Chapter Text
The pit lane shimmered under the Bahrain sun, a heat so thick it clung to Harry Potter’s skin like oil. Early morning meant fewer people milling about, but the garages were already alive with motion. The mechanics tightening bolts, engineers huddled over data, tires being rolled like sacred artifacts across the tarmac.
Harry crouched beside car #17, the ART Grand Prix Formula 2 chassis, wrench in hand. His fingers moved on instinct now, checking the tightness of the front-left suspension. Every connection had to be perfect, there was no margin for error in F2, especially not at the season opener.
“Harry, front-left suspension status?” came the clipped voice of Oliver Wood, the team’s chief mechanic, from behind.
“Locked and aligned,” Harry called back, tightening the last bolt. “No give on compression.”
He stood, wiping a forearm across his brow, the desert heat already seeping through his fireproofs. His whole body buzzed—not from fatigue, though there’d been plenty of that since they landed—but from a kind of thrumming excitement, like he was standing on the edge of something.
It was only his second full season with ART, and already, he'd started to make a name for himself in the paddock. Quiet. Sharp. Reliable. But that wasn’t the endgame. His eyes drifted across the pit lane, to the other side of the racing world, the one that operated at a level few ever reached.
Formula 1.
He didn’t want fame. Didn’t need to be in the spotlight. But he wanted to build something that could win at the highest level. He wanted to be one of the hands behind a machine that changed the outcome of a race.
And someday, soon, he would be.
Teddy Lupin, ART’s flamboyant driver, bounced over to him with a bottle of water and an impish grin. His turquoise-dyed hair was already plastered to his forehead under the fireproof balaclava.
“How’s she feeling?” Teddy asked, nodding toward the car.
Harry gave him a subtle smile. “Like she’s ready to fly, that is if you don’t bin her in turn one.”
“No promises,” Teddy winked.
“Then don’t crash too hard. I just polished the wing.”
They shared a fist bump, and Teddy climbed into the cockpit. As the engine whined to life, Harry stepped back and watched. There was something surreal about watching a car you’d spent hours perfecting finally leave the garage. Nerve-wracking and exhilarating all at once.
Behind him, Ginny Weasley, the gearbox specialist, appeared at the monitor. “He’s smoother on the turn-in this weekend. Did you adjust the wing angle again?”
Harry nodded. “A slight adjustment. Just enough to settle the front on corner entry.”
She gave him an approving look. “Good call.”
He shrugged. “Teddy likes to dance with disaster. I just try to keep him from tripping.”
That afternoon, Harry found a few minutes of quiet. With the F2 cars back in the garage and data downloaded for analysis, he slipped away toward the paddock’s food stalls. The scent of grilled meats and spices hung in the air, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since sunrise.
He stood in line, mind drifting. The sound of air guns and pit radios faded into the background as his focus dulled with hunger and heat. That was when he noticed her. Just ahead of him in line. Platinum hair tied in a clean ponytail. Fire suit rolled to her waist, branded Alpine Racing shirt clinging to her shoulders.
Fleur Delacour.
She ordered a tea in flawless English, tinged with a crisp French accent. She was calm, composed, completely in her element. A rising star in Formula 1. At twenty-three, she was already carving out a name among the best. Harry wasn’t starstruck, exactly. Just… fascinated. She looked nothing like the headlines made her out to be. No cold arrogance. No distant diva. Just tired. Focused. Like someone carrying more than just a helmet on her back.
Their eyes met.
It wasn’t long. Half a second, maybe. But her gaze was clear and curious, but unreadable. Then she looked away, stepped aside, and vanished into the flow of team personnel heading back toward the garages. Harry exhaled. He stepped forward and ordered his food, heart inexplicably thudding a little faster. He didn’t think much of it afterward. Not really. They were just two people with jobs to do.
Back in the garage, the whine of impact wrenches and low chatter pulled Harry into routine. The F2 cars were cooling down. Teddy was reviewing footage. Ginny handed him telemetry, and he buried himself in the familiar comfort of graphs, pressures, and performance deltas. From a monitor in the corner, F1 practice footage played quietly. Fleur’s Alpine carved through turn six, car so stable it looked glued to the track. Harry didn’t look for long.
Just long enough.