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Chapter Text

August 2024

Sirius is in the middle of a run when he gets the call. The Italian sun is beating heavily above him as he fumbles for his phone with sweaty hands, cursing out the sunscreen that, while necessary for his pale skin, is causing everything he touches to slide right out of his grasp. Finally, he secures his grip on the phone, seeing the contact name ‘Prongs’ and a photo of his best friend wearing deer antlers on his phone, and picks up cheerfully.

“Jamie! You’re obsessed with me at this point, couldn’t wait until we see each other tomorrow? Didn’t know you swang that way, no judgement of course because I do, but–”

“I got the seat.”

Sirius pauses. “What?”

“Sirius,” an exuberant laugh, “I got the Mercedes seat. You’re talking to one of Mercedes’ 2025 F1 drivers.”

Sirius gasps.

“I know it’s insane right? Dumbledore called me today, oh my god he’s gonna be my team principal so I better get him to like me fast, but I can’t believe it I’m so excited.”

“Oh congrats Jamie!” And if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t have noticed the slightly stilted hesitation in Sirius’ voice. But it’s James, who Sirius has been best friends with since their first karting race together when they were seven, and of course he notices.

“Sirius? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah yeah…uh,” Sirius struggles for a minute because why wouldn’t anything not be okay? “I’m just real tired right now James. On a run, you know, sorry. But I really am so happy for you. Truly. You’re going to do great things in F1.” And that last part is the truth. He knows James will. 

It’s seemingly enough to fool James, as elated as he is right now. “Holy shit Sirius. An F1 driver! Me!”

Sirius grins into the phone, despite himself. “Hey I gotta finish this run, I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere in the Italian countryside right now, but I’ll call you back yeah? This calls for a proper celebration after all. Tomorrow we’re going to get so fucking pissed, don’t you worry.”

There’s a smile in James’ voice when he replies “I was counting on it. Can always count on you to get us royally drunk. Go finish your run–I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“See you.” The line clicks, and James is gone, no doubt going to inform his other friends of his signing. 

The moment Sirius puts his phone back into his pocket, he groans, head in his hands. What is wrong with him? His best friend, James Fleamont Potter, just received the news of his dreams, and he couldn’t even muster up a proper congratulations? What the fuck is wrong with him? What kind of friend is he being right now?

But as he picks up his pace again, settling into the comfortable rhythm of running, he knows why he’s uncomfortable. To Sirius, F1 is cold words and beratings and infinite amounts of pressure. It’s associated with being forced to train until he threw up, with beatings when he didn’t perform, with lectures about living up to the family legacy, about being a Black. It’s also associated with a grey-eyed little brother that is his family’s pride and joy now that he’s decked in Ferrari red every Grand Prix weekend, but Sirius doesn’t want to think about that one too hard. 

The Black family has had a long-standing relationship with the Scuderia Ferrari F1 Team. His father, Orion, raced for them, though no championships came out of it, and Blacks generations back have all raced for Ferrari. Though whether they always deserve the seat is disputable. Sometimes, like his granduncle Turais, who won 4 world championships in the 60s, it is due to talent. But the combination of the Blacks’ money and their family name, a name that is practically racing royalty, is a potent one, and one that Ferrari rarely ignores. 

Racing for Ferrari was expected of him, so with his hot-headedness and unavoidable desire to be contrary, he obviously decided to not do so. Walking right out of his childhood home after a particularly bad argument, leaving behind the threats of vicious punishments and never going back helped with the freedom to do whatever he wanted. But God, Sirius loved racing, even though he hated the idea of F1, so after winning his F3 season by a landslide after leaving his family halfway through the season as a fuck you to his parents, he went into motorcycle racing. 

His family always hated it, sniffed at it as a bastardization of F1 run by heathens and hooligans, but Sirius soon found that he was a natural. And that he loved it. There’s something intoxicating about being on two wheels, nothing between you and the wind whipping by, and being so close to the pavement that he could skim his fingers over it during turns. He quickly advanced through the levels and found himself the 2023 MotoGP champion. Sometimes, in his lowest moments, he wonders if his parents are proud. 

When he returns to his hotel, he’s still turning over James’ news in his head. Realistically, he thinks as he swipes his key card and enters his room, there’s nothing wrong with F1. It’s only his experience with his family that’s off-putting. Besides, James is driving for Mercedes–he won’t interact with his family much, if at all. And he knows that James’ parents, Effie and Monty, the angels that they are, gave up a lot for James to achieve this. This has been his lifelong dream, after all. 

So, Sirius decides with conviction, he’s going to get the fuck over himself tomorrow and shower James with all the celebrations and cheer and alcohol that he deserves. At least it’s not him joining F1. 

***

James frowns slightly at the phone when Sirius hangs up, but understands why Sirius might have reservations. He knows Sirius better than anyone, likely even better than himself given his reluctance to go to therapy, so he knows that his family is playing a role in his acceptance of his news. But James isn’t too worried–Sirius is a good friend, and even though he’s off in his motorcycling world now, he knows he remembers two boys whose only dreams were to get into F1. For different reasons, James now understands, but Sirius will understand his dreams. He always has. 

James has been staying in his parents’ home in Devon for the summer break. It’s a nice house, one that they moved to when James was little so that he could pursue his racing dreams, but he privately prefers their house in India, James’ childhood home. Though his paternal grandparents’ house in Spain is quite nice as well, he muses. Remembering once again the surrealness of his phone call with Dumbledore (him? An F1 driver?), he flings himself onto his bed, falling victim to a bout of giggles. Once he can breathe again, he flips over and stares at the ceiling, unable to stop smiling. 

After a while, James descends to the kitchen and sits at the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers on the countertop and glancing at the clock, which reads half past noon, every few minutes. His parents said they would be home from getting lunch with a friend at two, and he hadn’t messaged them at all about his call, wanting to tell them in person, but he’s rapidly growing impatient. The clock’s stubbornly refusing to tick faster, no matter how much James looks at it, so with a huff he stands up and grabs his keys, deciding to pay a visit to another friend that would be delighted to hear the news, he’s sure. 

James arrives at Peter’s house after his fifteen minute drive and rings the doorbell, eagerly bouncing on the balls of his feet as he hears feet pattering on the other side of the door. The door opens to Peter’s confused face and James doesn’t waste a moment before springing onto him with a hug. 

“James what–”

“Peter! We’re gonna be playing in the big leagues next year!”

Peter furrows his brow. “I’m still not sure I follow.”

James lets go of him, still vibrating with energy, and grins as they enter the house. “I got the Mercedes seat. Dumbledore called me this morning.”

Peter looks delighted, but it’s tinged with a little sadness. “Oh my god you got the Mercedes seat? I’m so happy for you, this is amazing!”

James sighs in delight. “I know right? Next year it’s gonna be you and me against the world, Pete. Driver and race engineer, yeah?”

Peter frowns. Then opens his mouth, hesitant. “You know that race engineers don’t usually follow drivers to new teams, yeah? Merc probably has a race engineer prepped for you.

“What? But you’ve been my engineer since F3! They can’t do that!”

Pete shrugs. “It’s how it works up there I’m afraid. But hey congrats to you, I can’t wait to wa–”

“No,” James decides with conviction. “I’m not letting them do that. We’re a package deal, Pete. You and me. 

Peter sighs, “They might not let you.”
James replies with confidence, throwing an arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Oh, they will. They love me.” He winks at Peter, not-so subtly guiding him in the direction of his kitchen. “Now, have you got any food? I forgot to eat lunch in all the excitement and I’m starving.”

At 1:50, James looks at the clock and swears under his breath, before hopping up and heading towards the door. “I’ve gotta go tell my parents. Thanks for the pizza Pete, though I’m not sure why you have absolutely no food in your house.”

Peter makes a sound of protest. “I wasn’t exactly expecting guests.”

James gives him a look. “And what do you normally eat?”

“Instant ramen.”

James shakes his head, distressed by that revelation but not willing to argue that point today. “Not healthy, Pete.”

He stumbles in his hurry to tug his shoes on and then he’s out the door, another goodbye shouted from the end of the driveway before he speeds off. 

Anyone who knows them would tell you that Fleamont “Monty” and Euphemia “Effie” Potter are two of the kindest people in existence. They would also tell you that they treasure their only child, James, beyond measure–James was a miracle for the couple, after many years of wanting children but being met with nothing but miscarriages. So naturally, they backed all of James’ goals–including when James first watched a Grand Prix on the TV with his father at age five and decided he wanted to become a race car driver. 

Of course, not every child that declares they want to drive cars at lethal speeds will follow through, most grow out of that desire quickly enough, but Effie and Monty were willing to humor him, signing him up for karting lessons, and James never looked back. As he progressed rapidly through the karting levels, his parents were faced with the knowledge that progressing to the real big leagues required money and resources they didn’t have in India. All the sponsors and stars were in Europe, in England–most families would back out gracefully at this point, especially since Effie and Monty were well-off but far from affluent enough to fund a racing career, but their love for James was as big as James’ dreams, so they moved to England. And with James’ charisma and talent, he rapidly charmed teams and sponsors, quickly becoming a tantalizing prospect in the world of single-seater racing. 

All this to say that when James comes hurtling through the front door, exclaiming that he signed for Mercedes, and running into the arms of his parents, they’re over the moon. 

“Oh James, I’m so incredibly proud of you,” Effie cries, tears leaking out of her eyes as she hugs her son again. 

Monty isn’t any less emotional. “Son, you’ve made us so proud. My kid, an F1 driver!”

“And a Mercedes one!” Effie gasps. “My baby’s going to be teammates with Frank Longbottom–James you’re going to be teammates with the person leading the world championship right now!”

James laughs, letting himself get swept away by the exhilaration of it all again. “I know right? Oh do you think it’s weird for me to ask my teammate for an autograph next year? Maybe it’s a bit weird.”

A deep chuckle erupts from Monty’s chest, as he tousles James’ already messy hair. “You’ll have all the time in the world to ask for one if that’s what your heart desires. You’ll be his teammate–you’ll be seeing him a lot.”

James does a little dance before Effie sweeps him back into a hug as she proclaims that “This calls for a celebration! We’re going out to eat tonight, at your favorite restaurant.”

James’ eyes light up. “Sushi!”

But before they head out the door, James makes sure to send a strongly worded text to Dumbledore informing him, in no uncertain terms, that Peter Pettigrew is going to be his race engineer next year. 

After all, Peter’s his ride-or-die, his engineer since his first race in the Formula series, his brilliant strategist. There’s no way in hell James is leaving him behind. 

***

The next day, Sirius finds himself back in England, his beer sloshing out the opening of the bottle and bass lines thrumming through his ears as he toasts to James. 

“Give it up for James Fleamont Potter, Mr. Prongs himself, our newest Mercedes F1 Driver!” 

A loud cheer comes from every corner of the club, which is filled to the brim with many of their friends from various levels of racing, but also with drunk guys and starlet girls who want to get a taste of James Potter, F1’s newest star. 

James is sitting on the bar’s countertop, grinning bashfully as he takes another sip of his drink. “Thanks guys. But give it up for my brother too, yeah?” He throws an arm around Sirius and tugs him up to sit beside him on the counter. “Couldn’t have done it without Padfoot.” James winks at him. “He’s already got a championship under his belt so I’ve been dying to catch up.” 

A chuckle runs through the crowd, before a boo is heard near the door. Sirius sits up, swaying slightly. “Oi, what was that? Wanna share with the class?” 

The crowd parts as Sirius sees a head of bleach blonde hair walking towards him. A murmur of excitement goes through the crowd, before she stops in front of Sirius and looks up with a cocky smirk. “We all know MotoGP doesn’t count,” she says teasingly. 

Sirius grins in recognition, putting a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Oh, you wound me, Mckinnon. You’re just jealous that you need two more wheels to be able to race. Balance not your forte?”

Marlene snatches a beer from behind the counter and takes a swig, winking at the bartender whose face turns from offended to wide with recognition. 

“Who needs balance when you’re at the pinnacle of motorsport, sweetheart?” 

Sirius gives her a lazy salute then points her at James, the star of the show, before turning to a pretty brunette that had been clinging onto his arm all night, while still keeping an ear on James and Marlene’s conversation. 

Marlene nods at James. “Congrats Potter, glad to hear you’re joining the ranks. Doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you next year though” 

Marlene had always been a class or two above James, and Sirius when he had still been in car racing, but the three of them had developed a friendly relationship, often training together or even going to each others’ races. James had been over the moon when Marlene was signed by Red Bull, getting blackout drunk with her in celebration, and Sirius knew that James would be delighted if she showed up at his celebration party. 

James scoffs good-naturedly. “Oh please, like I need it.” He tips his glass towards Marlene and she clinks hers against his as they watch the party. “I didn’t know you were in the country though. Would’ve invited you properly if I did.”

Marlene hums in response. “I didn’t know either. Was quite happy spending my summer break away from here, but Moody wanted to meet with me in the factory yesterday, so I had to head over to Milton Keynes. Nevermind that he could’ve done like a fucking FaceTime or something.” An eye roll. “But I was coming back soon anyway so it wasn’t that big of an inconvenience. Sirius told me about your party.”

Sirius, upon hearing his name, looks away from the girl he was flirting with to tip his drink at the two of them. “Thought you might like to have some company from the grid.” He then turns fully towards Marlene and James, ignoring the efforts of his previous company to rekindle their conversation before the aforementioned company leaves with a huff. “Moody really never takes a day off from team-principaling, huh? Why’d he want to meet with you in the middle of break?”

Marlene sighs. “Confidential, technically, but news’ll be out tomorrow anyway. He’s not happy with Avery’s current performance–they’re dropping him to Racing Bulls after the summer break.” 

James’ eyes widen, and Sirius understands his surprise. It’s not unheard of for teams to switch out drivers in the middle of a season, especially with Red Bull, who have their junior team also on the F1 grid, but it’s certainly unusual. 

But Sirius has been privy to this side of motorsport since he could drive, thanks to his truly lovely family, so there’s no shock on Sirius’ face as he snorts in derision. “I’m not surprised. He’s been falling off–has he even scored half the amount of points as you?”

Marlene shakes her head no.

“It’s a cut-throat world. Perform or you’re out.” He feels bad for the man, but there’s no one to blame but him. 

James frowns though. “Wait, if he’s being dropped, who’s replacing him?”

“Snape,” Marlene replies. “He’s been doing pretty well at RB, Moody wants to give him a shot in the better car. Deal’s only till the end of this year though, I think, and at the end of the season they’ll decide whether he stays with Red Bull or goes back to the junior team.”

“And Avery?”

Marlene shrugs. “Exit clause in his contract says that Red Bull can drop him if he’s not performing. I don’t know the exact standard, but I doubt he’s meeting it. I think the only reason they’ve demoted him down to RB at all is because they don’t wanna bother with finding a replacement RB driver this far into the season.” 

“So he’ll be gone next year,” James muses.
“Yeah.”

“Poor man.”

“But hey,” Marlene exclaims, “this night isn’t about Avery, it’s about you. Let me buy a round of drinks yeah? For our newest Silver Arrows driver!”

Sirius lets himself get carried away by the party, dancing and making out with girls whose names he doesn’t even know and letting the intoxication set in. 

Sometime around two am, he finds himself back on the counter with James, who is swinging his feet and giggling slightly. “Hey, I’m gonna be an F1 driver,” he slurs, “Have you heard?”

Sirius nods and sips his drink. It’s clear, and tastes nothing of alcohol, so he suspects that the bartender cut him off a while ago. But the water’s a cool respite from the sweaty room, so he drinks it anyway. 

“It’s everything we’ve ever dreamed of, Pads. F1.”

The ‘we’ hits Sirius like a punch to the gut. James keeps rambling about how amazing it’s going to be, but Sirius has tuned him out because he keeps replaying that sentence in his head. Because yeah. Once upon a time, F1 was all he ever wanted. It was everything to him. When he closed his eyes, he had visions of rumbling motors and cheering fans and Ferrari red. 

“Do you remember,” Sirius interrupts suddenly, leaving James blinking owlishly at him. “When we would lay on the roof of your house stargaze?”

James doesn’t blink twice at the apparent change of subject despite his intoxication, falling into step with Sirius like he always does. “Mm-hmm. And you would always point out your star to me, because of-fucking course your bougie-ass family would name you after a star.”

Sirius chuckles, despite himself. “Yeah, of course they would.”

“And,” James continues, “We chose a star for me too. I wanted it to be in a constellation of a tiger because those are important in India but there isn’t one of those, which is a shame really they should make one, so we went with Leo instead.”

“The lion.” 

“All cats are pretty much the same, right?”

“Yeah basically.”

“But I actually couldn’t see most of the constellation because light pollution or whatever so you just pointed me at the brightest star in the constellation and that became my star.”

Sirius’ heart clenches slightly at the mention of that star. “Yeah.”

“Pads, why’d you bring this up?” James looks directly at Sirius now, an inquisitive look on his face that could’ve passed for sober if he wasn’t swaying slightly from side to side. 

“We said we’d be stars.”

“The brightest ones in all of F1.”

“And you’re a star now James. You’re going to be amazing.”

James frowns. “You should be one too. You should be joining F1 with me.”

Sirius shakes his head. “No, I made my decision years ago. No going back now.”

“But it’s not right that I’m in F1 and you’re not.”

Sirius sighs, wishing his water was vodka and cursing the bartender out in his mind for cutting him off. Because he’s sure that the melancholy he feels at James leaving him behind to go chase his stardom in F1 wouldn’t be there if he had been less sober. It's not as if he wants to join F1. He's just...nostalgic, for the times when he did. That's it. 

He knocks back the rest of his water and throws an arm around James, gently herding him out of the club. “I think it’s time to go home.”

***

Marlene wakes up to a hangover and the high-pitched shrieking of her phone ringing. She groans and covers her ears with her pillow, hiding under her covers until the ringing stops, then sighs in relief. Just for the phone to start ringing again. She lets it go to voicemail two more times before she grumbles and hauls herself into a seated position to pick up the phone, ready to curse out whoever is calling her at, she checks the time, eleven am. Well shit, not as early as she thought it was, she supposes. 

She still opens her mouth upon pressing the phone to her ear, ready to quickly shut down this stupidly insistent caller, but is beaten to the punch by James’ voice. 

“Hi Marls thanks for coming yesterday I need a favor,” he says all in one breath. 

“James I’m hungover as shit, if you want a favor ask later.”

He continues as if he didn’t hear her. “Please get Moody to sign Sirius.”

“James, I’m not doing this right—what?” Marlene pauses, what James asked of her suddenly sinking in. 

“Please get Moody to sign Sirius. Into F1. Get him a seat.”

“What are you on about?”

“Sirius won’t say it but he wants a seat. We talked about F1 last night at the club, after everyone left. I need to do this for him, and I can’t do it without your help.”

Marlene feels herself shocked into silence, and after a pregnant pause during which she hears nothing but James breathing into the microphone, he adds:

“Please?”

She shakes her head and snorts. “First of all, you don’t even know that Sirius wants a seat. DId he tell you himself?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Secondly, even if he wanted to, he hasn’t raced single-seater in years. Why on God’s green earth would a Formula 1 team sign him?”

“He was really good in F3—”

“Especially,” Marlene is on a roll, tearing into James’ idea, “Red Bull? Red Bull is a top team, we’re trying to get the fucking championship this year James, and we aren’t doing that with an out-of-practice rookie.”

“Will you just—”

“Besides, the second Red Bull seat is already taken. I told you that shit last night, did you hit your head and forget already? And I’m sure as hell not giving up my seat—”

“Will you just listen for one fucking moment?”

Marlene stops, feeling a little guilty when she hears the frustration in James’ voice. But not that guilty, because all of her concerns are valid. Much more valid than James wanting Sirius to be in F1 with him, which she’s sure is the reason for this call. 

“Marlene. First of all, I wouldn’t be asking you to get him a Red Bull seat. I’m not delusional enough to think that’s possible–but you said that Avery’s being taken out of Racing Bulls at the end of the year. I want him to have that seat.”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell me to ask Diggle?”

“Oh please,” James scoffs. “Deladus Diggle may be the team principal of RB, technically, but we all know damn well that Moody’s the one in control of both teams. RB’s just a junior team, for Red Bull to use as they see fit.”

Marlene frowns but grudgingly acknowledges this point with a hum. 

“And in terms of his driving you know damn well that Sirius was the best F3 driver F3 has ever seen.”

“Other than Regulus.”

“Well,” James hesitates, “touchy subject. But sure, even if we say Black junior is better, which is up for debate, he’s still up there in terms of how absolutely fucking good he was.”

“True, but he’s been out of the car for years.”

“Yes, and what has he been doing? Still racing. He got a MotoGP championship for God’s sake. He’s a good racer. And yes it’s a different vehicle, but dammit he goes for the gaps, he overtakes, he puts it all on the line and you know that. He would be an asset.”

Marlene sighs, feeling a headache come on. “Fine, whatever.” However, here’s the critical question. “But does he even want it?”

“He’s my brother. He might not know it himself to be honest, but I know him better than he does sometimes, and I know that he wants to race in F1.”

“James, you can’t just do this on a hunch.”

“It’s not a hunch. You didn’t see the longing in his eyes when he talked about my seat. You didn’t hear his voice shake when he talked about our dreams as kids, to be stars, to be the best F1 has ever seen. And I know he won’t bring it up himself–he probably thinks I don’t remember to be honest, considering how pissed I was, but I couldn’t possibly forget that look on his face. No matter how drunk I was. Please, Marlene. You don’t have to believe that he wants it, but you have to believe that I know that he does.”

“You’re an awfully convincing person, James,” she sighs. 

“So is that a yes?”

“I’ll talk to Alastor. But you owe me. Big time.”

“Of course,” James breathes eagerly. “Anything.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Marlene, I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I love you I love you I–”

Marlene hangs up and finally, blissful silence. Except she’s now haunted with the knowledge that she’s going to have to ask her team principal to sign on Sirius fucking Black, all because James Potter’s puppy dog eyes can work audibly as well. 

But before she has to face that she’s taking an Advil and going back to sleep because this fucking hangover might’ve just gotten worse. 

Three days later, Marlene walks into her team principal’s office in the factory uncharacteristically nervous. She looks around the room, which is sparsely decorated by the bare minimum but filled with trophies from previous years, and sits down, waiting for him to arrive. 

The door creaks open after a minute and he limps into the room, shifting weight off of his bad leg–the one that had gotten injured in a disastrous accident back in his racing days, and took him out of F1 for good as a driver. The old menace is back as a team principal though, and even though he’s a harsh taskmaster, Marlene wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Well, maybe she would just for this moment, because she knows he’s going to be distinctly unimpressed and annoyed that she wasted his time. 

“Marlene,” he nods at her. “I was surprised you wanted to meet with me. We just saw each other, after all.”

“Yeah well,” she fidgets with her bracelets. Which is infuriating, because she never fidgets, and she forcibly spreads her palms on her lap to stop herself. “Something came up.”

Moody raises an eyebrow. “Something this important?”

Marlene had thought about just texting Moody, instead of facing him like she’s doing now, but she promised James that she would try, really try. Fuck James Potter. 

“Yeah, uh,” she starts. “I understand that this is unconventional, but I wanted to know if you have any idea who you’re signing for the second RB seat next year?”

“Odd thing to ask,” he pauses, “but I would be lying if I said this isn’t a problem for us right now. It’s signing season–”

“Silly season,” Marlene interjects unhelpfully. 

“Sure, whatever, silly season, right now, so we need to lock down our second driver for the junior team but there aren’t any promising candidates right now. All the promising F2 drivers have already been signed, so it looks like we might have to stick with Avery another year.” Moody grimaces. “God, I don’t know what we saw in him all those years ago. I think my niece’s dead hamster would perform better.”

Marlene laughs shakily before taking in a breath. Now or never. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” Moody tilts his head. “Do continue.”

“This is going to sound a bit crazy, but let me explain first before you reject it.”

Moody nods his head, gesturing for her to continue. 

“Sirius Black.”

There’s a pause. A long one. He opens his mouth, visibly processes her previous request, then closes it again. Then he opens his mouth and says, “I’m gonna need you to explain.”

Marlene exhales shakily. It’s good that he isn’t rejecting her outright. As much as Marlene plays this off to be a favor for James, she likes Sirius. He’s a good friend, and she wants Sirius to have a seat. She won’t pretend to understand the conflicts between him and his family, but anyone with eyes can see that Sirius is a natural-born racer, and it would be a fucking shame for him to not have his shot in F1, if he wants it. And she trusts James enough to believe that he does. So she wants this to work out, loathe as she is to admit it. 

“You know that Sirius is a damn good racer. There’s no arguing with that.”

“He races motorcycles.”

“Yes, but he’s damn good at it, and that’s something that can’t always be taught. Avery couldn’t figure that shit out, after all his years of lumbering around.”

Moody barks a laugh. “True. But that’s not enough.”

“No, it’s not. He races motorcycles, got a championship with it, but he raced cars. Remember how good he was in F3?”

He nods grudgingly. 

“You don’t just forget that. And his contract with Ducati ends this year. As long as you contact him before he extends it, he’s all yours. Sure, he might be rusty, but I’m willing to bet that he’ll be a better shot than most of the current F3 drivers, which are all you have to choose from right now.”

“Maybe. But it’s not a guarantee.”

Marlene sighs, pulling out her ace. “Additionally, he’ll hate to admit this, so I wouldn’t bring this up with him, but he’s a Black. You know that the Blacks are racing royalty. Even if he’s mediocre, the sponsors will love him, just because of his name. And the story of the estranged son returning to the F1 grid? Companies will be falling over themselves to buy a place in his story.”

“And more money means a better car.”

“And more money means a better car,” Marlene echoes. 

Moody thinks for a minute, and Marlene gives him the space to do so. When he finally looks back at her, she finds it within her to be hopeful. 

“I can’t give him the seat,” he starts, and Marlene sighs. It was worth a shot. “But,” he continues, “I’m willing to have him come to post-season testing. In Abu Dhabi. Avery’ll keep the seat in contract for now, but we have our exit clause with him, and if Black outperforms him in testing, well, it won’t be that much of a hassle to write up a contract for him instead.” 

Marlene smiles in disbelief. This is as good as guaranteeing a seat for Sirius, since she has no doubt that he’ll outperform Avery. “That’s a good plan.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow. Like you said, we’d better contact him before he extends his contract.”

“Thank you for considering this, Alastor,” she says honestly. 

“It’s not a half bad idea,” he admits. “But you’ve hit your quota for crazy ideas this season, so no more from you until Melbourne, at least."

She mock salutes him. “You got it boss.”

“Now get out of my office.”

Marlene leaves, laughing to herself as she hears Moody murmur “Sirius fucking Black” and “I can’t believe I’m considering this” as the door shuts behind her. 

***

“No, absolutely not.”

“Sirius, please just think about it.”

“James, I’ve spent my whole life trying to be more than what my family is. I don’t want to be a part of that world, the one that brought me so much pain as a child. Do you understand how fucking hard it is to be told your entire life that you need to be an F1 driver? That that’s your only worth in this world? The beatings and the punishments and the training—” Sirius cuts himself off, seething. 

There’s a long pause on James’ end. For a moment, Sirius thinks that he might have hung up. Rather spitefully, he kind of wishes James did, that he saw the absolute nonsense he was proposing and had given up. Then a soft voice crackles through his phone speaker. 

“Sirius, I know that your relationship with your family,” James spits those last two words with derision, which Sirius finds to be quietly comforting–it’s good to know that James is still unflinchingly on his side, “has tainted F1 for you. And I can’t blame you. What they did was undeniably shitty and I really do get it if you never want to set foot in an F1 paddock again.”

“Well of course I will, to attend your races,” Sirius disagrees insistently. He needs James to know that he will support him, regardless of his own…problems with F1. 

He can hear the smile in James’ voice as he replies, “Thanks, Pads. It means a lot.” His tone grows serious again though. “It’s just–” he hesitates. 

“Yes?” 

“Can I Facetime you?” James says abruptly.

Offended that he even had to ask, Sirius replies, “Of course. You can always Facetime me, please.”

The video call request goes through, and the first thing he sees when the call connects is James rolling his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t naked or something, jeez.”

Sirius winks at him. “You sure you wouldn’t enjoy that?”

“Ew, gross.” James gags. “Don’t bring that up again.”

“It’s your fault,” he points out with a little shrug. 

“Look,” James starts, and Sirius knows that their friendly banter is over. “I understand all the shit that comes along with F1 for you, really, I do. But I also remember our dreams, and how we were going to absolutely wreck the F1 world together.”

“Stars,” Sirius murmurs quietly. And if James heard it, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Not all of F1 has been touched by your family,” James points out softly. “The two Red Bull teams especially. God knows the prestigious Black family would never associate themselves with a team called fucking ‘Visa CashApp Racing Bulls.’”

Sirius snickers despite himself. “It was a really awful rebranding wasn’t it. Why the fuck would they do that.”

“Right?” James’ smile turns devious. “Can you imagine your brother saying in his aristocratic little voice: ‘I drive for the Visa CashApp Racing Bulls Formula One Team?’”

“And you want to subject me to this team name?”

“Your mother would hate that a Black drives for that team name.”

Sirius can admit to the appeal of that. 

“And I know that as much as you adore your motorcycles, you’re a racecar driver at heart. Besides,” James continues, voice loaded. “I want my brother to be in F1 with me. Just like we always dreamed, yeah?”

Sirius sighs. “I still don’t know, James.”

“You don’t have to sign any contracts right now. Just come to post-season testing in Abu Dhabi and take the car for a spin. And when you beat Avery, because there’s no doubt that you will, and Moody offers you that contract, then you can decide. Okay?”

Sirius hums noncommittally. 

“Just hold off on extending your Ducati contract for now. We all know they’ll happily hold the seat for you until December anyway, you superstar.”

A huff of breath, then a disbelieving smile. “You’re awfully convincing, Prongs. Fine. I’ll go to that goddamn postseason testing. But no promises after that. Alright?”

James’ smile could’ve lit up all the stars in the night sky. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

December 2024

Post Season Testing

“The weather’s wonderful today, perfect conditions for our teams and drivers to take their cars for their last few spins around the track this year,” Horace Slughorn’s voice crackles from the corner of the Ferrari garage, where the public live stream is on, but being ignored by almost everyone, with the exception of a few bored mechanics. 

“We have our morning post-season testing session starting right now, and after a short break we’ll have another in the afternoon. Ah! And it looks like the Mercedes drivers are getting ready to head on out.”

“Indeed,” The voice of Emmeline Vance joins Slughorn’s. “It seems that our reigning driver’s champion, Frank Longbottom, is getting into his car, and yes! Out he goes!”

“Longbottom’s had a fantastic season–he’s truly in peak position right now. You’d expect him to be ready for a break after his grueling season, but he’s dedicated to a fault.”

“Truly. Getting his maiden championship was no easy task for sure, but he kept giving it his all even after securing it in Vegas. A true racer–you’ve gotta respect it.”

“And look! Mercedes’ new rookie, James Potter, seems to be getting into his car as well.” The camera zooms in on a shot of Potter sitting in his car, helmet on and seemingly raring to go. Regulus watches him exchange a few words with someone presumed to be his engineer, who hands him his steering wheel. 

Regulus finds his eyes drawn to the screen despite himself. He knows that name. James Potter, Mercedes’ new golden boy, signed in to replace Smith, who had been underperforming all of last season. He doesn’t even have a seat for next year, as far as Regulus is aware. Despite Longbottom winning the driver’s championship, Smith had practically handed Ferrari the constructor’s championship with his abysmal driving, Regulus thought with a smirk. 

Regulus found himself curious about Potter. He had won the F2 championship last year, and Regulus can admit that his driving last year was impressive, especially considering just how competitive the F2 season was last year. Whether his driving is up to F1 standard is yet to be seen though, since Regulus knows damn well that F1 has a way of breaking even the most promising rookies. But it can also polish and mold them into diamonds. It’s all about the pressure. Some can withstand it, while others can’t. Regulus was born to. He wonders if Potter can do the same.

But Potter captivates Regulus for a different reason, more than his stellar F2 career, loathe as he is to admit it. After all, he’s Sirius’--Regulus thinks of his name with a sneer–best friend. Brother, it seems, in all but blood. Sirius certainly replaced him easily enough. 

Regulus watches as Potter speeds out of the Mercedes garage, before turning his attention back to the data his teammate, Rabastan Lestrange, is acquiring out on track. 

His team principal, Tom Riddle, walks up behind him from where he was on the pit wall and places a hand on his shoulder, and Regulus fights the urge to flinch as his fingers curl around him. 

“Regulus.” He nods towards the numerous numbers flowing in from Rabastan’s car. “Anything of interest?”

Given his place in the racing world since birth, Regulus has an intuition in regards to the mechanics of race cars that’s unrivalled, despite not having much formal education in engineering. It’s why Riddle often has him starting in the garage while Rabastan drives on testing days, and as much as Regulus would rather be speeding around on the track already, he understands that he can see the data in a light that Rabastan couldn’t possibly. He’s a good driver, Rabastan, but he has no concept of setting up cars. 

“Downforce on the front seems rather high. I’m willing to bet that the car’s understeering.” Regulus leans backwards and shouts to Rabastan’s engineer, Bellatrix Black, who’s on the pit wall. “Could you check his steering? Looks like understeer to me.”

Bella, Regulus’ cousin, nods and presses a button, speaking into Rabastan’s radio. “How’s the car? Any steering issues?” 

Regulus hears his reply through his own headphones, which are on the same channel. “Kind of shit,” Rabastan mutters. “I’m not sure what you did to the car since the Grand Prix, but it’s understeering like crazy.”

Bella shoots him a glance across the pit lane. “Looks like you were right.”

“As always,” Riddle smiles and looks at Regulus in that way that always makes him feel a bit like a commodity–a treasured possession of his, if you will.

Just then, Roldolphus Lestrange, one of Ferrari’s main strategists, walks up. “You’ll want to get Regulus out soon,” he tells Riddle. “Time in this session is running out, and we wanted to test his car’s setup against my brother’s, right?”

At a nod from Riddle, Regulus takes his headphones off and walks deeper into the garage, zipping his fireproofs up and tugging his balaclava on. Right as he’s about to put on his helmet, he startles as he hears a name from the live stream.

“And it looks like RB’s second driver this session is none other than Sirius Black!” Slughorn is exclaiming, surprised. “I can’t say I saw that one coming.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” Vance murmurs. “He hasn’t been seen in a single-seater in, what, six years?”

Regulus stares at the television in shock, as he watches his brother stride into the RB garage with that easy charm of his, casually fist bumping a mechanic with a bright smile on his face. He’s evidently there to drive, as he has a helmet in one hand and his fireproofs are halfway on, but Regulus still can’t reconcile the fact that his brother is here. In the F1 pit lane. After swearing off of F1 and their family six years ago. 

“Yeah, since his stellar F3 season in 2018. Back when he was just sixteen years old.” 

“Sybill, did you know about this?” Vance asks the third announcer. Sybill Trelawney is young, but she’s an incredibly bright strategist that Regulus has cursed out many times for accurately predicting their strategy to a tee, and giving it away to the other teams over the live stream. He’s sure that if anyone outside of the Red Bull teams was aware of this, it would be her. 

“I heard rumours, but nothing even remotely substantial,” she says, surprise laced into every word. “Just the usual hopes, so this is as much of a shock to me as it is to anyone.”

He can’t help but drink in the sight of Sirius on the television screen, as he watches him pull on his fireproofs, obviously getting ready to head out on track as well. He’s followed his career since leaving formula racing, of course, just to stay aware of what’s going on in motorsport, but outside of the occasional headline or interview clip, Regulus hasn’t seen his face since he left. He’s struck with the sudden realization that his Sirius is only a few meters away from him right now–just a few walls separating them.

“As far as I’m aware though,” Trelawney is continuing, “No contracts have been signed yet. It’s possible that Black’s just taking the car out for a test run–this is not guarantee of a seat. Indeed, it seems that Avery is here today as well, though he’s not in a race suit right now. I’m assuming that he’ll be taking over in the second session today”

“But,” Slughorn interjects excitedly, “Ducati has not announced a contract extension for Mr. Black yet. Suspicious, this late into the year. Perhaps we’ll have another Black on the grid next year after all!”

“Well, we can certainly all hope for it. We’ve already got two rookies joining us on the grid next year, adding Sirius Black as a third would set it up to be a truly exciting season.”

Regulus takes a deep breath as he tunes out the commentator’s chatter, letting it disappear into the clamour of the pit lane. 

Regulus can separate his life into two distinct periods. When he had a brother, and when he didn’t. When he watched his brother limp out the front yard as he sat by the window of his bedroom that day, Regulus had decided on his path. He was going to become a Ferrari driver, as soon as possible. He hadn’t even been in F3 when his brother had left, but he quickly rose through the ranks, skipping F2 on his road to glory. And when he became the youngest ever signed F1 driver, at age 17, and therefore also the youngest ever Ferrari driver, well, what’s another record to be broken amongst all the ones he was planning to shred? Everyone had called the team insane, the media incredulous and accusing Ferrari of being swayed by his name and his money. Regulus can admit that his family gave him an advantage, but he’s not afraid to use it. After all, what kind of a racer are you if you don’t go for every opportunity, every gap? It didn’t really matter anyway–he’d proved them all wrong these last three years. Regulus Black was one dangerous driver, and they all knew it. He’d made sure of it.

Now all that’s left on his path is a championship. And he’s not going to let a disgraced former brother jeopardize his chances of that next season, he thinks viciously.

So, putting grey eyes and infectious laughter out of his mind, Regulus pulls his helmet on.

All was going well until, until during one of his cool-down laps, Dorcas’ voice crackled to life in his ear. 

“There’s an RB car behind you on a hot-lap.”

Regulus pulls his car to the side to let the car pass, but as the blue and white blur flies by, he sees the number eight emblazoned on the front of the car. 

It had been an inside joke between him and Sirius. Seven was considered a lucky number, a perfect one due to some arithmetic bullshit their family believed. It was a number passed down through their family–many Black F1 champions drove with the number seven. Seven and three were the two important numbers to the Black family–the ones with all the legacy. So naturally, when they entered racing, Sirius was supposed to take the number seven, and Regulus to take three. But Sirius never believed in that, scoffed at tradition as much as he did arithmetic, so when time came to fill out the form to declare their numbers, Sirius had chosen eight. “Better than perfect,” he’d said with a grin. Of course, Regulus had still chosen three.

All this to say that when an RB car with the number eight on it passes him, Regulus knows it isn’t Amelia Bones, the other RB driver out on track right now. Her number’s fifty-two. 

Regulus presses the radio button on his steering wheel, and, his voice steady from years of necessary iron-clad control, he asks Dorcas: “Who’s in the RB car that just passed?”

Dorcas’ hesitation is the only answer he needs. Dorcas had been his race engineer since his second F1 season, his previous engineer of several years having moved to Red Bull, and while it had taken him a while to warm up to her, her sarcastic humour but indisputable focus and competency had won him over in the end. He considers her a friend, though he would never admit it out loud, and they had gotten close over the past two seasons. So he knows that Dorcas can’t possibly be unaware of the turmoil roiling through him right now. 

“Sirius Black,” she confirms. 

And suddenly, Regulus’ conviction slips. 

He knows his racing lines are off, that his braking is too cautious. He can’t seem to find the balance of the car anymore, though he knows that it’s not at all the car’s problem, given that it had been humming under his fingertips minutes earlier. And every time he sees a flash of blue and white in his mirrors something in his gut twists, even though the number on the car is more often fifty-two than it is eight. 

Trying his hardest to push away any thoughts of estranged family members, Regulus grits his teeth and sets off for another hot-lap. It starts off flawlessly, as he weaves his way through the first five turns and down the first straight. His mind starts to drift again at turn eight though, as he rounds the corner and barrels down the second straight, foot firmly on the accelerator. He misses his usual brake point for turn nine by a fraction of a second though, and his quick jerk of the steering wheel to try to still make it sends his car spinning, only quick reflexes honed from years of driving saving him from ending up in the wall. 

“Fuck!” He swears loudly, banging his fist against his steering wheel. 

“Regulus, are you alright?” Dorcas’ voice comes through the radio. 

“Yeah, I just…I messed up there.” A sigh. “Sorry.”

“Well, the session’s almost over anyway. There are three more cars still on a hot lap, but once they pass you take the car back in.”

“Copy.”

Regulus sighs again, and once the last few stragglers have passed, a green Stake car and two Haas ones, he pulls back onto track and makes his way to the pit lane. 

The second he’s out of the car, Riddle is upon him. 

“What the hell was that, Regulus? You were way off the racing line–did you think you were driving a different track? Monaco, perhaps? And what the fuck was that spin at the end?”

Regulus winces. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Cut the bullshit. You just won this Grand Prix a few days ago–did you forget how to drive since then?”

“I was…distracted.”

Riddle rolls his eyes. “You have all of the off season to be distracted. Get it together for the afternoon session.”

Regulus nods and prepares to leave, in search of some water, but Riddle stops him. “We did get some good data,” he admits. 

Tom Riddle may not be Regulus’ favorite person, far from it actually, but he can’t deny that he’s a good team principal. He has the interests of the team at heart, and is probably as ambitious as Regulus himself. In fact, he’s sure that if Riddle came from a wealthier family, he would’ve been a driver himself, and a phenomenal one to boot–instead, he’s clawed himself up to become team principal of the most prestigious F1 team. Regulus can respect it–he respects him, even when he gets all pissy like he is today. 

“But,” he adds, pointing a finger at Regulus. “I need better performance in the afternoon. We need all the data we can get, Black.”

Regulus nods in acknowledgement. “Of course. I’ll handle it.”

***

Sirius rounds the final corner of the track, teeth gritting against the g-force but eyes bright with exhilaration, and hurtles past the line before slowing into his cooldown lap. 

“That was a phenomenal hot-lap,” Sirius’ race engineer whistles. Sirius frankly can’t remember his name at the moment, humming as he is with adrenaline, but if Avery doesn’t do better than him in the afternoon he’ll really have to learn it. Because goddamn, he forgot how fucking alive he feels in a car. MotoGP has nothing on F1’s cornering or braking–though he will admit the acceleration is a bit nicer on his bike. 

“What was my time?” He asks. 

“1:23.730. Second fastest time this session.”

Sirius grins to himself. Not bad for six years out of the car.

“You can take it in after this lap,” the voice comes back through the radio. “The session will be over in five minutes–stay off the racing line for the other cars still going.”

Sirius snorts. It’s not as if he forgot all track etiquette, he knows that. Also, he thinks indignantly to himself, it’s the same concept in MotoGP. Honestly, he’s not stupid. 

When he pulls back into the RB garage and hops out of the car, Deladus Diggle, the RB team principal, is already there, handing him a water bottle. 

“That was quite the session, son. You’ve gotten us a lot of valuable data.”

“And I went fucking fast,” Sirius grins cheekily, before unscrewing the bottle and chugging half of it. 

“And you went fucking fast,” Diggle agrees with an incredulous smile.

Footsteps sound behind him and he turns around to see Alastor Moody walking into the RB garage. Sirius hurriedly puts the water bottle down and wipes his mouth with his hand when he realizes that there’s still some water dribbling down his chin. 

Moody stops in front of Sirius and looks him up and down appraisingly, while Sirius has to fight the urge to squirm. He’s not often ill at ease around people–it’s rare for him to be put on edge by others–but this is Alastor Moody. Red Bull team principal. Nicknamed “Mad-Eye” by the media, though that name is whispered in hushed tones because his derision for it is well known, for his uncanny ability to notice talent in young drivers. But also for his ruthlessness with his demands for their performance, as any of the dropped Red Bull drivers could tell you. So yes, Sirius will admit that he’s intimidated. Just a bit. 

“Black.” He says gruffly. 

“Oh, please don’t call me that,” Sirius forces a cheeky smirk. “There’s already a Black on the grid, nevermind all the other family members involved in the sport–that’s bound to get confusing, fast. Sirius will do.” He puts a hand out to shake.

Moody barks a laugh then takes his hand firmly. “Fair enough. Call me Alastor, then.” 

“Alastor.” Sirius nods. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, I have to say. That was one hell of a session you had out there, kid. Especially that last lap? Shit.”

Sirius laughs, delighted. “So you like what you see?”

“I have half a mind to offer you a contract here and now. Six years out of the car and you’re still performing like this?”

Sirius ducks his head, grinning at the praise.

Alastor sighs. “Avery will get his turn in the car this afternoon, like I promised him, but I have a feeling he won’t be up to standard, at least not the way you are.”

“We’ll see I suppose,” Sirius replies, “but I’m honored by this opportunity either way. It’s been great to be back.”

Moody looks at him for a minute longer, critically, and Sirius meets his gaze. “Here’s the question though. If I offered you a contract to drive for RB next year, hell even the next few years, would you accept it?”

There’s a strange line between invincibility and vulnerability that you flirt with when you drive. You’re speeding, hurtling, flying, down the track, and one wrong move could send you across that line, even across the line between life and death, but it’s intoxicating. Sirius has chased that feeling, he realizes, in his motorcycles, in alcohol, even in sleeping with anything with a pulse, as James would say. But God, nothing compares to the real thing. MotoGP came fucking close, but the aerodynamics of F1? The way the car moves and lurches in response to his every move? The fast corners and hard braking? He’s missed this more than he realized. Damn James for knowing him so well, as always, he thinks fondly. 

“Yes,” he answers. “I would.”

Moody smirks, satisfaction in his eyes. “Good.”

After his conversation with Moody, Sirius is floating around the garage, chattering animatedly with all the mechanics and strategists and anyone he can, who all humour him until Diggle finally points him out of the garage with a huff but also an amused smile. 

“Go bother someone else. We don’t need you here right now so feel free to go somewhere else. Visit James, perhaps?” Sirius’ friendship with James is obviously well-known, if even Diggle knows about it. Perhaps James talks about him, he thinks suddenly, and that creates a bit of a warm feeling in his chest. 

“Ugh you’re kicking me out?” Sirius pretends to be wounded, though a small smile curls at the edge of his mouth. “I’m so hurt.”

“Yes. You’re distracting the mechanics, and we’ve gotta prepare the car for Avery’s session, so shoo.”

He laughs. “Alright alright. You wound me. Just let me get a few things from the back and I’ll be on my way.”

It’s just luck that he passes by the television that’s broadcasting the cars still out on track in the last few minutes of the session when he sees a Ferrari car spin. He stops and watches anxiously until it’s obvious that the driver regained control, upon which he finds he can breathe again. There’s a three on the front of the car. 

Frankly, he’s not sure why he was so worried. Or so surprised by his brother being out on track. It’s not as if he doesn’t know that his brother’s a Ferrari driver–his mother had made sure to flaunt him all over her social media as soon as he was signed. It’s also not as if it was a particularly bad incident–cars spin all the time. Hell, they crash all the time. That’s part of the appeal of Formula 1, Sirius thinks to himself absentmindedly. But the drivers are usually fine. So Sirius isn’t really sure why he was so rattled for a moment by his little brother spinning out there. 

But now that he thinks about it, Sirius hadn’t really acknowledged that his brother was going to be in the paddock with him. Only a few garages over. It’s probably the closest they’ve been in years, he thinks wryly. But continuing along his path to his driver’s room at the back of the garage, where he changes out of his race suit, he decides that he’s going to put his family out of his mind. He’s back in F1 for himself, not for them. And that includes Regulus, since he decided to comply with all of their family’s desires and values. Legacy, my ass. Sirius snorts. Fuck the Black family. 

Unfortunately, it seems that the universe has other plans for him, because when he steps out of his garage, whistling happily as he makes his way over to the Mercedes one, he very nearly walks straight into Regulus as he’s crossing the pit lane, still in his race suit. 

Sirius stops and straightens, opening his mouth to speak but then pausing. Regulus looks good. He’s grown a few inches since Sirius last saw him in person, and he’s gained some lean muscle, no longer the scrawny kid Sirius used to protect from their parents. And, loathe as he is to admit it, Ferrari red looks good on him. 

They make eye contact though, and Sirius finds that his brother’s mouth is still pressed into that annoyed line that he knows so well. Some things never change.

Sirius opens his mouth again to speak, some sharp comment on his tongue, but Regulus beats him to it. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks disparagingly. 

Well, if his brother’s going to continue to be an ass, Sirius can as well. Two can play at this game. Sirius lets his mouth fall into that familiar borderline-arrogant smirk. “Driving, obviously, baby brother. That is what drivers usually do at race tracks.” He gestures towards the general direction of the circuit. He then hesitates for a second, but can’t help but add another retort. “Though, perhaps you’ve forgotten how to do that, given your little spin earlier today. I thought Daddy taught you better than that.”

“Cute,” Regulus drawls. “The rebellious son’s coming back to his roots, huh? Thought you were over with all of this when you ran off, what, six years ago?”

“Ran off and got a MotoGP championship, yes. Have you gotten yourself one yet?”

“It’ll come,” Regulus says flippantly. “But if you were thriving so well with your little bikes, then pray tell, why the fuck are you back?”

Sirius doesn’t quite have an answer for him.

“On top of it all, you’re starting from the bottom. From the back of the grid, dear brother. Or do you have delusions of grandeur with your little Visa CashApp Racing Bulls Formula One Team?” Regulus somehow makes the team name sound like a slur. 

“At least I didn’t buy my way into a top team,” Sirius snaps, voice sharp. 

Regulus chuckles mockingly. “Oh, but we all know I’ve earned my seat by now. I’m always at the front. It’s a good thing too, since it means I won’t have to see you often, in your place at the back.” He tilts his head, pretending to ponder something. “Oh! Except for when I lap you, of course.”

“You’re such an asshole, Reggie,” Sirius snarls. 

Regulus just smirks. “Welcome back to the grid, brother.” He then walks past Sirius dismissively, without a second glance. 

Sirius is left in the middle of the pit lane, fuming. After being given a few strange looks by Mclaren and Alpine mechanics at the way he’s just standing there, Sirius strides off, towards the Mercedes garage. 

Once he arrives, he peeks around the corner, and catches the tail end of James’ conversation with his team principal. 

“Albus, Peter did good today, you know that.”

“Yes, but it’s just a testing session,” Dumbledore says doubtfully.

“Trust me, Peter’s up to it. He and I work together flawlessly, you’ll see. Besides, he’s a fantastic strategist as well–”

Sirius chooses this moment to enter the garage. Perhaps it’s a bit presumptuous to interrupt their conversation, but Peter’s his friend too, and he can tell what’s going on, so he’s going to step in. No doubts about it. Besides, he’s never really cared what the old codgers in F1 thought of him. Why start now?

“He really is. Always beats me at chess.” Sirius throws an arm around James. “Hi Jamie.” Then he looks back at Dumbledore. “It’s like a two-in-one deal, really. Race engineer and strategist.”

Dumbledore startles slightly. “Sirius Black. You’ve been an unexpected surprise today.”

Sirius smirks. “Aw, you flatter me.” He then nudges James. “Hey if you don’t convince Dumbledore to keep Peter let me know, yeah? I’ll have to ask Deladus to steal him for me.”

James pretends to be offended. The two of them have always been on the same wavelength–Effie laments that it's uncanny, certainly witchcraft, but with an indulgent smile on her face as she watches her boys’ antics–so he knows exactly what Sirius is doing right now. “Oi you can’t do that! That’s my race engineer you’re talking about. No stealing.” He wags a finger at Sirius. “Right, Albus?”

Dumbledore frowns, obviously not fully convinced but willing to humour James. “Fine. I’ll let Peter be your engineer for the first few races next season. But if he’s not as good as you say, You’re going back to Podmore.”

James nods at him. “Deal. And don’t worry, he will be.”

Dumbledore nods at Sirius. “Black. It’s good to see you back in the paddock, though I’m afraid I have some things to take care of so we’ll have to talk a different time.” He then looks at James. “Be ready for the afternoon session, yeah?”

“You got it boss.”

And with another nod, Dumbledore strides off to talk in hushed tones with one of the mechanics. 

James whirls on Sirius the moment Dumbledore leaves. “‘Ask Deladus to steal him for me?’ Does this mean you’re racing next year?”

Sirius grins at him, feeling the bad mood that had set in after his encounter with Regulus being lifted at the hope in James' eyes. “Well, nothing’s confirmed yet, of course, since Avery still has to go, but Moody’s all but offered me a contract. Asked if I would sign it if he did.”

James gasps, a hopeful light in his eyes. “And? What’d you say?”

“Well, yes of course. Gotta be on the grid with my brother.” He bumps James with his shoulder.

“Fuck yeah,” James exclaims, elated, before rushing to hug him. “We’re gonna be F1 drivers next year, Pads!”

“Yeah,” and Sirius feels the excitement coursing through the both of them. “We are.”

James pulls away suddenly. “Oh! I’ve gotta go let Peter know that he’s gonna be in the paddock next year too! Thanks for that by the way.”

“Of course.” He shoos James off. “Go tell him, I’m gonna do a bit more exploring. It’s been a while since I’ve been back here.”

“Okay okay, we’ll talk later yeah?” James bounds off, a bounce in his step now that he knows that his two best friends are going to be around next year. 

Sirius wanders the paddock a bit more, watching the various teams work and basking in the familiarity of it all. After the break in between sessions though, a person in a Red Bull team kit waves him down. 

“Hey! Sirius Black, right?”

“The one and only.”

“Moody wants you in the Red Bull garage. He sent me to find you.”

Sirius squints at him. “You’re a mechanic?”

He nods. “Yeah. I think he wants you to observe the second session from the Red Bull garage. Maybe even the pit wall. You know, to look at the data and everything.”

Sirius shrugs, then gestures to the man. “Lead the way.”

Moody greets him with a pat on the shoulder in the garage. “Hey kid. I thought it would be good for you to watch the next session from the main team. Deladus doesn’t really need you down there anyway. Go over to the pit wall, will you? I’ll be there in a second.”

Sirius nods and acquiesces, walking across the asphalt. There are a few people already seated there, with two empty seats. One in the middle, which he assumes is being kept for Moody, and one on the very end, which Sirius makes his way towards. Just as he’s about to sit down however, the person in the seat next to him swivels away from a conversation he was having previously to look at the screens in front of him, and Sirius is able to catch a glimpse of his face. His breath catches in his throat. 

Sirius Black knows that he’s bisexual. He came to terms with it years ago, in the closets of the Black family ancestral home–a place that was far from open to such obscenity, as his mother would say. It was part of the reason he left, actually, unable to deal with their homophobia any longer. In Sirius’ eyes, it doesn’t really matter what gender someone is if they’re hot–again, James’ accusations of him sleeping with anything with a pulse ring true. He does tend to sleep with more women, part of the deal when you’re a young, male athlete, but he’ll be the first to admit when a man is hot. 

Which is what’s giving him pause right now, because this man is hot. Actually, he’s frankly gorgeous. With his curly brown hair and a fucking killer jawline, Sirius finds himself mesmerized. There’s a faint scar running along the side of his face and through his eyebrow, giving him a bit of a dangerous look that Sirius finds more alluring than he probably should. As if he could sense Sirius staring, the man turns towards him, and Sirius, caught by surprise, startles a touch.

He cocks his head at Sirius, and the first thing Sirius notices is that he has freckles. Just a light smattering over his nose and cheeks, but he finds it endearing. Then his eyes. Holy shit, his eyes. Amber, staring straight into Sirius’ soul, framed by long eyelashes. 

“You’re Sirius Black?” The stranger speaks up. 

“Um…yeah.” Sirius replies, thrown. Then he curses to himself. He couldn’t have come up with anything smoother?”

He looks Sirius up and down, and Sirius feels himself being judged, shifting uncomfortably. “Pleasure,” he finally replies. “I’m Remus Lupin.”

Sirius smiles at him. “Nice to meet you, Remus Lupin.” The name rolls nicely off his tongue, he decides. “Are you a race engineer?”

Remus nods. “Yeah, Severus’. Previously Avery’s but, well, you of all people know what happened there.”

That draws a chuckle out of him. “Yeah. Certainly.” There’s a slight lilt to Remus’ voice that Sirius struggles to place, and he frowns as Remus turns back to someone on his other side.

“Here,” Remus turns back around, holding a pair of headphones. “Put these on. Doesn’t make any sense for you to be on the pit wall if you can’t hear what’s going on, after all.”

As Sirius takes the headphones and puts them on, he suddenly places what accent he’s hearing. “Are you from Wales?” He blurts suddenly. Then groans internally. Sirius Orion Black. Get it the fuck together. You’re usually such a charmer, but this man can reduce you to what, a teenager with a crush?

But Remus just smiles, bemused. “Yeah. How’d you guess?”

Sirius shrugs. “Slight accent. Was throwing me for a minute, until I placed it.”

There’s a slight raise of his eyebrows, and Remus looks mildly impressed. “Not many people recognize Welsh accents.”

“You grow up in the world of motorsport, you learn to recognize a lot of accents real quick.”

“I believe that,” Remus laughs, and Sirius finds he likes the sound a lot. 

Remus turns back to his screen, focusing in again on the data being presented, and Sirius tries to do the same. But when Remus reaches out to press a button, speaking into his microphone, presumably to Snape, Sirius finds himself following the movement of his fingers against the control panel. They’re long and slender, deftly pressing buttons and typing on the keyboard, and Sirius is left wondering what else they can do—he cuts that train of thought off with a groan. He’s so fucked. 

Despite the massive distraction at his side that takes the shape of one Remus Lupin, Sirius is enjoying his time at the pit wall immensely. It’s fascinating to see all the data spread out before him, numbers popping up at every turn either of the drivers take, in a way that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Since his father would take him to races when he was little, he recognizes, but decides not to let that taint his experience right now. 

Remus and Marlene’s race engineer, who Sirius learns is one Mary Macdonald, are dialed in, providing constant feedback and communication between the other people on the pit wall and their drivers. 

Looking at the graphs that are being provided on the screens in front of him, Sirius frowns slightly. Both Marlene and Snape are fast, but Snape’s tires seem to be degrading much faster than Marlene’s. He leans over to Remus hesitantly, and he cocks an eyebrow at Sirius, who hurries to explain. 

“You see that tire degradation on Snape’s chart?” 

Remus nods. 

“I think he’s braking too hard into turns 6 and 7. He can definitely go through those faster–might save him a bit of wear on those tires. Especially the front left one.”

Remus frowns then turns to Mary, who Sirius now realizes had been listening in on their conversation. 

“You agree?” He asks her.

She looks at the screen for a minute, brows furrowed, then nods. “Yeah, look.” She points at something on Marlene’s chart. “Marlene isn’t braking as hard as Snape is, especially at turns 6 and 7, like Sirius mentioned. Severus’ car is also set up for more downforce than Marlene’s, especially in the front, which should let him have greater cornering speeds in those turns, no?”

“So he should be braking less there,” Remus summarizes. 

A nod from Mary has Remus shooting an appreciative glance at Sirius. “You know your way around this data.”

Sirius shrugs modestly. “Another thing that comes with practically growing up in the pit lane.”

Remus shrugs a shoulder, conceding the point, before turning on the radio. Sirius, whose headphones are currently connected to Severus’ radio, hears him speak. 

“Severus, try braking less at 6 and 7.”

“Really?” Comes the reply. “The car wasn’t behaving very well when I braked less last weekend. Kept losing grip.”

“Your car has more frontal downforce than before, Severus. Give it a try.”

“Copy.”

Snape approaches the aforementioned turns, and the three of them fall silent, watching. He nearly goes through smoothly, but the car lurches slightly coming out of the second turn–just a small slip, but it could be costly in qualifying or in a race. 

“That one’s on me,” Snape admits over the radio. “Didn’t find the balance in time.”

They watch Marlene go through the same turns behind him effortlessly, despite the lower downforce on her car, and Sirius finds himself impressed. 

“Always knew she was a good driver. She has a good feel for the car.”

“Yeah,” Mary smiles proudly. “She’s also one hell of a tire whisperer. Ran 50 laps on mediums once.”

Sirius whistles. “Damn.”

Remus sighs good-naturedly. “Hopefully Severus can find some pace this year. I’ve been losing quite a lot of money in bets to Mary, since her driver’s a fucking demon.”

Mary giggles. “Find yourself your own prodigy, Remus. Who knows, with the second driver turnover rate Moody’s fielding right now, they might come along soon.”

The session ends and the drivers come pulling back into the garage. Sirius watches as Marlene and Snape both climb out of their cars, cheeks flushed with that feeling of a good session–Sirius remembers it now.

Snape nods at Sirius as he walks past, but Marlene, after chatting animatedly with Mary about something, stops by Sirius and throws an arm around him. 

“Ew,” he pretends to gag. “You’re all sweaty. Get off of me.”

She smirks but lets go of him. “Enjoy the show? I heard you were on the pit wall that session.”

Sirius nods. “Yeah. You drove well. I’d forgotten how satisfying it is to watch you.”

“Aw, you flatter me, Black.” She takes a long drink of water, as Sirius pauses.
“I never thanked you, you know,” he starts.
She tilts her head. “For?”

“For getting me a drive today. James mentioned that you were the one who talked to Moody about it.”

“Oh, yes. Well, James is quite convincing.”

Sirius laughs. “That he is. Convinced me to get back in the car–he was sure that I needed it.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t believe him until I was out there, really.”

Marlene nods, understanding on her face. “It’s something different, isn’t it? I knew what he meant when he said you would want it, even if you didn’t know it at the time. You’re a racer at heart–I wasn’t gonna deprive you of that.”

“Thank you.” Sirius says sincerely, looking her straight in the eye. “Really.”

She tilts her head. “Of course. Though proposing to Alastor that he take on someone who hadn’t been in the car in six years? That was fucking scary. Thought he was gonna chew me out for a moment.”

He huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t blame him.”

“One of her crazier ideas, I will admit,” comes a gruff voice from behind them. 

“Alastor!” Marlene exclaims, surprised. 

“Though,” he continues, looking directly at Sirius. “Apparently also one of her better ones.”

“I do have those sometimes,” she replies dryly. 

“Only occasionally.” He throws at her, focus still on Sirius. “Well then, the second session’s over. Avery had his turn, and, well, I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.” He puts a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Wanna get to drafting a contract?”

Chapter Text

February 2025

Pre-Season Testing–Bahrain International Circuit

Day 1

“Ladies and gentlemen, the other side of the off season is in sight. After a long 12 weeks–”

“--exactly 80 days, in fact,”

“Formula One is officially back, here in Pre-Season testing in Bahrain.”

Lily Evans puts her ear pieces in, blocking out the sound of the commentators, Emmeline Vance and Horace Slughorn. She tugs her balaclava and helmet on, fidgeting around with the second before it slips on, fully secure, before taking a deep breath. 

The first session of pre-season testing in Bahrain, at the Bahrain International Circuit–and indeed, the first track session of the 2025 season–is always a bit hectic. All the teams are brushing off the dust of not being in the pitlane for months on end–not to say that no work had been done at the factory over the off-season though, because the engineers at the McLaren Technology Centre in Surrey had provided her and her teammate, Barty, this year with a good car. From the few test runs she had taken it out on before this session, she could tell it was fast. The front end was sharp, frontal downforce allowing for responsive steering, but not to the point where the car became undriveable to most.

And that means that she has to perform this year. Because there are expectations set, and they’re sky high–she’s no longer a rookie. That was last year. In her second year with the team, she’s expected to make moves, to find that aggression, to score, and to win. Being the oldest in the team is also putting her off-center though; her teammate last year, Hestia Jones, while not having been the fastest driver on the grid, was consistent, and had several years of experience behind her–with Mclaren, to boot. So when Mclaren announced last year that they were dropping her for Barty Crouch Jr., who was notorious, and still is, for his whippingly fast yet frankly dangerous driving style, the news outlets were shocked. Lily had been met with a microphone in her face wherever she went, asking for her opinion. Crouch had bottled the F2 championship in 2023 with an attempt at an aggressive overtake in the last race that ended poorly for him–ended with him in the wall, in fact. But there’s no doubting the fact that when he’s fast–he’s fucking fast. He’s fearless when he’s driving, and Lily can respect it, even if that’s not quite her style. 

All that to say that Hestia being let go by Mclaren sent shockwaves through the motorsports community–Mclaren gambled with their driver lineup, possibly the most inexperienced–in terms of time in F1–on the grid, and that means that Lily gets to bear the gift and burden of being considered the leader of Mclaren Racing this season.

Ironically, Hestia ended up finding a seat at Alpine for this year, the team for which Crouch had been a reserve driver all of last season–so she’s still on the grid. 

Though now that Lily thinks about it, watching a Racing Bulls car drive by to get in line for the practice session as she lowers herself into her own car, Mclaren didn’t even generate the most waves this silly season. Not even fucking close. Sirius Black alone takes that crown. 

Lily fastens herself into her car and pulls her gloves on, before taking her steering wheel from the engineer beside her and clicking it into place in front of her. 

“And, radio check, Lily.” Pandora’s voice comes filtering through, staticky at first before it clears with a quiet pop.

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. The session starts in five minutes, so we’ll have you lined up in the pit lane right now, behind Gideon’s Williams.”

“Copy.”

Lily puts her car into gear then pulls it out of the garage, lining it up single-file behind all the other cars in the pit lane waiting for the go-ahead to start the session. 

“Okay Lily,” Pandora crackles to life again, “as you know, we have you on a different setup to Barty right now–you’ve got that Gurney flap on your rear wing so you’ve got some more downforce. That should help you in those tight turns, especially the hairpins in turns 8 and 10, but we worry about tire degradation due to that.”

“So you want me to push those turns, correct?”

“Yes, on your hotlaps, but please take your cooldown laps in between slowly–it’s blisteringly hot here, and the tires won’t be happy about that.”

“Sounds good.”

“We’ve coated your car in a bit of flow-vis too–”

Lily snorts. “A bit is an understatement. You practically drowned it.”

“Yeah, alright, fair, but this car looked fairly good in terms of aerodynamics in the wind tunnel, and we just want to see if that translates on track, especially on the straights.”

“Yes ma’am. Sounds good.”

“Don’t call me that,” Pandora sighs. Lily chuckles. 

But before she can retort, the light at the end of the pit lane turns green, and the cars peel off onto the track, under the scalding Bahrain sun, one at a time. 

It takes a moment before the cars separate enough for Lily to really get started, but when the time for her first hotlap comes–damn. It’s been long three months out of the car, and getting to floor it, to take those turns and to feel her teeth grit against the G-forces, well, it feels like spreading her wings again. 

She flies across the line, then eases and lets her car coast and slow down, pulling to the side to let a green Aston Martin–also covered in flo-vis, though at least the green matches that team’s color scheme, as opposed to the way that it clashes with Mclaren orange, pass. 

“Good lap, Lily. 1:31.591.”

“How are the tires looking?”

“As expected, the degradation is high, especially on that front left. Your sector two was the second fastest of all the cars so far though, so your turns are certainly faster.”

“Again?” Lily is raring to go, eager to feel that adrenaline pumping through her veins again.

“Take a breather first, but then yeah, let's get going.”

When she finally pulls back into the Mclaren garage a few hours later, she pulls behind a wall of Mclaren mechanics and engineers, one of which is busy batting away a particularly nosy reporter–and more importantly, his camera.

Lily pulls the steering wheel off of the car and climbs out, pulling her helmet off.

“Didn’t know being able to form a human wall was prereq for working at Mclaren,” she comments cheekily. 

“Oh, you know,” one of the engineers, Monica, replies with a smirk and a faux-dismissive hand wave, “all part of the job description. Can’t have Red Bull or Ferrari over there leeching off of our precious flow-vis data.”

“Of course not,” a hand to Lily’s chest in mock outrage, “that would be sacrilegious.”

One of the mechanics–one that Lily had actually knocked over when pitting once last year, and frankly still feels bad about, though he seems well over it–, Albert, pats her on the back. “How’d this bad boy feel?”

“Well, I tend to think of my cars as girls,” Lily starts, and Albert rolls his eyes, “but honestly superb. The team back at the factory delivered, truly.”

They both turn to look at the car, which is being rolled into the garage by members of the aforementioned human wall. “Glad to hear it. Up for championship contention this year?”

Lily laughs, despite herself. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We haven’t even gotten to Melbourne yet, after all, but you know I’m always down to race.”

In her peripheral vision, Lily notices her teammate walking up to her, so she turns to greet him with a smile. 

“Hey Evans. How’d the sesh go?”

“Good, actually. You’re gonna enjoy it out there–the car’s very precise, especially around the tight turns. Though that might be ‘cause of the Gurney flap on mine.”

He shrugs and bumps his shoulder against hers amicably as they walk into the garage. “I’ll enjoy it anyway. God knows I’ve missed being out on the track.”

“Haven’t we all.”

Barty snickers suddenly. “You saw the human wall though, I assume?”

“Hard to miss,” Lily notes dryly, “when they’re blocking my whole field of vision. Could the team not have invested in like some folding dividers or something?”

“They certainly should’ve. You should’ve seen them when they realized that the whole pitlane would be able to see all their flow-vis once your car stopped–I think Minnie yelled at the whole fucking garage to come crowd around your car.”

Lily huffs a laugh at the mental image of Minerva Mcgonagall, their focused and stern team principal, shouting at a horde of panicked engineers and mechanics with that tinge of a Scottish accent that seeps into her voice when she’s stressed. “Hey, you’ll be the one being crowded around this afternoon, after your sesh.”

Barty shakes his head. “Nah, I bet some poor staffer got sent out to go buy a bunch of dividers for us.”

She hums consideringly. “Well, I’m starving, so I’m gonna change and head onto lunch. You have fun out there, yeah? Get some good data for us, and don’t crash the damn thing.”

He mock-salutes her with a smirk. “No promises.”

Lily shakes her head. They’ve bonded over the off-season, in their time working together at the factory and doing various things for PR, and Lily finds him funny, if a little uncontrollable at times. She’s not sure how his race engineer, Evan Rosier, handles him, but the two of them seem to work together just as well as her and Pandora. The Rosier siblings have a knack for it, it seems.

Speaking of Pandora, the blonde is walking up to her now with a bottle of water that Lily happily accepts as an antidote to the parching dryness of Bahrain, chugging half of it down in one gulp. 

“Good work out there.”

Lily wipes away the bit of water dribbling down her chin, and steals another small sip, before responding. 

“Thanks. Was nice to have you in my ear again–I’ve been missing that all winter.”

“I’ve missed you too. We don’t see each other over the off season as much as I’d like, honestly.”

Lily feels the corner of her mouth curl into a smile. She’ll never not appreciate Pandora’s candour–perhaps it’s what makes her such a good race engineer. “Yeah we’ll need to rectify that over the summer break, maybe.”

“Oh, well you’ll have seen too much of me by then. Heard too much too, probably. I wouldn’t blame you for getting sick of me and wanting some time away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’d never get sick of you,” Lily replies automatically. It’s not even a lie–Pandora is one of the only people in her life that she always feels at peace with. A good thing, considering the fact that, like the other girl said, she has to hear from her a lot. 

“That’s sweet of you to say, Lily.” Lily’s stomach chooses that moment to growl, and Pandora laughs, a lighthearted sound that tinkles through the garage. “I’ll let you get to lunch now though, since it sounds like you’re hungry. Meet me later to look over some data and for more in-depth feedback, yeah?”

Lily nods, face coloring slightly at her stomach’s antics, and makes her way through the garage, out on the other side, and towards the Mclaren hospitality building.

On her way there, she catches sight of Marlene and her race engineer, Mary, heads bent together as they walk, evidently debriefing Marlene’s own session this morning. Marlene’s sipping from her water bottle and nodding along to the other girl’s words when she glances up and meets Lily’s gaze. She grins and murmurs a word to Mary before waving Lily over, and the three of them fall into step together. 

“Hey Lils,” Mary greets her with a smile.

“Hey yourself. How’s testing going?”

Marlene opens her mouth to speak but Mary beats her to it, shaking her head. “Nuh uh,” she wags a playful finger at her, “can’t be leaking secrets to the competition.”

“You think Lily doesn’t know that, after her own Mclaren mechanic wall this morning?” Marlene retorts dryly. “I wasn’t gonna tell her anything important.”

Lily snorts. “So you saw that too. It was kind of absurd.”

“Hard to miss a verifiable sea of papaya. But whatever’s best for the team, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Lily echoes. She pauses for a minute before asking her next question. “How’s Severus doing?”

The two girls exchange a glance before Mary shrugs. “He’s alright. He finds pace sometimes, but it’s a little inconsistent. Better than Avery though.”

Lily considers the information. Severus was a childhood friend–they were neighbors, and had started karting together. They were inseparable as kids, even as the two of them always fought for that top step on the podium. He had debuted for Racing Bulls the year before Lily had for Mclaren–Lily had been ecstatic when she heard he was joining F1. Severus, on the other hand, had been a little cold when she told him she was joining Mclaren. Pandora thinks he’s jealous of the fact that Lily’s getting to debut in a top team, when he had to start at the back of the field. And Pandora’s usually right. They maintain an amicable relationship, Lily supposes, though she misses their former camaraderie. But now that they’re both at top teams, maybe that’ll thaw. Lily’s hopeful, anyway. 

“Anything’s better than Avery,” Marlene points out with an eye-roll, pulling Lily out of her thoughts. 

“Make sure the press don’t hear you say that,” Lily laughs, “especially since he’s still on the grid.”

“God knows how he managed that, Sauber must’ve been desperate.”

Mary swats Marlene lightly, who ducks but doesn’t react fast enough to escape unscathed.

“Honestly, Marlene. He was a good driver a few years back. He has good experience to offer.”

“Right, right,” Marlene concedes, under threat of more physical violence, but when Mary turns toward the Red Bull hospitality center before her, Marlene stage-whispers, “He’s washed.” Lily chuckles. 

“Marlene!”

“Coming, coming. Bye Lils!”

“See ya.”

Day 2

“Sirius! Sirius!”

Sirius strolls over to the cluster of fans behind the fence by the entrance to the paddock. Flashing a cheeky grin at one of the cameras being shoved in his face–at least it’s not the news outlets this time, he can put up with a fan’s iPhone for a second or two–, he pulls a Sharpie out of his pocket and signs one of the many caps in front of him. 

Wagging a playful finger at the girl hopefully holding a Ferrari cap, (“Wrong Black brother, young lady, come back when you’ve got some Racing Bulls merch”), he scans his card and tries to walk forward. The turnstile refuses to budge though, so, with a frown, he tries again. Still nothing. 

“Honestly,” he mutters to his race engineer–who he now knows to be one Arthur Weasley–, “it’s stupid that we drivers need to scan in at all. What, is someone going to be drinking a shape-shifting potion and impersonating me?”

He places his hands on either side of the turnstile and deftly hops over it, Arthur shaking his head fondly at his antics. Sirius has grown to like Arthur, he thinks, over their time together at the factory. He’s not anyone out of the ordinary–other than his preposterous collection of rubber ducks–, but he’s reliable and friendly. Good enough for Sirius.

“We’ll get that fixed for you,” Arthur gestures at his badge, “shape-shifting potion or not.”

“Thanks mate. What’s on the docket for today?”

Arthur pulls out his phone. “You’ve got a rookie press conference today, so that’s you, Potter, and Crouch, at nine, before lunch and your session in the afternoon. I think Deladus was meaning to call a team meeting to look over Bones’ morning stats before you headed out in the afternoon too, but he hasn’t let us know when yet.”

Sirius waves cheekily at the cameraman following him, then checks his watch. It’s 8:30. “So time enough to head to hospitality and grab a cup of tea first?”

Arthur acquiesces. 

On their way over, they run into Amelia Bones–the other RB driver. She grins at Sirius and bumps a shoulder against him good-naturedly. 

“Off to your first official press conference?”

“Yeah…” Sirius mock-shudders. “Gotta get a cup of tea to tide me through it though.”

Amelia laughs. “At least you’ll be with the other rookies–you aren’t being fed to the wolves alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll have James to save me,” he grins, “if I become a damsel in distress.”

“You’ll be just fine,” she pats his shoulder, starting to leave in the direction of the Racing Bulls garage. “Go charm their hats off, as you always do.”

“Aw, you find me charming?” Sirius calls after her retreating back with a grin. She flips him off. 

Sirius is still smiling to himself when he steps into the press conference, tea (with milk, no sugar) in hand. Barty Crouch is already seated on the couch in front of the reporters, lounging as if without a care in the world. He flashes Sirius a lazy smirk as he walks in, and Sirius responds with a nod, sitting down next to him. 

“Barty, right?”

“Yup,” he says, popping the ‘p.’

“I’m Sirius.”

The Mclaren driver snorts. “Yeah, I’d have to live under a rock to not know that one. It’s nice to finally meet you, Sirius Black.”

Sirius finds himself huffing a commiserating sigh. But before he can respond, James Potter, the light of his life, bounds in, looking for all the world like an excited fawn. 

“Hey Padfoot,” he greets, cheerily. 

“Hey yourself, Prongs.”

Sirius reaches out, and their fingers disappear into a coordinated whirl of motion, before Sirius claps him on the back and he sits down on his right. 

Barty whistles, amused. “Nicknames and a secret handshake? What are you, five?”

James looks up, affronted, but Sirius hears the jibe for the sarcastic banter that it is, and butts in before James can retort. 

“Just say you’re jealous,” Sirius shoots back. “It’s okay though, we can come up with a nickname for you, can’t we, Prongs?”

James blinks, but, as always, matches him easily. “Of course Pads. Let me think…”

“We’ll brainstorm for you, ickle Barty,” Sirius grins. “God knows I would want a nickname to escape from the horror of Bartemius.”

Barty barks out a laugh. “I think I like you, Black.”

“Great, now I can die happy,” is Sirius’ dry response. “Though if you like me so much, Sirius is fine. Black might get confusing, given that Reggie’s also around.”

Barty raises an eyebrow at that. “Reggie? Shit, I bet he hates that. Well, would’ve been alright anyway, since it’s not like I call him Black. But fine, Sirius.”

Sirius pauses, reading the undertone in his words. “You’re friends with my brother?”

Barty tilts his head at him. “We’re close.” His eyes dare him to respond, to attack Regulus.

Despite his loathing for his brother, Sirius finds some grudging admiration for Barty, and the way that he won’t back down from his friends–if he calls Regulus that, he never actually answered the question. So Sirius just nods, and as the rest of the reporters file in, turns his attention away from the Mclaren driver. 

“That’s a lot of reporters,” James whispers anxiously from his side. Right. James, for all his confidence, had rarely faced a fully-fledged press conference, as that’s not a major focus of F2. Sirius had, in MotoGP, and he belatedly realizes that in this instance, he’s definitely the one more at ease. 

“Eh, only a few relevant ones,” he whispers back. “Just smile for the cameras, yeah?” At this, Sirius gives the ESPN reporter his winningest smile. 

James huffs a laugh. “I suppose. For the millionth time, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Sirius hums.

The first few questions are banal, just the regular old about how they’re settling into their new teams, hopes and aspirations for the upcoming season, all things that their PR training has covered. 

One reporter who introduces himself as Gilderoy Lockhart asks Barty about his disastrous crash last year in F2, and whether that’s affecting how he’s going into his first season in F1. 

“Well, the crash wasn’t pretty, and far from desirable,” Barty says dryly, “but sometimes it happens. I firmly believe in going for the gap, as Ayrton Senna put it way back in the day–” some reporters grumble at his dating of that era, and Barty gives a shit-eating grin “–and doing everything you can to get ahead. Because if you aren’t doing that, why are you in Formula One?”

That’s a damn good answer, Sirius thinks. It stays true to who he is and the persona he’s created–and likely to the fact that he isn’t going to change his driving style anytime soon–while also appeasing some of the more wary fans. He’s reassuring them that while some races may not go his way, others, because of his style and not in spite of it, certainly will. Clever. 

“Much of the F1 community was shocked when Mclaren let Hestia Jones go to sign you,” Lockhart continues, on a roll. “Add to that the fact that Alpine had originally announced you as one of their drivers for this season, and you had to contradict that through Twitter, of all platforms, before Mclaren announced you a few days later. That’s a lot of hassle Mclaren’s gone through to obtain you–what do you say to the doubters and people who question Mclaren’s judgement?”

Barty grows serious. “First of all, I want it to be known that I have the utmost respect for Hestia. She is a fantastic driver, and one that I often rooted for when watching F1 in my teenage years. She is exceedingly talented, and, despite the conflicts in our contracts, I am very relieved that she is still on the grid this year. She deserves to be.”

Many of the reporters hum appreciatively or smile at that. Sirius himself is surprised–he hadn’t expected that sort of seriousness from Barty, but he seems genuine. He does find himself curious about how Barty is going to respond to the other part of the question though–the Twitter incident had been a major scandal last year. Minutes after Alpine’s announcement, Barty had tweeted: 

“I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2025. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.” 

Safe to say that that had sent shockwaves through the paddock, and had left Alpine scrambling to find a second driver. The fact that it was Hestia that filled that spot was awfully ironic. 

“That said, Mclaren, and Minerva specifically, have many reasons for signing me this year. I will not be disclosing them,” he huffs a laugh, “I don’t even know all of them, but what I do know is that I will do my best to live up to the trust the team has put in me. As for the Twitter incident,” Barty winces, “that was unfortunate. It was a miscommunication, nothing more, and I hope that that will be avoided for all teams and drivers in the future.”

Despite his somewhat wild persona, he’s had good PR training, Sirius admits to himself. No part of his answer paints himself or Alpine in a negative light–he walked that tightrope well. 

The reporters then move away from the topic of Barty, who breathes a visible sigh of relief. 

“Some of us were already seated when you came in, James, and we witnessed you and Sirius’ nicknames for each other. If you don’t mind sharing, how did those come about? I’m sure your fans are curious to get a look into your relationship, given that it’s well known to be quite close.”

This is the first question that’s more personal in nature for either of them, though, with a glance at James, it’s obvious that neither of them mind sharing. They’re just funny stories that the media will have some fun with–nothing incriminating. 

“Well,” James smirks, eyes lighting up with mischief. “When we were younger I was always taller than Sirius. I still am actually–”

“Lies, all lies,” Sirius proclaims in mock outrage. 

“So one day he got really fed up with the fact that I was constantly taller than him and started wearing those like shoe pads that make you taller.”

Sirius crosses his arms with a huff, though a traitorous grin plays on his lips. 

“And the thing is I didn’t even realize,” James laughs. “I thought he just grew a lot in a really short period of time. He did it well too, since he started with thinner ones then gradually built up.”

A mournful sigh fights its way out of Sirius’ mouth. “All my hard planning, gone to waste.”

“Until one day he was at my house and he took his shoes off, and he was suddenly fucking short.”

“Rude.”

“Please watch your language,” the FIA representative at the conference butts in, though by the amused look in his eyes he doesn’t seem to mind too much. 

James waves him off, “My bad. Anyway, I was obviously suspicious, and I went to check his shoes, and lo and behold, he was a fraud the whole time. A liar, a cheat.”

“Such attacks on my character.” A wounded hand to his heart. 

“Hence, Padfoot.”

The audience chuckles. 

“And Prongs?” The reporter probes.

“Well,” Sirius starts, “one day when we were really drunk I think like sev—”

“Of the legal drinking age–” James hastily interrupts. 

“Oh yes of course, that, we were trying to prove to Effie, James’ mum, that we weren’t drunk. And you know how you usually do the ‘how many fingers am I holding up?’ test?”

The audience nods. 

“Well, James decided to do a twist on that. He grabbed a fork, and showed it to me, and asked me how many prongs were on the fork.”

“They’re called tines, technically,” Barty interjects, “but go on.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Yes well, he showed it to me, and I said three. Because there were three prongs. He immediately started whispering to me and calling me stupid, saying that there were obviously four prongs on the fork. I said, no, there are obviously three.”

“I’m pretty sure I accused you of trying to get us in trouble,” James adds wryly. 

“You definitely did. But I kept insisting that there are three—”

“I told him that all forks have four prongs—”

“Until Effie interrupted us, telling us that we’re very obviously drunk and irresponsible and we need to get our shit together.” Sirius shoots a guilty glance at the FIA rep. “Oops. That’s gonna be hard for me.”

“It was a long long lecture.”

“But then she ended it by saying that there were indeed three prongs.”

“Because,” Sirius huffs with a laugh, “James had grabbed the only pastry fork they owned. The only fork in the entire house with only three prongs. So, he’s Prongs. Though evidently he’s not sure how many prongs.”

James waves his hand flippantly. “Just a general plural sense, you know? Three, four, what’s the difference?”

The reporters laugh as they scribble down some notes and some cameras go off–they’re obviously charmed by their little two-man act. 

“Ahem,” one reporter tuts, and Sirius’ heart sinks as he looks over. 

It’s Rita Skeeter, a reporter for The Daily Mail notorious for blowing things out of proportion and creating scandals from thin air. Many a career has been tainted by her writing, and Sirius himself has had to combat her a few times in the past–though how this lady always gets away from any lawsuits or accusations of libel, Sirius will never understand. 

“There have been some rumours,” Skeeter starts, “that James Potter helped you get your Formula One seat, in that he conspired to have Avery kicked out of the Red Bull family for your benefit. And given the obvious close nature of your relationship, I’m sure many do wonder if this is the case.”

As a few murmurs run through the audience, James shoots a panicked look at Sirius. But before either of them can respond, Barty interrupts with his signature drawl. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Does Potter look like a Red Bull driver to you? How on Earth would a Mercedes driver, nevermind a Mercedes rookie, have an impact on Racing Bull’s seat choices? Now I’m obviously not privy to whatever did happen to get Sirius his seat, but I’m sure RB had their own reasons tied uniquely to Sirius. I, personally, am excited to see what he gets up to, and for the chance to go head to head with him.” Barty smirks at him.

The reporters murmur in agreement–Barty’s argument over how there’s obviously no way James could’ve affected Sirius’ seat evidently making sense to them. Rita Skeeter furrows her brow and opens her mouth to speak again, but she’s cut off by the FIA rep. 

“That’s all the time we have for the rookie press conference today, ladies and gentlemen. Unfortunately, these three have to get out on track this afternoon. Thank you for coming ladies and gentlemen, and if you have requests for any more statements you know how to reach out to their respective teams.”

Sirius breathes a sigh of relief. As the reporters file out, he leans over to Barty. 

“Thanks for that, at the end.”

Barty shrugs, but his eyes are tight. “No worries. I hate when reporters insinuate things about how we got to Formula One. It’s none of their business really, what paths we take–it’s hard enough as it is. They can talk all they want about our performance once we’re here, I don’t give a fuck, but saying we cheated to get here is fucking stupid. It’s not cheatable.”

Distantly, Sirius remembers that Barty’s father, the elder Bartemius Crouch, was a German politician. He thinks he remembers reading somewhere that he refused to support his son’s racing career, and so Barty had had to fight tooth and nail for his sponsors and for his right to be in F1. It’s not easy to get sponsors, Sirius knows, so he admits to being curious as to how he got those alone, as just a singular teenage driver without the backing of any family or companies. 

James pipes up, as Sirius is lost in his reverie. “Either way, thanks mate. ‘ppreciate it.”

Barty gives them a lopsided grin before walking out of the room. 

James turns to Sirius. “He ain’t half bad. I didn’t think I would like him, but his heart is in the right place.”

“Jesus James, you sound like Effie.”

James swats at him lightly. “Shut it, you. I think he’s nicer than he lets on, is all.”

Sirius throws an arm around his shoulder as they walk out of the press room, a pep in his step. It’s nice to know that people beyond just James have his back. “I one-hundred percent agree, Prongs.”

Day 3

Regulus grimaces as he jerks his steering wheel to the left, trying valiantly to get this car, with it’s fucking understeer, to make it around the sharpness of turn 8. He doesn’t quite make it, all four wheels slipping just outside of the white lines, and groans. Would’ve been a track limits warning in a race, or a deleted time in qualifying. 

He presses the radio button. “Dorcas?”

“Yes?”

“Authentically, this car feels like shit.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Regulus imagines Dorcas letting out a long-suffering sigh. 

“I understand, Regulus. Just focus on what you can do. We’ll get the data and improve it as best we can.”

“We fucking better,” Regulus mutters to himself, though he doesn’t transmit that message to the pit wall. 

Regulus sees the gearbox of Frank Longbottom’s Mercedes in front of him, and watches in envy as it smoothly makes its way around the turns, no jerkiness or stuttering in sight. As they turn onto the straight, the car speeds off, evidently as proficient in straight-line speed as it is around corners. 

Regulus groans internally. He knows he’s getting ahead of himself–an F1 season is long, and there are twenty-four races ahead of him in which he can perform well and the team can improve the car–, but as of where they are right now, Regulus is frustrated. This season is his last chance to become the youngest ever World Champion, something that’s been one of his goals since his brother walked away from that dream six years ago. And if Ferrari can’t get their shit together and deliver him a car, well, he can kiss that dream goodbye. 

After a few more similarly disappointing hotlaps, Regulus pulls back into the garage and hops out of the car. As the various technicians and engineers rush forward to study the flow-vis markings and compare them to the computer data collected, Regulus makes his way over to where Rabastan is quietly conversing with Dorcas and Bellatrix. 

The other driver turns when he sees him approaching and gives him a wry smile. “I heard you complaining over the radio.”

“Yeah,” Regulus huffs. “It’s possibly even worse than it was the previous two days of testing. There’s so much understeer, and the tires are burning up like crazy. Even the hards.”

Rabastan runs a tired hand through his hair. “Well shit.”

“Boys,” Bellatrix interjects, “it’s not like this is the first time that we’ve started the season out rough. We’ll improve.”
Dorcas nods in agreement. “We still have two weeks before the season opener. Plenty of time to make some progress, and it’s not like the state of the car, even then, is the be all end all.”

“Yeah, we get it,” Rabstan sighs. “It’s just frustrating to be in that car. And I’m sure Reg here is worried about his championship chances already.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Regulus retorts crossly, not bothering to argue the second point. They all know it’s true. 

“But it’s so fun to see you all riled up,” Rabastan teases, before becoming serious. “Any suggestions for when I hop in in,” he checks his watch, “thirty minutes?”

Regulus thinks for a moment. “I’ve already told you about the understeer. I am kind of curious about whether the car will do better if you take the wider racing line–”

“As if you’re overtaking from the outside?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of hard to make the turns if you’re on the inside line at the apex, but maybe it’s better if you go into the turn wider to get a better exit.”

Rabastan hums. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Oh, also–you’re running on softs, right?”

“Yes.”

Regulus laughs a bit deprecatingly. “Good luck with that degradation, mate. But try to see how long you can make that front left last, maybe. That’s the one I was having the most trouble with on the hards.”

Rabastan nods. “Will do. Thanks mate.”

“I’ll make a note of that,” Bellatrix adds. “My baby cousin always has the best ideas.”

“Shut it Bella.”

The other three chuckle. 

“What are you getting up to the rest of the day?” Rabastan asks with a tilt of his head.

“Lunch, hopefully. I’m famished. Then I believe I have a press conference?” He looks at Dorcas to confirm.

“Yes. I’m not sure who the other drivers are though–I think this is one of the rare conferences where the FIA let the media select who they wanted to question.”

“Joy.”

Dorcas shrugs. “You’ll get through it.” She turns to Bella and Rabastan. “Well, we’ll leave you to get prepared for the afternoon session. Good luck out there.”

“Don’t bottle it,” Regulus shoots as he turns to leave.

Rabastan just laughs at him, and Regulus feels the corner of his mouth tilt up. He likes Rabastan well enough–he’s everything Regulus could ask for in a teammate, really. He’s nearly the teammate that Regulus dreamed of when he was little and dreaming about winning in a Ferrari–everything’s right except for the fact that Rabastan’s not his brother. 

But he’s close enough. 

Over lunch, Regulus and Dorcas discuss how the rest of the field is faring. 

“Mercedes looked quick. Or, at least Longbottom looked quick in front of me today,” Regulus notes.

“Yeah, they certainly are. Potter’s also not doing half bad, he’s putting out decent lap times. I don’t think they’re faster than yours, on average, but they’re closer than I’d expect given him being a rookie.”

So either he’s performing really well, or the Mercedes car is really good this year, Regulus muses. Likely both. He seems like a strong driver. “What about Mclaren?”

“They’re quick. Both Evans and Crouch have put out some blisteringly fast laps, though Crouch also almost put it in the wall a few times.”

Regulus rolls his eyes at Barty’s antics. He’s been like this all throughout his racing career, and it was one of the obstacles the two of them had to overcome when convincing the sponsors tied to the Black family to give this unknown variable a shot as well, but they got there eventually. Because, like Dorcas said, he can be blisteringly fast.

“We can just hope he stays out of the wall at Melbourne,” Regulus states dryly.

Dorcas snickers. She’s not as close to Barty as Regulus is, but they’re friendly. “Over under 3 races before he crashes?”

“I’m taking the under.”

“Have you no faith in your friend?”

“I have faith in what I know, Dorcas.”

She sighs. “No bet. God knows no one sane would take the over when it comes to Barty.”

Regulus shrugs. “He just needs to iron out some of his habits. Reign in that wild speed into something more direct and consistent, and he’ll be good to go.”

“I honestly can’t wait for that to happen,” Dorcas admits. “He’ll be a force of nature to watch.”

“Any other teams standing out? How’s Red Bull?”

“They’re not doing as well as they were last season. Mckinnon seems to be struggling a bit with the car, and Snape even more so.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They’re alright around the corners, but the straight-line speed leaves something to be desired, from what I’ve noticed. You know which team is oddly quick this year though?”

“Which team?”

“Williams.” Huh. “They’re not top-4 by any means, but they seem well clear of most of the rest of the midfield. Flitwick really turned something around when he joined at the end of last year, I bet.”

Filius Flitwick had signed on as the team principal of Williams at the end of last year after the previous team principal, Aurora Sinistra, had chosen to move to an IndyCar team–one with presumably a much higher salary. Williams seems to have benefited though, given their performance at pre-season testing thus far. 

“And they have the Prewetts as their drivers. The twin menaces.” Dorcas laughs at his characterization. “They’ll be a force to be reckoned with for sure.” 

The Prewetts had never signed onto any major team–likely because they came as a package deal, refusing to sign for a team that wouldn’t sign both of them, but they were fast. Fabian and Gideon were in it for the thrill of racing, less for the glory. And Regulus can respect that. Plus, as he will grudgingly admit, they’re funny. The grid would be less lively without them. 

“There’s nothing notable in terms of any of the other teams. Same old from Sauber, Aston Martin, and Alpine.”

Regulus hesitates. “And Racing Bulls?”

There’s a knowing look in Dorcas’ eye when she replies. “Their car’s nothing out of the ordinary. They’ve got a good driver in Bones though. And they have your brother.”

“Two good drivers,” Regulus corrects. He may not like his brother, but he won’t undermine his talents. 

“I suppose so.”

An alarm on Dorcas’ phone goes off, and she quickly stands up. “Time to make our way to the press room she says, already halfway out the door.

Regulus thanks the staff member that takes their plates, then follows quickly behind. 

When Regulus steps in, he’s the first of the three drivers to arrive. He’s still not sure who exactly he’s going to be sitting alongside, but interviews usually come in groups of three. He takes a seat in the middle of the couch, and smiles politely at the reporters. 

The next to come in is Elijah Avery–the former Red Bull, then Racing Bulls, and now Sauber driver. Regulus is confused at first–Dorcas said that the reporters got to choose who to interview for this one. And he knows they do nothing if not seek out drama, like bloodhounds. The problem though, is that he can’t figure out any drama between himself and Avery. Unless–

Regulus suddenly has a bad feeling. It’s true that he and Avery don’t have any drama between them–they have quite the professional relationship–but they do both have drama with one other driver. 

Namely the one that’s walking through the doorway now, two minutes late. 

Sirius strides in as if he owns the place, waving cheekily at the reporters. “Just say you lot couldn’t get enough of me. You had me in here yesterday, and I’m back already? Honestly.”

His banter is full of his easy charm, and he seems perfectly at ease until he looks over to the couch, where Regulus and Avery are sat. His face freezes for a second before the smile returns, though not with the same force as before. It’s evident that he’s put the pieces together too. 

As he sits down stiffly next to Regulus without a word, Regulus knows that this is going to be one long press conference. 

They start out easy–they always do. They like to lure the drivers into a false sense of security.

“How's the Ferrari car feeling so far, Regulus?”

“It’s alright. There is definitely room to improve, but it is a solid basis for the upcoming season.”

“Are you transitioning well to your new team, Elijah?”

“Yes, certainly. The team has been very welcoming, and I’m excited to get to work alongside them and alongside my fellow driver Cadmus.”

They spare Sirius in this initial boring questioning–by Sirius’ jibe when he entered, it’s likely that they’ve already asked him all these questions yesterday.

Then the questions take a turn. 

“Elijah, what was your reaction to hearing that you were going to be replaced by Sirius Black of all people?”

Avery’s smile fractures. “It was certainly unexpected. I was blindsided by it, and given the fact that I had already switched from Red Bull to Racing Bulls, I wasn’t expecting the Red Bull family to replace me altogether. And hearing that I was being replaced by someone that hadn’t raced single seater in years was also a shock. Altogether, it was a very surreal phone call to be receiving from Alastor. But I wish Sirius the best in his endeavours at Racing Bulls.”

As Avery puts the microphone down, the audience grumbles discontentedly. It’s obvious that his answer was too diplomatic for them–they craved the drama. 

“And Sirius,” that poisonous Skeeter woman Regulus knows too well speaks up, “what is your take on this situation? It is truly out of the ordinary, to switch from MotoGP to F1.”

Sirius starts talking with the easy manner of someone who is used to dealing with interrogations like these–or, it would seem that way to anyone else. But Regulus knows his tells. He’s deeply uncomfortable. 

“It was certainly an unexpected opportunity, and after so much time away I was eager to return. It is unfortunate that it came at the cost of someone else’s seat, but that is how racing goes. You perform, or you lose out.”

“Are you saying that Elijah was not performing?”

“I–” Sirius glances at Avery, who is stone-faced. “I would say that Red Bull likely considered that to be the case, yes. Otherwise I would not be here today.”

A flurry of hands rise up, but one Lockhart shouts over the crowd. “Do you believe you can perform better than Elijah?”

“I believe,” Sirius states resolutely, “that every driver should think they are better than everyone else on the grid. That’s a level of confidence you need, as a racer. So yes, I suppose I do.”

Regulus winces. That was likely the best answer Sirius could’ve given in the situation, but he can already see the headlines for tomorrow. “Sirius Black believes he is better than everyone else on the grid.” Or “Six years away is nothing to Sirius Black, who thinks he is the best out there.” They’ll frame it as they always do. Not that Regulus cares about Sirius’ reputation, but he’s been on the other end of it enough to know how it feels. 

“Elijah, do you have any responses to that?”

Avery’s mouth twists in a cruel smile as he picks up the microphone. “We are both in midfield cars. So I suppose we shall see.”

The topic then gradually shifts away from Sirius and Avery–but they’re only given a brief respite before Regulus finds himself and Sirius in the spotlight, as expected. 

Skeeter is practically beaming as she asks her questions. “Regulus, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you and Sirius together in public. What has your relationship been like since Sirius stepped away from single-seater racing in 2018?”

“Sirius chose his path, and I respected that. I didn’t reach out much, and he didn’t either.”

“Is it true that Sirius stepped away from the Black family altogether? We heard rumours, but it was tightly concealed back then. The lack of interaction between any of the other Blacks and Sirius seems to indicate that though.”

“Sirius chose to leave our home and our traditions of his own free will, but he is still blood. He will be welcomed back if he would like to be.”

Sirius scoffs at this. Skeeter pounces on the sound.

“Do you have an alternate story to tell, Sirius?”

“I’m not sure I would call it of my own free will. At a certain point I certainly wanted to leave, but the leaving itself wasn’t facilitated by me. Trust me on that. And I have difficulties believing that I will be welcomed back,” he nearly sneers, “but perhaps I will put it to the test soon.”

Regulus closes his eyes. He knows Sirius has had PR training, both from the family and from his time in MotoGP. And it’s obvious that he’s choosing to throw that out the window to throw Regulus and the family under the bus. 

“What made you choose to come back to F1? Did you want to reconcile with your family?”

Sirius snorts. “Not particularly. To be frank, I missed racing single-seater. I loved MotoGP, I really did, but something hits different about cars, you know?” Regulus does know–he feels it every time he gets into one. That’s one thing that the two of them have in common. “Plus, James got his seat this year, and we always dreamed of racing in F1 together, so I had to see if it was possible. He’s like a brother to me, you know.”

Shit. That hurts, as much as Regulus pretends it doesn’t. Because Regulus remembers that he and Sirius used to have dreams of racing in Formula 1 together too. And it turns out that Sirius found a replacement for him so easily, while Regulus never really could. 

The reporters, for their part, somehow don’t notice the pain that one singular word can cause–it’s not the most important part of his answer for them. Sirius expertly draws the attention back to his relationship with James, and fields a few more questions on that topic while Regulus just stares at him blankly. 

He’s broken out of his self-pity by Lockhart once again speaking up. “Regulus, what was your reaction when you found out that Sirius was joining the grid this year?”

“I didn’t know it was even a possibility until post season testing last year in Abu Dhabi–so I was a little blindsided when I saw him in the paddock and out on track. But at that point I assumed that he was likely in talks for a contract, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise when it was eventually announced. I will say I thought he walked away from F1 for good, so it was definitely unexpected to see him back. But at the end of the day he is an immensely talented racer, and RB definitely signed him for that reason.”

Sirius has an odd look on his face when Regulus puts the microphone down again. Regulus just shrugs at his inquiring head tilt. Regulus is just telling it how he sees it. 

Once the grilling finally ends and the three drivers step outside, Avery swiftly walks away, long strides carrying him far from the tension between the Black brothers. Regulus moves to leave as well, but Sirius calls after him. 

“Reggie.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps. 

“Fine. Regulus. Do you–”

Regulus raises an eyebrow as Sirius stops talking. “What.”

“Do you want to get dinner tonight? Or sometime, it doesn’t have to be tonight. It would be nice to–”

“No.” Regulus cuts off his rambling. Sirius must be feeling some sort of guilt, or even pity, after Regulus complimented him. And he isn’t going to let that slide. He turns to leave. 

“What? Regulus–”

“What part of no do you not understand?” He shouts, exasperated. “I don’t want to get dinner with you, brother-dearest. End of story.”

“But we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, and I feel like we should at least talk through some things–”

“I am perfectly capable of maintaining civility the few times we will need to interact if you are. I see no need to ‘talk through anything,’” he sneers, putting it in air quotes.

Sirius growls, frustrated. “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re still under Mother’s thumb. For Christ’s sake, be your own person for once!”

“This has nothing to do with Mother,” Regulus hisses. “Don’t presume to know my motivations. I, personally, Regulus Black, simply do not want anything to do with you. Goodbye.”

He leaves, and Sirius doesn’t call out after him this time. He’s happy about that, he’s sure.