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Harry has, to be frank, run out of gas.
There’s a dent in his bumper and there’s a long streak of white paint on the passenger side of his flank from when he scraped past Malfoy on a tight turn going down two laps ago.
He’s running on fumes but he’s also determined to finish this race. He pushes harder and feels the pistons in his engine grind. It feels like there’s battery acid boiling under his hood but he knows that isn’t true. It’s just the unnameable pleasure-pain that comes from working hard and then trying to push harder.
He skids across the track and pulls up beside Oliver, who’s tailpipes are emitting a concerning white-gray smoke.
Oliver Wood won’t be stopped. The glow in his eyes is positively feverish.
“Potter, do you think you could manage to get that puck into the net?”
Harry’s tires feel worn thin, but he blinks his assent and speeds up, heading for the puck. The puck is four foot in diameter and made of vulcanized rubber that bounces between the levels of the arena while everyone races to get into position to be able to hit it when a bumper or a well timed open car door.
Harry rushes for it, tires squealing, even as the familiar growl of Malfoy’s engine draws near.
“Fuck it,” Harry rumbles and brakes suddenly while throwing himself into a right turn. He donuts down the track, effectively cutting off three lanes of movement and manages to pop open one of his back doors through sheer force of will so that it slams into the puck and launches it out of the track.
Whoever gets the puck into the net on the final, bottom level wins. Harry manages to pull himself to a stop just as he reaches the edge of the tracks. He watches the puck fly into the air and down two then three then four levels of tracks. The path the puck sails is one smooth arc. It’s beautiful.
*
Malfoy catches him trying to leave the parking lot and makes his dissatisfaction known with a loud rumble of his engines.
“Don’t hurt yourself there,” Harry says, mild as you please.
“Oh, I won’t. Not on your account.”
Malfoy is doing his best to sneer but there’s an interested tilt to his grills that betrays his real intentions.
“Fine,” Harry says, “Good. That’s great.”
On the drive home, Harry can see Malfoy with his rear facing camera. It’s like having eyes on the back of his head and he’s never been so thankful for the upgrade since he last got it while getting a tune up.
He signs into his personal lot, and makes sure that he drives through the gate slow enough that Malfoy can tail him. Once they’re both in the lot, Harry rolls a lazy loop around his home, making a show of casually checking that nothing has changed since the last time he was parked here.
Tomorrow, maybe he’ll get a fresh coat of paint and get all the little dents and hurts hammered out. His front axles have been feeling loose from all the sudden stops and drift-like turns he’s had to make as the fastest car on his team. He’ll have to get that checked out too.
But those are, like he said, problems for tomorrow.
Tonight, it’s just him, this empty lot, and the intent look that shines from Draco’s headlights as he says, “Why, Harry, how kind of you to invite me in.”