realise as he turned the pages. Wishes to accelerate recovery beyond what is healthy. Skips steps he deems ‘unnecessary’. Moves too quickly.
It seemed what Sirius Black needed to do more than anything was slow down—his doctors wanted it just as much as his opponents on the track. While he’d been researching, he’d watched several of Sirius’ tapes from past races. It’s quite clear that slowing down isn’t really the racer’s forte.
It doesn’t matter. Remus likes a challenge.
He’d told Dumbledore as much, anyway, when he was interviewed for the position. Evidently, they held out little hope that Remus would be there for any longer than a few weeks—so little hope that they hadn’t even asked to look over any of his regimens or routines. He’d written them, anyway, enough for the entirety of the nine-month season: stretches, tissue work, strength building, calcium-rich diet, the whole nine yards. Sirius Black may be stubborn, but Remus is not so easily swayed. In his pocket, his phone hums with a text from his mother.
This season is going to go his way.
It has to, is the thing.
“I’m not doing it,” James insists into his cellphone, a call connecting him to Minerva McGonagall’s office after hours. It’s horrendously unprofessional, in a way that would have nearly everyone else who dared do so fired. He’s just closed the email on his laptop and was already dialling the number before it shut.
It being James, however, Minerva merely tuts, and there is a shuffling sound as if she’s leafing through folders and proofed pages before publication the next morning. “James. You signed a contract when you—”
“I’m not doing it,” he repeats again. She’s backed him successfully into a corner, though, and she knows it. When he had been hired by the Prophet , a major part of the deal had been for him to claim the season showcase—an enormous, in-depth piece that covers the entire career of whatever racer was chosen. Sirius had nearly been guaranteed the showcase before the crash, so it was widely assumed that his return to the track would be the feature of the year.
Evidently, the Prophet believed the more interesting story lies with his brother. “He’s the best rider of the offseason, especially after the controversy and accusations—”
James splutters wildly, his free hand gesticulating in nonsensical patterns in front of him as he paces the floor, “Yes, McGonagall, my accusations! Because he sabotaged Sirius! It should be Sirius’ showcase, that was the plan . Can’t we wait until next season? So it’s fair game, so Sirius has a chance to win it back—”
“Plans change, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall rebukes sharply, and her tone is firm and final. “You are contracted to the Prophet ; that exposé made quite sure of it. You will be writing the showcase piece on Regulus Black, or you will not be writing for this magazine. His information is in the file I emailed over. And, I must remind you, there is no conclusive proof that he was behind his brother’s accident.”
James groans and hangs up without another word.
Unbe-fucking-lievable. He thinks, and then, What am I going to tell Sirius?
It had almost come down to a fight, getting Effie and Monty and Dumbledore to release Sirius to race in this season. They caved on one very strict condition—they hired a travelling physical therapist to make sure he didn't overdo it and had proper medical care after each race. The PT would go to all of the races with them, an official member of Sirius' crew. It was a compromise Sirius had been willing to make to get back on a bike, but with every passing second spent waiting, he’s regretting it. He whines, over-the-top and dramatic, high off of adrenaline and his win. “I just don’t see why it’s necessary , Jamie.”
James arches a dark eyebrow at him. “I hope that’s a rhetorical statement.”
Sirius huffs. “I don’t need some doctor following me around all season, nagging—”
He’s still talking (read: bitching ) as he swipes his key card through the door of his room and pushes it open, still going as he walks in backwards and starts to shrug off his jacket, and James pauses in the doorway, clearing his throat pointedly.
Sirius turns, and the breath is very audibly knocked out of his chest. James almost laughs.
The man is tall, for one thing, taller even than James with long legs and arms and neck. He’s got tan skin, splashed over with freckles, a slightly crooked nose and tousled hair the colour of chestnuts. What catches James’ eye are the white scars, raised but fully healed, bisecting the man’s features, across his nose and over cheek, smaller ones on his hands that twitch every few seconds. He’s dressed in a beige crewneck with a white collar poking up from underneath and trousers, so James can’t know for sure, but he can only guess that the scars must continue. He is, James notes, decidedly attractive—especially if Sirius’ reaction is anything to go by.
"Remus Lupin," the man standing in the entry of the room says, and extends a hand. It shakes in the air, just slightly, though his voice gives no indication of anxiety. "A pleasure."
Sirius breaks out into a series of giggles, and James gawks at him. Truly, it's the least smooth he's ever seen the racer, the noise spilling from red lips like carbonation bubbling over in a bottle of champagne. Remus blinks, startled, and James not-so-subtly kicks his friend in the shin. When it becomes apparent that Sirius is determined to blush and stare, James takes pity on Remus and completes his handshake.
"This is Sirius," he says, "but you knew that. He's... not usually like this."
"Ah," is all Remus replies. He releases James' hand to readjust the messenger bag slung over his shoulder and inclines his head. "James, right?"
The journalist nods. "Correct. And I hate to run out on you and Romeo over here, but I have a meeting. Sirius?"
"Yes, right," the racer bursts, snapping to attention. James can see the mortification raging behind his eyes, but Sirius has managed to expertly recover on the outside. "Sorry. Lovely to meet you, Remus. You're, ah. Tu es très jolie , I mean to say. No , I mean to say, you are... here. Hello."
"Hello," Remus replies mildly, the professionalism in his tone at war with amusement. " C'est très gentil de ta part ."
Sirius goes impossibly redder, and James stifles a laugh as he ducks out into the hall. "I'll leave you both to it."
He really does hate to miss out on what surely is wildly entertaining and cannon fodder for years, but James has a much more unpleasant task on his hands. He ruminates on the universe's hatred for him as he arrives outside of Regulus' hotel room. James quite literally bites his tongue, knocks, and he hears shuffling on the other side of the door as a voice calls out, "Just a moment!"
It's accented, he notes, French. The same lilt that Sirius' voice had when they'd met.
He waits in front of the door, frustration simmering under the surface of his skin, determined to play nice. It cracks open, exposing Regulus Black in all of his moody glory. James can see the exact moment that the recognition hits. He opens his mouth to speak, and Regulus slams the door in his face.
So, like. Fuck playing nice, honestly.
James pounds on the door again, and Regulus shouts, "fuck off!"
How the fuck are you related to Sirius , he wants to yell back, but really, if he weren’t fuming, he’d be amused. Drama queens, the both of them. Minerva McGonagall could pay him no sum to make this experience less painful. “Open the door!”
Silence.
James very much does not slam his head into the door, and instead whirls around and marches back down the hall. This is going to be an actual living hell.
Contrary to his protests, Sirius knows his leg is a liability. Hell, his whole body .
He isn't at 100% yet (he's actually closer to 70%, but who's tracking?), probably shouldn't be riding this season at all. But Regulus is, so Sirius got back on the damn bike.
It's a weakness, his left side, and everyone he's about to race against knows it. It aches on a good day and is excruciating on a bad one, and the nerve endings in his left arm are shot to hell. He's—he shakes, sometimes, without even noticing it. He's twitchy. He can’t hold onto things with his left hand like he could before. It sucks.
He needs Remus—which annoys him.
He wants Remus—which scares him.
Sirius doesn’t really make a habit of wanting people. He never has. He’s got his people: his occasional hookups while he’s travelling with Gryffindor, his family, his friends. He doesn’t chase people who aren’t interested—he saves his challenge-seeking side for the track.
Remus is. Different. Different as he sits in the desk chair of his hotel room with his files and his scars and his sweaters, and as he reads what may be the most extensive long-term treatment plan out of a colour-coded folder that he pulled out of the world’s least-organised messenger bag. His voice is rich and rasped and steady, his hands are rough and finger slender and shaking ever-so-slightly. He’s not what Sirius expected.
Life has a funny way of doing that.
“I want a different writer,” Regulus says, with no preamble, clutching his phone to his ear in a death grip. On the other end, miles away, Minerva McGonagall sighs.
He’d known he was getting the showcase—the Prophet had sent him an email weeks ago, in the offseason—and he’d mostly resigned himself to it. The idea of a stranger following him from city to city and picking around in his brain was awful, but his team insisted he take the offer. It would be a good way to go out with a bang, he figures, if only it weren’t for James Potter.
Fucking James and his long-standing obsession with ruining Regulus’ life. It wasn’t enough for him to steal Sirius away and leave Regulus alone in that house, no, James just had to go for Regulus’ career as well. He’d been publicly furious when Regulus had gotten a pardon—some pardon it was, a yearlong disqualification—and had tried for months into the season to get Regulus permanently fired. What the hell did he even want the showcase for, an opportunity to look for some sort of nonexistent evidence of Regulus’ guilt?
Regulus had plenty of guilt, thank you, and James Potter was welcome to none of it.
“Mr. Potter is contracted,” is all McGonagall says, with little to no actual feeling behind it that Regulus can pick apart. Fucking contracts. “He is as good a writer as you are a racer. And equally as stubborn.”
Regulus fumes, “We’ll see.”
(The anger creeps into his mind when he’s rounding the corner on the last lap of the race, hours later, and Sirius pulls just ahead of him. He comes in second place to his brother by a matter of breaths. Poetic.)