Chapter Text
PART I: Crash & Burn
Chapter One
March 4th, 2021
Bugatti Circuit
Le Mans, France
Race One
“There are two twins on motorbikes but one is farther up the road, beyond the hairpin turn, or just before it.... Both motorbikes are shiny red and both boys have perfect teeth, dark hair, soft hands… Do not choose sides yet. It is still to your advantage to remain impartial.” (Richard Siken, ‘You are Jeff’)
“Speed,” Sirius says, dropping his voice into a gravelly rasp. He pulls his practice gloves on, the red and black smeared with dirt and torn open in scattered pinpricks, the knuckles worn. The spring morning in Le Mans is clear and chilly, enough that James has a coat layered over his heavy jumper and his breath fogs up his glasses whenever he exhales. It’s the start of racing season. For a moment—for the day—anything is possible. “I am speed.”
“Oh, yeah,” James says, pantomiming an eager reporter scribbling away in a notebook. It’s not far cry from reality, they know. He has his journals and pens stuffed into the bag slung over his shoulder, ready for the race. Ready for a story to emerge. “That’s good. Tell me more.”
Sirius grins, and it’s his wicked, reckless grin. It’s the grin that Racer Black gives when he dismounts his bike after a successful win, the grin he gives to the media panel, the grin he gives to the men and women at the celebration parties at foreign bars before bringing them back to his hotel rooms. It’s a winning grin. “One winner, forty-two losers. I eat losers for breakfast. Faster than fast, quicker than quick.”
“He’s a monster,” James quips, “he’s—”
“Lightning!" Sirius declares, grand and big and loud. “Cower before my weird-ass anthropomorphic eyes and ask yourselves; do I buy life insurance or car insurance?”
Peter laughs from where he’s knelt beside the back tire of Sirius’ bike. He tucks a pencil-type gauge into his pocket as he straightens up, giving the wheel a light pat. “Neither. Because you, sir, are a madman! An animal!”
“What else am I?” Sirius asks, ignoring the glances of irritation from the other racers queuing on the grid. He had been here at dawn, anyways—if they wanted peace and quiet, they should have skipped breakfast. It’s as much their track as it is his; he was born in France regardless of what team he races for now. His record is the most impressive of the pack and they all know it—no matter his age, this season is his .
James crows in answer, “A fucking winner!”
“That’s right,” Sirius says, and he swings a leg over his bike, the red and gold metal catching the mid-morning light. “First race of the season, back in the land of my ancestors… You’d better call up the Prophet and beg them for that feature story, Jamie, because I’m gonna get selected and I want you writing it.”
His friend snorts and salutes. “Sir, yes, sir. I’ll work my journalist magic and perform a miracle, no worries.”
“Good lad,” Sirius says, and his bike roars to life as he slips his helmet over his head. James and Peter shout over the noise to wish him good luck and hurry off of the tarmac just in time for the practice run to begin. It’s only four others on the track, all who chose the first practice slots.
“As if you getting hired by Prophet is a miracle,” Peter groans, shoving James by the shoulder as they move through the stands. Not many people have arrived this early, mostly just other riders’ crews and crew chiefs in little huddles as they map out their pit boards and plans for the race. The whole place has that start-of-the-season buzz to it, all hectic energy and pent-up nerves. “They’d have to be crazy not to take you.”
James sighs, “Consider them crazy.”
“Did they get back to you after you submitted your offseason piece?”
“I’m still waiting to hear back,” James replies, but his tone is defeated. He’s sent many a piece to the Prophet and always to no avail. Sometimes he questioned if he was doing the right thing at all. “At this point, I must be on their no-call list or something. They’ve gotta get tired of rejecting me at some point, right?”
Peter frowns sympathetically, settling into one of the seats and patting the other for James to sit. “You’ll get it. You just need to find a good story. And with the way this season is going to go for Sirius… I think you’ll have it.”
“You, too, Pete,” James says sincerely, “I know you’re shooting for that internship with the crew chief.”
The mechanic groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his face. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying not to focus on it now that the season’s started. I need to be on my A-game.”
“Don’t we all,” James deadpans, and they settle back into a comfortable silence to watch the session. After this is over, there will be three more sessions with the rest of the racers, and then two sets of qualifiers before the real race begins. Even so, the five racers on the track drive like the devil’s on their back tires, like there is no timer on their session.
Sirius is in the lead, though. He usually is.
He’s been a clear crowd favourite since he was seventeen and fresh to the scene, winning local and regional races and coming in third at the Grand Prix at only eighteen and in second at nineteen last year. He looks more natural on a bike than he does on his feet.
This year, though, is the first year that many are speculating will be a challenge for Sirius, despite his skill. A new member joined Slytherin, a famous brand out of France, and was blowing his competition out of the water in the offseason races. Sirius hadn’t cared much when they’d first heard about the new racer, but James had done some digging and, well.
Upon learning that the best French racer was Sirius’ little brother, Regulus, Sirius had cared a lot more. James knew there was a long, long story there—he knew better than most, despite all of the audience speculation and idle gossip—and though Sirius was forcibly chipper about a family reunion , James couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a storm brewing.
Either way , he thinks, as he catches the narrowed gaze of the Slytherin team manager, Tom Riddle, weaving like a snake through the stands, it’ll be something to write about .
Sirius didn’t learn to ride a bicycle until he was sixteen.
It’s an embarrassing fact, but a formative one. His parents didn’t care much for teaching him and his brother anything—they preferred to pay others to do so. High-society Parisian tutors were the maths type, the grammar type. The ones who taught him to speak and write English were not the type to push children on trainer bikes down the long imposing driveway of Grimmauld Place, but c’est la vie .
When he came to live with James, motorcycles had been an early way for Sirius and James’ dad Fleamont to bond. It fed into both Monty’s desire to teach and Sirius’ desire for classic rebellion; all leather jackets and silver piercings and bruised knuckles at school. Monty and Effie had pulled him aside eventually and said, if you need to get all of that energy out, let’s channel it somewhere better.
It was sheer luck that Monty’s company had signed a deal that year to work with one of the biggest motorbike manufacturers in the country. They weren’t ordinary road bikes, those, but racing bikes. For his sixteenth birthday, the first one well and truly spent living with the Potters, James’ mum and dad had gotten Sirius a motorcycle of his own.
(He’s since traded it out for the sleek red-and-gold machine that racing for Gryffindor provided, but the original still lives in a coveted spot in their garage, damaged as it eventually became.)
Sirius had been afraid, back then, of the permanence that Effie and Monty had promised him in their home. Every move had been measured, every word turned over in his head like a jeweller looking for flaws. He couldn’t exactly say, thank you for this inordinately expensive gift, but I can’t use it because I don’t know how .
He’d taken it out alone on a back road that summer and crashed into a copse of trees, instinctively tucking into himself to shield his head. He can still remember the feeling of the gravel digging into his back, can still remember the fear that had rocketed through his veins when James had arrived with his wide-eyed parents in tow.
I’m sorry , he’d gasped, tears filling his eyes, I’m so sorry .
Effie had reached him first, her hands achingly gentle as she ran them over his arms and held his face in between her palms and said, Thank God you’re alright.
Monty had taken him out to the test track at work as soon as his back had healed and taught him to ride—first with a traditional bike, then with a new motorcycle. It was the first show of mercy, the first second chance he’d ever gotten. Monty had—Monty had apologised , when they’d gone out. Apologised for overlooking lessons, for not considering that a teenager had never gotten the opportunity to learn. No parent—no adult —had ever apologised to Sirius before.
Once Sirius had decided to start racing himself, Effie and Monty had signed him up to race in the junior leagues. From fifteen to eighteen, he poured more of himself into the track than he had ever willingly given to anything before. It was euphoric.
He was noticed almost immediately by one of the most prominent brands in the league. Gryffindor scouted him right out of a local race two weeks after he turned eighteen, the youngest they’d ever brought up to the big times. His first Prix had been a rush of adrenaline and nerves, new to the scene and the hot topic on everyone’s tongues, and he’d managed to place third on the podium against much older and more experienced opponents.
This year, he’s gunning for first. Regulus as his competition… James told him that in the French spectator circles, Sirius’ baby brother was very impressive. Record-breakingly so. It was more interesting than it was alarming—he hasn’t seen his brother at all since he left home at thirteen to live with James. He had hoped for a while that his parents might send Regulus to Hogwarts as well, but they kept him in France. He was sent off to some school with the rest of their cousins; Bellatrix and Narcissa and the like.
(Sirius had written to him, for a while, but all of his letters had been returned to him, unopened.)
Still, it had been a shock when Sirius learned that Regulus had, in a way, followed in his footsteps. He supposes that it runs in their family a bit—their cousin Bellatrix and cousin-in-law Lucius had both raced for Slytherin in the past—and yet, motorcycle racing would not have been what Sirius guessed as a career path for his little brother.
To be fair, he hadn’t guessed it for himself either. But being on a bike is like—it isn’t even second nature , it’s his first. It feels the same as speaking French does, like a homecoming. If Regulus is anything like Sirius in that regard, then it makes all of the sense in the world. Sirius belongs on the track, and this is his year to prove it.
Third place, second place—it’s poetic or some shit. The pieces, falling into place.
Twenty-one races, Sirius thinks to himself as he catapults around the first corner of the final practice lap, tilting to the side as he moves from the straight to the clipping point, tiny fragments of loose gravel flying upward. He can hear the squeal of new tires, can smell burning rubber and exhaust. He hits the apex flawlessly. And it starts right here.
Regulus has a habit of booking the final practice session before a race.
Back when he was first starting out, at the tender age of seventeen, he was a spare. Every team has two primary racers, and one wildcard if they wanted. Because of his age, he was stuck on the sidelines for a year after signing with Slytherin . He got used to observing.
Even now, at his first official Grand Prix race as a primary rider, he likes to sneak out and watch the others drive their laps before doing his own. Especially for the first race of a new season—mostly new teams, all new faces for him. He wants to get inside their heads, see how they operate. His mother did the same, amongst her aristocratic friends and enemies alike. She liked to pry into their affairs, into their secrets and their strategies.
He very decidedly does not think about her, when he watches the session play out on the massive screens suspended by a series of pillars in the grassy centre of the arena. Any chance to get away from the Slytherin team, he reasons, and tucks himself into the top corner of the audience seats in the arena. He brings one of his cameras with him, and rests it carefully in his lap. This is his city’s circuit, he knows it inside and out and better than any of the others—apart from Lucius, the other half of his team. There is a home field advantage working for them, yes, but there is also the massive universally known disadvantage of racing against Sirius.
Regulus very decidedly does not think about him, either.
Riddle taught him to race, years ago, and taught him to race without emotion. You are the rider, not the motorcycle. Feelings do not drive you. It’s a tactic that has helped Regulus win every race he’s ridden. A clean slate makes for clean turns, no anger or fear or anxiousness to make him reckless. He and Sirius, he has studied, are opposites that way.
If he dwells too long on his brother, he’ll lose his edge. And he can’t afford that, not when this season—his first season—is the most important one he’ll ever race. It’s his chance to be free on the line.
No brother is worth his freedom.
The third round is wrapping up when Riddle spots him, a thin smile on pale lips. Regulus stiffens and straightens up as his manager starts making his way through the seats towards him. His fingers curl tightly around his camera. “Scoping out the competition, Mr. Black?”
“Not much of it,” Regulus replies cooly, a mask of professionalism slipping over his face. Tom Riddle is a weaselly sort of man, his demeanour skulking and an unspoken master plan of sorts always behind his eyes. He’s a man who built an empire on betrayal, spun a web of promises and roped his racers right into it. He could convince a homeless man to give the last of his money to sponsor a Slytherin racer. He could convince anyone of anything. Regulus would know.
Down below, on the track, Sirius tears across the finish line, first place in a race that hasn’t even started yet.
Riddle laughs boisterously, as if Regulus has just performed a one-man comedy routine and claps him on the back. “Atta boy,” he says, and Regulus grits his teeth. “ Tout ce qu'il faut! And the Prix is yours. And then we shall sit and discuss your contract.”
“Can’t wait,” Regulus replies dryly, though Riddle only pats his back again, rising to his feet and making his way back down to consult with Slytherin’s pit crew.
Tout ce qu’il faut, the words echo. Whatever it takes.
Sirius and the others pull off to the side of the tracks by their respective pits, and two people stand up a few rows in front of Regulus to make their way down to where Sirius is dismounting his bike. Regulus squints and studies the three of them for a moment, so oddly matched, a patchwork quilt of people huddled together and cheering obnoxiously. Sirius and his sharp cheekbones and his pale face and the inherited arrogance in how he angles his chin, the mechanic with oil on his hands and freckles on round cheeks and sandy hair, and the third—
The third takes Regulus’ breath away.
He’s tall and lanky, all brown skin and disastrously messy black hair, glasses perched on his nose and a blinding grin on his face as he whoops and throws a careless arm around Sirius’ shoulder. With bated breath, hardly knowing why, Regulus raises his camera, focuses the lens, and snaps a photo.
James Potter, Regulus assumes, from his research into Gryffindor. An aspiring sports journalist. He doesn’t have an official position on Sirius’ team—not like the mechanic—but he’s irreplaceable. Or so Sirius had said in an interview—along with James doesn’t need a title. He’s my brother. Where I go, he goes.
The memory sparks a familiar silent fury in Regulus, but there’s also—well. Something long-smothered inside of him aches at the sight of their little group. Perhaps for Sirius, what makes the race worthwhile is the people that wait at the finish line for him.
Regulus leaves the arena quietly, and heads towards the garage alone.