Chapter Text
Two formula cars lunged into a tight hairpin, lethal under the the floodlights of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix.
The announcers words blared over the speakers, through televisions and laptops and iPhones around the globe, millions held breathless as the last race of the season came to a close. It's been three laps since Malfoy's caught up to Zabini's rearwing, and the man certainly likes to play with his food. Is this the lap he gets it done?
On the straight, the the green Aston Martin's rear wing opened, and Draco surged alongside, going for the kill-shot.
The crowd bit their lips, crossed fingers, screamed.
And on the other side of the screen, half a world away, a man leaned forwards with his eyes tracking Draco's Aston Martin as it carried its speed into the sharp left-hand turn, slipping to the inside, refusing to be forced off, pulling even on entry, and then—
At the last second, Draco twitched his wheel toward the right, as if he might try to pass on the outside. Zabini bit, braking late and deep into the corner, taking them so wide he might force the other car off track.
But Draco wasn’t there. In the span of a heartbeat, Draco darted inside, sliding through the gap he’d created like he’d planned it all along.
The crowd broke open, the commentator’s box wild, but one viewer didn’t relax. If anything, he tensed further, eyes glued to the screen.
Into the next corner, Draco needed to make the pass stick, Zabini recovering behind him, another straight ahead. Determined not to give an inch, he braked aggressively late, wheels spinning too fast.
Too greedy, too desperate.
Knuckles went white, rubber screaming, smoke wisping blue as the front wheels locked.
The car snapped sideways, smoke blossoming, and instinct wasn’t enough. The wall was too close. Inevitable, waiting for him. Carbon fiber shattered on impact, bruising and painful and taking the breath from his lungs.
For a breathless second, silence. Then the commentator’s voice, clipped and sharp. That’s the end of Malfoy’s race. An unsatisfying end to an unsatisfying season.
And maybe an end to more than that. This makes four retirements in a row— Aston Martin cannot keep defending this.
Zabini was gone. Draco’s helmet tipped back, and a gloved fist hit the wheel in front of him.
~ * ~ * ~
Two weeks later, a door swung shut on the cold, clean lines of the restroom, the warble of a gala slipping in before falling mute once more.
At the counter, Draco Malfoy re-adjusted his cufflinks. He stood tall, and realigned the smallest bit of platinum hair that had fallen out of place.
He practiced the right quirk of the lips. Eyes just light enough to seem engaged, but not playful.
Growing up, he'd seen his parents put that very mask on a million times. His mother's shoulders would drop, regal and poised, while his father drew impossibly taller, harsh, eyes the beady flint of a viper prepared to strike at any moment.
He met his own gaze in the mirror. All anyone else would see was how exhausted he was.
~ * ~ * ~
An Instagram reel started over, flicking through familiar images of Draco in full kit dismounting the car, his head down.
@FormulaUnInsider: Aston Martin Team Principal Robards confirms Smith’s renewal and junior driver testing for the upcoming 2025 season. When asked about Malfoy's future, with his contract expiring at the end of next season, the team declined to comment #F1 #ContractSeason
~ * ~ * ~
Twitter was noisier, meaner. Posts scrolled by fast, exasperated.
@needforweed
malfoy’s been on a slow-motion suicide lap for weeks and yall just now noticing??
@w1ngdamage
not to be a dick but maybe if he just focused on driving he'd keep his fukking job
@tifoshoe69
Aston Martin if I wanted to watch a [redacted] crash id turn on fucking tinkerbell. get a real driver
@pitlane_girlie88
draco shows up in a heel ONE time and suddenly the whole grid’s having a moral panic. grow tf up
@closetcasecarcrash
Aston Martin IM BEGGING DONT SIGN HIM AGAINNNN 😭😭 I wanna win next season
@kingLockhart1999
can’t wait for malfoy to finally crash and save us all the fucking airtime
@eatmeweasely82
Replying to @kingLockhart1999: RIGHT???
@kantstahp
Replying to @kingLockhart1999: log tf off— this is actually sick
~ * ~ * ~
He let the false smile fall, and his knuckles went white where they gripped marble.
Stepping outside that door again felt like walking to the gallows, air already thick with rot.
The press was salivating for him to slip, say something confirming and damning in one swoop. They would turn any half-moment of imperfection into headlines and tweets and the hundreds of little jabs designed to finally topple his career.
Lucius' eyes glinted in the back of his mind, fingering the receipts of debts taken to get his son into that seat. There were the backdoor handshakes and the favors called in from old friends, funneling millions of dollars towards fees and coaches. Then, more costly, the whispered quid pro quo's that bought his F2 seat and track days at Mercedes.
All in the name of being the second Malfoy to win a world championship, carrying on his grandfather's legacy and placing their name back in the halls of motorsport history, where it belonged.
It wracked through his body like a physical weight, and Draco closed his eyes. He thought of smooth, blank ceramic.
He’d give the vultures nothing, he promised himself. He could do this. Keep the line. Hold it all together for one more night.
Draco swept out of the bathroom, resolving to talk to as few people as physically possible.
~ * ~ * ~
He was foiled. Repeatedly.
Every time he wandered towards a quiet corner, someone stepped into his path. A hand appeared on his sleeve. A comment lobbed across the carpet, forcing him to turn back, incisors bared.
Every shutter of an iphone camera made him jerk, and his eyes flickered to the culprit.
He spoke to people who stared at him a little too long, logging every small detail. Every once in a while he’d catch a man looking over with glinting eyes, smiling like they shared a private joke.
He hardened further. He was built for this, he reminded himself. Malfoys did not follow the whims of others.
And, carefully applied, he'd learned that being an asshole was an asset.
When a Louis Vuitton executive slid next to him at the bar, he let his eyes slide over the man uninterestedly. When the man offered a hand and a card, he took neither. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” he murmured into his whiskey.
The rep’s eyes flicked over him like a scanner. “You know, we have been looking for more driver engagement. Profiles with history. Edge. Less of that sanitized, Disney quality that’s everywhere these days.”
“I’m edgy, then?” His voice was velvet embodied. “What a curious take.”
This time, the card was pressed into his hand. “Some people leave a scandal more interesting than when they started. We’ll reach out to your PR— is it still Ms. Parkinson?”
His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. He gave a short nod and turned away before he could be tempted to say something thankful.
There were more suits. More cards. Every moment, another string to tune just right, his fingers shaking with the effort.
The ballroom stretched like a punishment. Time folded into itself.
By nine o’clock, he was nearly unmade by the effort of holding it together. He was ready to run.
In her classically horrid timing, that was the exact moment that Penelope Clearwater stepped between him and his freedom.
“I heard a rumor about you at Paddock Club in Singapore,” she trilled, blocking his path like a santal-scented guard dog. “That race was just so— enlightening.”
At his side, Astoria shot him a glance that clearly said don’t be a prick. She firmed her grip on his elbow to prevent escape, and turned on her own acrid smile. “I wasn’t aware you came to races anymore, Penelope dear.”
“Or did they start issuing paddock passes for emotional-support mistresses?” Draco couldn’t help but sneer.
Penelope’s over-filled pout frowned mockingly. “Aw, Draco. You know, Charlie Weasley was just telling me— apparently, you used to be fun. Before all this.”
She reached up, thumb poised, and pretended to wipe a smear from his mouth. “Wherever did fun Draco disappear to?”
~ * ~ * ~
“Look at you” the taller man had said, coaxing. His fingers never settled— rough on Draco's jaw, his waist, the place where their bodies met.
Draco’s sweaty race suit was somewhere around one of his ankles. The man hadn’t taken his own off at all.
Cold glass thudded at his back. His fingers reached back for a nonexistent grip.
The lights of Bahrain were blinding on the other side of the penthouse window. Draco flinched, imagining cameras and reporters shouting over the sound of skin hitting skin as the man roughly worked inside of him.
A silver chain danced over his open mouth. “Pretty thing,” the man crooned in Draco’s ear. “Knew you’d be good at this too.”
Hours later, alone in the blue-thinned morning, he tried to ignore the sour thing burrowing under his ribs.
~ * ~ * ~
The room came back jarring and bright. Someone was laughing nearby, and for a second, Draco wondered wildly if it was at him. Penelope was already disappearing over Astoria’s shoulder. His drink was warm in his hand. The sweat from the glass had soaked into his cuff. He hadn’t noticed.
Astoria caught his gaze firmly unimpressed. “You were supposed to eat something.”
“I had the canapés.” He hadn’t.
“Have some more.”
She turned, eyes sweeping the room like a drone. The gala was some sort of fundraiser— the kind with red carpet just to validate the dress budgets.
Astoria excelled in a room like this. His father had praised him privately, after he’d presented her at the manor two years ago. Well matched. She’ll carry the name well.
Draco watched her precise smile, a surgeon’s tweaks hidden under chiffon. The right lineage, the right money. Loyal, in her particular way. The right woman.
His tongue curled with a familiar disgust. There was nothing to be done.
“How are you, son?”
A hand in front of him, the man attached thick, broad-chested and sun-damaged, an Australian accent dulled by time on the continent.
“Been too long, hasn’t it. Planning to get back to Gstaad this year?” There was a wedding ring, and a crest on the man’s cuff-links. A familiar divot to his chin.
Draco’s mind tried to start, and failed. Completely blank.
The man chuckled. “Not sure après is your scene these days.”
Draco bristled. Another fucking pirhana. “Après attracts queers and cokeheads. I prefer to spend my time elsewhere.”
The man tilted his head, confused. “Zachy spoke very fondly of the week he spent at your chalet last year. Said you had a mega time of it.”
Draco’s hand tensed around his drink. Smith.
Of course. That conniving, career wrecking little bitch. Was probably telling everyone who’d listen that Draco was one of those whoring snow bunnies. Or worse. And it was all his fault, for giving them the opening. That fucking paparazzi photo— he'd regretted that Halloween costume for months, was just headed to Pansy’s for a laugh—
Draco felt his pulse high, the lights a little too bright. Something old and fanged struck, flashing silver.
“Smith was overly focused on powder last year,” he snarled. “And if he’s spreading stories, I will remind him of that.”
Astoria stared at him in horror, then spun to appease the red-faced Aussie. “He’s joking— Draco and your nephew really are close, really, it's a joke—”
“That’s enough,” the man interrupted. “Right. Well. Enjoy wherever you vacation, then, Malfoy. Christ.”
He vanished into the crowd. Elias Smith, his teammate’s uncle, the man who signed checks for Google.
Beside him, Astoria cursed quietly, twisting her bracelets. “He wasn’t insinuating anything,” she hissed. “He was being nice.”
Draco raised his chin stiffly, trying to ignore the hot embarrassment flooding his chest.
“No matter. I’ll handle it.” She moved off after the man.
Good breeding, his father’s voice offered unhelpfully, as Draco watched her disappear. He was alone again, for a brief second. He hovered by the abstract ice sculpture that looked suspiciously like hentai. Tentacles could, apparently, be explained away as ‘artistic expression’.
The quartet turned to another song. A waiter refreshed his drink, and he took a long sip.
Two more hours.
“Not one of your better performances,” a warm voice behind him said. “But I will admit, it was artful.”
Harry Potter slouched against the ice sculpture like the last seven years hadn’t happened. Timing was as bad as it had ever been. Draco’s stomach swooped, a mixture of shock and panic and anger flooding him.
And instead of sneering, instead of shouting, instead of throwing a punch and sending them both into the overly sexual statue, Draco’s mouth cracked into a broken smile. “Who let you back on this side of the Channel, Pot-head?”
“Missed you too, ferret face.” Harry’s eyes were twinkling. “How’ve you been?”
Draco opened his mouth, aiming somewhere between horrible and I need you to get me out of here.
Astoria re-appeared, suddenly. “Oh, what a good surprise. You’re Harry, right? I’ve heard so much about you.”
Ignoring Draco’s pleading gaze, that she might disappear and leave them a second alone, Astoria stepped between them. Her smile stuck to her teeth like something sour.
The world shaded darker, like sitting deep underwater.
He took a sip of whiskey to keep his mouth busy, and the alcohol in his bloodstream urged him to another. He drained his glass.
Harry’s attention flickered, tracing the motion. Outwardly, he appeared occupied with Astoria’s polite inquiries to his career.
But Draco knew the shape of Harry’s stillness when it was tuned entirely to him. Draco swallowed hard and pretended that the finer points of Harry’s recent successes in the international endurance racing league were news to him too.
It got worse from there. Astoria offered her hand to show off the engagement ring.
“Good job, mate.” Harry, a ghost made real, held the glinting diamond up to the light.
Draco grunted. The limits of his dissociative thinking constantly disappointed him.
Astoria cleared her throat, voice honey-smooth. “I heard about Arthur, I was so sorry to hear that he passed. We sent Molly flowers, but if there’s a fund or a foundation—”
“Yes, thank you.” Harry said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’ll make sure you’re invited to the memorial, Draco.”
Astoria looked between them. “We wouldn’t want to impose—”
“It isn’t imposing.” He answered for Harry. “My karting days were bursting with Weasleys. They took me in one summer, when Severus was in hospital. Arthur was good to me.”
Harry’s eyes glinted a bit. He and Draco had spent that summer driving Arthur absolutely insane. Two hell-raising twelve year olds, fighting like dogs over anything and everything, starting a prank war and destroying three entire engines.
It was the summer Harry had finally decided to be Draco’s friend. It was one of the best summers of his life. He and Snape had returned to Northamptonshire for summer karting seasons for years after that, at Draco’s insistence.
Harry finally properly looked at him. “Good summers. Remember terrorizing Philip?”
Draco paused, not thinking he’d heard right. “Philip?”
“Yes, he’d forgotten his helmet that one time—”
“Yes, yes— Phillip.” Draco interrupted. “Good chap. Favorite Weasley. Haven’t heard from him in a long while.”
“Well,” Harry grinned. “You wouldn’t—”
“Because he’s living in Argentina now, yes,” Draco interrupted. He raised one quick eyebrow. You’re an awful liar.
“Oh, will you look at that,” Harry looked at his empty drink. “Can I get either of you two anything? I hear there’s a specialty cocktail.”
Astoria brightened. “Yes! It's like a Hugo spritz, it's phenomenal—”
“I’ll come with you.” The words were automatic. His brain did not dawdle on the choice.
He nudged Astoria aside, and gave Harry a look. “We should catch up.”
A smile played on Harry’s face. “After you.”
~ * ~ * ~
Astoria was chatting with the youngest Bulstrode by the time the men made it across the room. No one noticed when they turned left past the crowded bar and through to the dark hallway outside.
Neither man said a word as they made their way down the hall. Harry turned them up the staircase and hopped over the “No Access to Guests” sign.
Two flights took them up to another unfamiliar hallway, silent aside from the faint bubble of noise from downstairs.
“Think there’s a roof—?”
Draco snorted. “I’m not sitting on a roof while wearing a silk suit, you rat-fucker.”
Harry let out a soft chuckle. “There he is. Missed him.”
They ended up in an office. Two desks, piles of papers, and cheap boxy desktop computers. Harry threw himself into a highbacked chair and sighed deeply.
Draco stayed standing, suddenly awkward. He felt the last moments they were together like a physical presence. Shame curling at the edges of the frame.
He cleared his throat. “I was really sorry to hear about Arthur.”
Harry spoke quietly. “He was a good man. Taught me a lot.”
Draco nodded. Harry had always spent breaks with the Weasleys, before his godfather Sirius came into the picture. Anything was better than going back to his aunt and uncle, but Arthur and Molly loved him like their own.
“Taught me how to drift in his old rally car.”
“Taught me how to drink Guinness and play poker.” Harry smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed on the wall behind Draco.
“Equally valuable lessons,” Draco murmured, watching him.
Green eyes turned to him, shaking off memory. “So really. How are you doing?”
There was a pause. Through the shadows, motes of dust sifted through moonlight. He tried to remember that this was impermanent. That he could disappear through that door again, close it tight, and be alone.
Leave Harry on the other side of the door once again.
“Fine, Potter. What about yourself— I heard you’re playing videogames for a quick buck.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Sim driving for McLaren, Draco. Far from a hobby.”
“Whatever. You could actually be in their seat, you know, Rodgers is a simpleton—”
“Well, he beats you every Sunday, doesn’t he?” Harry snarked. "Can't be that much of an idiot."
Draco turned up his nose. “Regardless— I am perfectly fine. Fantastic, even.”
Harry rolled his eyes, and leaned back, raking a hand through his hair.
The last time he’d seen Harry, they were barely seventeen. All knobbly elbows, grinning chins.
Over the past seven years, he’d allowed himself to watch Harry from afar in just a few ways. Watched his WEC races, occasionally perusing headlines to see new contracts signed, photos taken. But it was different seeing him in person, close enough to touch. The line of his filled-out body held something unfamiliar.
Draco hated it, and yet still eyed the shadows of Harry's neck hungrily, trying to turn the angles familiar once more.
"Listen,” he said shortly. “You pulled out a code-word like we’re still fifteen, and I came. So tell me what you really want.”
“Well, it seemed like I wasn’t going to get anything but bullshit while your fiancé was there.” He leaned forward, and this version of Harry was suddenly, horribly familiar. “Were you lying to make her feel better, or yourself?”
Draco’s face heated. “It's been seven years, Potter. I’m not doing this with you.”
“I’ve seen the papers. I’ve seen the bullshit online. I saw Abu Dhabi.” He was persistent, voice level. “You’re struggling.”
Draco picked at his cuticles. “You are the last person who gets to lecture me about being happy.”
Harry stood, eyeing him carefully. “Who else is going to? Your father, who I’m sure is full of horrible plans for all of this? Or your fiancé, who’s walking you around like a dying dog right before it's put down?”
Draco closed his eyes. “I thought it was clear that I was done with your meddling, Harry—”
Harry moved, his arm briefly catching Draco’s before being shook free. “Yes, and we can discuss that particular betrayal of trust when I’m not worried that next race you’re going to put yourself into a wall on purpose.”
His voice pressed in like heat. “You know that people can see the timestamps on your iRacing records, right?”
“No one is looking,” he said, voice rigid.
“Draco, come on.” Harry’s voice was low, too close. “You aren’t sleeping. You can’t keep all this inside, it’s not working, I mean— just look at Halloween.”
“Fuck you, that costume was topical—”
“I swear to god, Draco, you are the worst closeted gay man I have ever met,” Harry said, exasperated. “It was drag.”
“Is that why you’re here? Dragged yourself over here for another fucking lecture?” Draco cried out. “Do you not think that I know that I fucked up?”
“No, that’s my point, Draco, just let me help—”
“But I don’t want your help! I don’t— I don’t need you. Showing up here, trying to ruin everything again.” Draco said through gritted teeth, getting to his feet.
Harry’s bright eyes were too understanding, too knowing. Too close.
“You don’t care about me, about any of this,” he said tightly. “You just want to get a closer look.”
“I swear, I don’t, ” Harry whispered. “The way we left things, I’ve regretted not trying sooner, for letting you leave like that, and I just want to help, now—”
Draco felt himself slipping from control. A viper coiled tight, glinting fangs.
“Can I just suck you off and be done with it,” he interrupted flatly. “You’re trying to get off on moral superiority and it’s taking too fucking long.”
A vindictive joy fluttered through Draco as Harry’s mouth opened and closed.
“Be miserable then, I can’t stop you.” Harry said tiredly. “Jesus.”
“Good. Find someone else to pity, make you feel better about your shit life. How’s Girl Weasley? Heard she left you.”
Harry stared at him. “I don’t know why I expected you to be any different.”
Draco shoved past towards the door. “Me neither. I’ll see you in another seven years.”
He didn’t wait for Harry to say anything else. He walked down the stairs and back into the ballroom, where he shoved his hands into his suit pants to hide their tremor.
~ * ~ * ~
Back at the Chelsea penthouse, Astoria moved past him to the bathroom. Shoes dropped, bracelets following, her hair pins clinking in a bowl on the vanity.
He watched her peel off the person who attended the galas. Revealed was the sharp, closed off woman who shared his apartment with him. A tidy roommate, who liked to communicate via folded notes on her personalized stationary.
She didn’t look up when he leaned against the door frame. “We leave for home at seven tomorrow from Farnborough, I’ve already arranged it.”
"Okay." Home. Monaco.
“The car’s picking us up at seven,” she said, still not looking at him. “Mother wants to do lunch at Cipriani, and we’re expected at the Bal de la Rose, Saturday. You’ll wear the charcoal suit, it's just come back from having the sleeves re-hemmed.
She paused, eyes lightly guarded. “You’re not going back out, are you?”
“No. I’m in for the night.”
Astoria stared at him in the mirror, no makeup on. “Luna said his boyfriend is really quite nice.”
Draco’s stomach turned. “Asti—”
“The head chef at Bissau apparently. They all went to Gibraltar together at Christmas.”
It was impressive honestly, how deliberately she’d chosen this knife. The placement as she drove it into him.
He closed his eyes. Maybe he could pretend she hadn’t spoken.
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“No,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “But I would appreciate it if you didn’t bait me like this.”
“Don’t run off to dark corners with boys then, Draco. I don’t like to lose.”
He didn’t answer. Her idea of winning was a complete mystery to him. He just knew that he kept losing.
Excusing himself, Draco shut the master bedroom door behind him with a secure click. He leaned against it, and took his first real breath of the entire evening. He retreated to his own room.
It was an office, technically. A bed, strong WiFi. The sheets matched the curtains, but he hadn’t picked either. He pulled out pajamas from his bag, brushed his teeth in the small bathroom, and put his head on the pillow.
There was a time this arrangement with Astoria had been useful. He closed his eyes and considered whether it was his own idea of winning that was quite shallow in scope.
When he drifted to sleep, there were dancing dark eyes and the sensation of trying to breathe underwater.