Chapter Text
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"NO!"
A raw, fractured scream tore through the pitch-black void—shrieking like a soul being ripped apart.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered.
Screams—hundreds—rose in a deafening crescendo as the void cracked open into a chaotic battlefield. The grounds of Hogwarts were ablaze with war. Witches and wizards clashed like phantoms in a storm, their silhouettes lit by furious jets of light exploding in every direction. Spells collided with bone-rattling thunderclaps, drowning out the harrowing sounds of bodies hitting the blood-slicked earth. The air stank of iron, ash, and burning stone.
Blood splattered across the grass, painting it crimson. The cries of the dying clung to the air like smoke. Castle walls groaned, ancient stones trembling with every impact as limp bodies slammed against them, tumbling from stairwells, towers, or blasted back by unforgiving curses. The ground itself seemed to moan under the weight of the fallen. It was pure carnage.
Flash.
A face... close. Too close.
Voldemort.
That serpentine sneer carved into his pale face like it had been sculpted for malice. His crimson eyes gleamed—starving. Hungry for ruin. For dominance. His twisted mouth curled into a sickening smirk that promised death.
Flash.
The Forbidden Forest—dark and unforgiving. The wind howled through the trees like a funeral song.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort's voice bellowed—cold, triumphant—as green light surged from his wand.
A blinding snap.
Harry's eyes flung open, gasping violently as if dragged from the depths of the lake. His heart slammed against his ribcage, once, twice, each beat like a war drum pounding in his chest. Sweat clung to his skin. His fingers clawed at the bedsheets, gripping them like a lifeline, the fabric damp and wrinkled beneath trembling hands. He pushed down into the mattress, grounding himself against the warm reality beneath him.
For a heartbeat, he couldn't move—only stare. His eyes were open wide and glazed, trapped between dream and waking. The nightmare still clung to the edges of his vision—ghostly and loud. His emerald eyes scanned the room slowly, as if searching for something that might still be lurking in the dark. His throat tightened as he swallowed. Then finally, a shaky exhale escaped his lips. It was over... it was just a dream, yet it hadn't felt like one. And for a fleeting, fractured moment... it felt like the world was drowning again, drenched in the same bloodcurdling screams and war-thick bellows that had once haunted the battlefield—familiar, feral, and deafening.
But a sound cut through it... a faint hum... then another... the sound of roaring engines outside, ripping through the silence like war cries of a different kind. One after another in constant, relentless intervals. Harry slowly raised a hand to his face, dragging it down with a shaky exhale—as if trying to wipe away the remnants of everything his mind had just conjured. Images he hadn't seen with such clarity in a long time.
Seven years... and still, the nightmares came like clockwork... unforgiving, undying and old as the war itself. And tonight, it had found him again. It bled through the cracks and infiltrated the silence. And unfortunately, this was one of those nights.
Until—
"Shit," Harry breathed, his voice low, hoarse, unsteady.
His eyes darted across the dark room, hands fumbling for the nightstand. Fingers found the curve of his glasses and he jammed them onto his face with urgency. He lurched forward and threw the covers off—his breath sharp, shallow. Then the alarm went off. A shrill, mechanical screech that almost mimicked a scream. Instinctively, he slammed his palm on it, and the noise died instantly. Not another sound came from it. Harry's eyes flicked toward the nearest light switch.
Click.
A harsh flood of light cut through the shadows. He reached for his phone. In one swift motion, he lifted it upward and the screen lit—
11:30 PM.
There wasn't time to think, because Ron would be nearing the end of his driving stint. Harry had to be ready.
Now.
As a bolt of urgency shot through his chest, he rushed for his racing firesuit, hands trembling as he peeled it from the hanger and began tugging it on with force.
Zip.
The fabric slid into place, the adrenaline hitting him faster than breath. He didn't have the luxury to dwell on the past. And yet... his hands still shook, his heart still pulsing with the aftershocks of the war long over. But it didn't stop him. He snatched the black balaclava from the shelf, dragging it over his head with practiced motion. Adjusted it. Then grabbed his helmet—red with golden stripes, its surface detailed with faint embossments that shimmered under the trailer lights. A lion roared across the back, a lightning bolt etched proudly above it. Across the visor:
Porsche.
And without pause—he was out the door. The trailer flung open, and the cool bite of Florida's January night air hit his lungs like a slap. But louder still—the track where engines screamed through the dark like a pack of wolves in full sprint.
The Daytona International Speedway was alive. Floodlights bathed the circuit in electric brilliance. It was midnight's own battleground—steel, speed, and strategy.
Racing.
It was one of the few things that brought him peace since leaving it all behind. The Ministry. The endless manhunts. It hadn't felt that long ago... but time never waited. Three years had passed since he retired as Head Auror. Three years since he finally stepped out of the shadows of the war and chose to chase something else.
He'd caught them all—the last stragglers of Voldemort's poisoned regime. Fugitives. Monsters. Murderers. He was relentless; a force of nature. Deadly with a wand, swift with instinct. He'd taken down more Death Eaters than he could count. And when Voldemort had fallen, it was clear—Harry Potter had proven himself far beyond the Boy Who Lived... he was a hunter, a protector, a soldier... but even heroes burn out. And eventually, something in him cracked—quietly. There was a shift of hollowness, and he hadn't even noticed how far he had drifted from Ginny... how many nights he hadn't come home… how often he'd vanished into another chase, another lead on a crime scene, another fight to bring justice to the fallen victims and lock away the unworthy.
The adrenaline never left… so he did. He stepped out of the world he'd saved. Back into the Muggle world—chasing something else entirely. It was a chance to breathe and reset himself to feel something new. And racing gave him that. He moved across continents like a shadow: Europe, America, anywhere he'd never seen. And surprisingly—he wasn't alone. Ginny followed, Hermione, Ron—even Neville, when he could. And now, in the year 2019, at twenty-four years old and seven years after the fall of Voldemort, Harry Potter had found himself addicted to something else entirely… speed.
But not the kind delivered on broomsticks or in the flash of spellfire. No—this was mechanical... earthbound and brutal on both the mind and body, where that mattered more than spellwork. Speed that screamed for twenty-four hours straight of unforgiving, demanding precision that spoke over power. And it didn't pause for anyone. The Rolex 24 at Daytona was a crucible of man and machine.
After five years of catching Death Eaters, and leading the Ministry's elite as Head Auror—Harry had walked away from it all. And somehow, he'd landed here among gearheads and endurance legends alike.
Porsche Motorsport.
A manufacturer with a legacy as storied as any spellbook in Hogwarts. And surprisingly—they welcomed him after spending a fortune building a team for himself just to enter.
As his Alpinestars tapped against the smooth concrete of pit lane, the floodlights overhead buzzed in tandem with the howl of engines barreling down the banking. His fireproof suit clung to him like a second skin, the Porsche Motorsport logo stitched onto his chest along with other sponsors. Further down, there was the name: H. POTTER with the Union Jack before his name.
Every step drew him closer to the pit wall—closer to the storm. And in this chaos, he was already locked in, mentally tuned, eyes narrowed, muscles ready.
Then… his gaze caught her… Ginny.
She was sitting beneath the canopy tent, hunched over telemetry screens glowing green and red, her headset locked on tight, mouth near the mic. She was barking crisp instructions through the team comms—voice sharp, decisive, commanding. She didn't even flinch as a prototype thundered past, rumbling the ground beneath their feet.
Harry approached.
"You've got one more lap before you box," Ginny said coolly into the headset, pressing the comm button with practiced ease. Her other hand tracked data as if reading a heartbeat.
She looked up the second she heard him stop beside her.
"Any idea where Ron is?" Harry asked, raising his voice to cut through the ringing chorus of engines echoing across the speedway.
Ginny turned, a flick of red hair brushing her shoulder as she glanced at the monitor.
"He's running P4," she replied, half-shouting over the roar. "That bloody Ferrari wouldn't move over. Driver's ignoring blue flags—he's definitely getting a penalty. But Ron's gaining on the Lambo ahead. Traffic's killing him on the straights though—"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Typical Ferrari..."
"Right?" she huffed. "Never know when to yield. But Ron's holding his ground. He's got this."
Harry allowed himself the smallest smirk. Of course Ron had it. Years of war had forged that grit into them all. He could out-duel Death Eaters—he could damn well pass a Lamborghini.
"Anyway," Ginny continued, her tone shifting into commander-mode, "you're up. This next lap."
Harry blinked. "Already?"
"Yes, already. Go get ready! You're lucky you made it in time. One more minute and Ron would've had to do a double stint!"
"I was just—"
"For God's sake—go!" she snapped, jabbing a finger toward the pit wall.
Harry didn't argue.
Helmet in hand, he turned on his heel, already sliding it down over his head mid-stride. The chin strap clicked into place with a practiced tug. The world around him narrowed. His pulse synced with the mechanical rhythm echoing in the distance.
He made his way to the pit wall. One foot perched on the concrete ledge, arm leaning forward, scanning the curve ahead.
Any second now...
His eyes searched for it—crimson and gleaming gold. The Porsche 911 GT3 R with lion insignias roaring down each door panel. A lightning bolt sliced across the roof. Number 77 in bold white against the crimson paint in a green box filled with the IMSA WeatherTech Sportscar Championship logo just above the number. That was his car... his team. The pit crew around him moved like clockwork. Mechanics poised with fresh Michelin slicks. Another gripped the fuel hose, helmeted and ready. Someone knelt beside the pneumatic jack, eyes glued to the timing screen. But to Harry—it was all muffled and distant. Like he was underwater... or in a Pensieve. Only one thing mattered now: the moment that crimson and gold blur would come barreling down pit lane. Because then—he'd be in it while engines roared and lights flash, fighting for tenths of a second against the world's best.
This wasn't magic anymore... this was motorsport, where Harry now called it his home. And somehow, it made him feel alive in a way even wizardry never had. And when he saw his car, the crimson-and-gold Porsche 911 GT3 R tore into the pit lane, a streak of motion against the floodlit blur. Harry's shoes rocked back and forth against the pit wall, nerves twisting in his chest like coiled springs as anticipation roared.
Screech.
The brakes locked, and the car slammed to a halt with surgical precision in the pit box—perfectly on the markers.
Go time.
The crew exploded into motion as four mechanics surged in like a dance rehearsed a thousand times. Impact wrenches screamed, ripping the old tires off with rapid-fire chirps as fresh Michelin slicks were rolled in and slammed on with expert force. The fueler clipped in the hose, the hiss of high-octane fuel surging into the tank audible beneath the cacophony. Harry bolted forward, weaving through the organized chaos as Ron kicked open the driver's door and scrambled out—helmet fogged, shoulders heaving. Harry clapped a hand on Ron's helmet, grinning beneath his own visor.
"Great job, mate," he said, his voice muffled but clear.
"Thanks," Ron gasped, tugging at his gloves before jogging over the wall, disappearing into the shadows of the pit box.
Harry dropped into the cockpit—low and familiar, and it felt right. He yanked the harness across his chest, clicked the five-point belt in, pulled hard to cinch it tight.
Snatched the hydration tube, clipped it to his suit. Hands flew across the dash, checking toggles, pressing inputs—his body moving faster than thought. Every connection mattered. The car had to know he was in. He was logged and ready.
His eyes flicked up—out through the shimmering windshield, coated with a thin glaze of rubber dust and streaks of oil. Around him, the world funneled inward. He could barely hear the outside anymore—just the clink of the pneumatic jack latching the final tire, and the hollow pop of the fuel hose disconnecting. Every detail of it carved into his memory. With a steady breath, Harry reached for the ignition switch.
Click.
The systems hummed.
And then—he thumbed the start button. The flat-six engine roared to life beneath him, barking with aggression—loud, guttural, ready to run. The vibration rumbled through his spine, down to his shoes, settling into his bones.
CLANK.
The air jacks dropped, the car slamming to the tarmac as the full weight returning in an instant. The lollipop sign shot upward in front of him.
Green. Now.
Harry flicked the pit limiter on, mashed the throttle—the rear Michelins screamed, leaving a thin mist of smoke behind as he launched from the box at low speed. He needed to be steady without any mistakes. From the corners of his eye, other pit stalls mirrored the same storm—cars dropping, drivers leaping in, mechanics darting between tire stacks and toolboxes. But they bled away, shrinking in his mirrors as Harry followed the line toward pit exit.
Then—he was free. As the limiter lifted, he surged onto the racing line, the flood of peed returning like a heartbeat. But the track wasn't empty. Ahead of him—cars... behind him—threats. Traffic buzzed around him like hornets.
Then—Ginny's voice cut through his comms, sharp and clear in his ear.
"You've got P8 behind you. They haven't pitted yet—keep them back as long as you can."
Harry's fingers tapped the comm switch.
"Copy," he replied coolly, eyes narrowing.
Already he was braking late into the International Horseshoe, carving the apex perfectly, then throttling out with surgical precision as the tires gripped like claws into the asphalt.
Turn 4 loomed.
His hands were steady and his mind was locked in. And when Turn 5 loomed, it came fast, brutal, and deceptively tight. Harry's eyes locked on the entry point, already calculating brake pressure and line—
Until—
Up ahead, it happened in a blink.
An LMP2 prototype clipped the inside curb, its rear tires lifting just slightly—enough to lose traction. The car snapped sideways, the back end fishtailing across the track like a hooked serpent.
Chaos.
A Mercedes-AMG GT3, just meters ahead, tried to swerve wide—hard right, desperate to escape—but it was too late... metal met metal.
The two machines collided in a violent, twisting crash, carbon fiber exploding like shrapnel. But Harry's instincts kicked in.
"Shit!" he shouted, wrenching the steering wheel left, diving away from the scene—
His tires skated over the grass at high speed, the Porsche jolting violently under him as chunks of debris scattered across the tarmac. Dirt flew. Rubber screeched. He held his breath. No contact. Not a scratch.
Thank God.
His heart slammed once, then again, but his hands stayed firm. With a precise counter steer and a steady throttle, he eased the car off the grass and back onto the racing line, the Michelin slicks biting back into the asphalt. His thumb found the radio button, voice tight as he spoke.
"Two cars just had an incident in front of me."
He fought to keep his tone level, professional. But adrenaline still howled through his bloodstream. He'd panicked—for a second. Only a second. But it was there. And now... frustration bubbled under his skin.
"I saw that," Ginny's voice crackled into his earpiece. "But Harry—breathe. Keep your eyes down the line. Stay focused. And please—for the love of God—keep your head on straight, because right behind you is Draco Malfoy."
What?
Harry's chest seized.
"What?!" he blurted, louder than he meant to.
"Just bloody focus, will you?" Ginny snapped, her tone sharp like a whip.
Harry bit back a retort, forcing a sharp exhale through gritted teeth. His gloved hand flicked to the mirror—
And there it was. A green and silver Ferrari 488 GT3—sleek and undeniably menacing. Trimmed in the unmistakable livery of Serpentine Racing—its emerald hues glinting under the floodlights, a silver snake coiling across the side panels.
Of course... that damned team.
For nearly two years, Serpentine Racing had been their fiercest rival. And at the wheel—without fail—was none other than Draco Malfoy. Because of course he had slithered his way into racing just like Harry had. Of course he had. And now he was closing in. Harry clenched the wheel tighter as he approached Turn 6, swinging the car to the right to set up on the racing line. But he knew exactly what Malfoy was going to do—
DIVEBOMB. INSIDE LINE.
"No you don't," Harry growled, flicking a glance left—and sure enough, the Ferrari was there.
It was aggressive and inches from his flank. Harry planted his foot hard on the throttle as he exited Turn 6, the Porsche surging forward, exhaust roaring as they shot out onto Daytona's iconic high-speed banking.
They were side by side. Two enemies and two machines with one history too long to bury. His pulse surged as the grandstands blurred in his peripheral vision, the centrifugal force pushing against his ribs. And yet—Malfoy was inching closer… inching. That snake-liveried Ferrari crept forward with every millisecond, drafting behind him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But Harry wasn't going to give it.
The banking smoothed into Turn 7 and spat them out onto the back straight. Up ahead loomed the Bus Stop. Turn 8. The chicane where legends were made... or broken.
This would be the moment. He knew it... and so did Malfoy. The closer they surged toward the Bus Stop chicane, the tighter Harry's breaths became. His lungs burned. His heart pounded against the harness strap as the track ahead blurred beneath the glare of the floodlights.
The braking boards rushed up—150... 100... 50—
There was no way out. No room left to think. He was boxed in… and he was fucked.
Malfoy's Ferrari was right there—slithering beside him, wheel to wheel. The glint of green and silver flashing like a blade in the dark. Harry's knuckles went white on the wheel.
No.
Then—he slammed his foot into the brake pedal, hard enough to feel it bite back through the sole of his shoe. The nose of the Porsche dipped, the ABS juddered, the tires screamed as he turned the wheel left—just as Malfoy lunged in, taking the inside line with clinical precision.
The Ferrari nosed ahead, claiming the apex like a strike of vengeance.
No.
Harry cut in tighter, skimming the curbing, desperate to hold his line—hoping, praying, that by staying glued to the inside he could claw something back on the exit. Every muscle in his arms trembled from the strain, but Malfoy's car was already edging ahead, its rear diffuser a flash of taunting light.
He'd made his point. He'd taken it.
"No, no, no..." Harry hissed through his teeth, his voice cracking as everything in him began to unravel.
Malfoy couldn't get away. But then—the inevitable. By a hair's breadth, the Ferrari slipped in front—graceful, cruel, flawless.
"Fuck!" Harry barked, his voice echoing inside the helmet, raw with fury.
Static crackled.
"Harry, you're fine," came Ginny's voice, steady, professional. "Just don't lose him. You'll get him back next lap."
Harry's thumb jabbed the radio button.
"No shit, Ginny," he growled, jaw tight. His pulse was still hammering.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice cut sharper this time. "Get your head back in it. You've got an hour left in this stint. Let the race come to you."
He didn't respond.
The words barely registered—only the sight did.
Out of Turn 11, Harry smashed the throttle to the floor. The Porsche roared as flames burst from the exhaust, clawing for every ounce of speed—but all he saw ahead was that damned Ferrari 488, its taillights glowing like mocking embers.
And Harry could feel it—Malfoy's satisfaction radiating through the smoke and speed. That smug, aristocratic sneer that had haunted him since Hogwarts. Not today. Harry leaned forward, jaw set, fury igniting behind his emerald eyes. He couldn't let him go.
Harry banked along the outer arc of Turn 12, the Porsche's suspension leaning hard as he feathered the throttle, doing everything he could to keep Malfoy's Ferrari glued to his line of sight.
He was right on him—so close he could almost count the rivets in the rear diffuser.
Come on... come on...
He dipped the car directly into the slipstream, tucking the nose behind the tail of the 488, his eyes sharp, hands locked steady on the wheel. The airflow tightened—drag reduced—
Pull.
Slowly... pulling...
The gap narrowed—inch by inch—the nose of the Porsche began to creep toward the Ferrari's rear wing.
So close now, nearly touching. Nearly—
Then—
A hard dart to the left. Harry was beside him again. Side-by-side. Door-to-door. The slipstream had worked. It gave him just enough extra velocity—just enough leverage—to wedge the Porsche onto the inside line, perfectly positioned to capitalize on the entrance of Turn 1.
The track curved beneath them—the start/finish line flashed under his tires. A new lap always meant a new chance.
Turn 1 came fast.
Screech—!
The ABS system kicked in hard, vibrating beneath his foot as he braked deep into the corner. The Porsche danced on the edge of control, tires howling in protest. But he made it.
Harry hugged the inside, forcing Malfoy to hang wide. It was fender to fender; heartbeat to heartbeat.
The Porsche's front edged ahead—barely. He was inching away; he was doing it. But no words came... only silence and sheer focus.
Then—Turn 2.
Crunch.
The rear tire smacked a patch of unsettled tarmac. The car twitched. Harry's breath hitched—his hands shot into action, counter-steering instantly, the rear stepping out just enough to threaten disaster. He lifted off the throttle, caught the slide—and saved it. But barely. But it was enough to hold up Malfoy and enough to make the bastard hesitate. But not for long. Harry knew him too well. Malfoy was the kind of driver who'd force his way through, penalty or not. And he'd always raced with that same arrogant edge he'd carried at Hogwarts—like he was owed every victory. And now? Now he was charging into Turn 3. The International Horseshoe.
Malfoy dipped to the inside again—lunging. They were side-by-side, wheels nearly scraping. Neither backed off.
At Turn 4, he never wavered, the car was still beside him.
Then—
Crunch.
No.
The Porsche's rear snapped loose. Harry's chest seized—his heart stopped. He reacted without thinking, counter-steering hard, throttle foot snapping off instantly to avoid overcorrecting into a spin. But it was too late—because Malfoy shot by and the Porsche slid into the grass, back tires flicking up chunks of dirt as the car bumped off the curb. All of his momentum was gone.
"FUCK!" Harry bellowed, fists trembling on the wheel. He watched the green-and-silver Ferrari vanish ahead—taillights shrinking in triumph.
"What an asshole!"
And worse—more cars were streaming past. Lapped cars and lass rivals. Contenders. Everything was slipping through his fingers within a blink of an eye.
No—
He yanked the car back onto the tarmac, the flat-six roaring with defiance as he slammed the throttle down. Gravel and grass spat from the undercarriage, pelting the bodywork.
Harry stabbed the comm.
"Malfoy bloody just hit me!" he barked, barely able to keep his voice steady.
"He's going to get a penalty, Harry," Ginny replied, measured but firm. "Just breathe. The race is far from over—we've got twelve hours left. Loads of time to recover from P12. Keep focused."
Focus.
He hated that word right now. But still—he hit the button again.
"Copy," Harry replied stiffly, his jaw clenched, emerald eyes already scanning ahead.
A blur of headlights streaked by—one of the GTLM factory Porsches. But Harry didn't care. It was a different class and a different class meant a different fight. This was GTD. And that was his battlefield. He was already carving through Turn 6, tires screeching in protest as he pushed the car harder, faster—fighting not just to regain positions, but to undo the damage. The sting of grass still clung to the tires. But Harry wasn't going to let this slide. Not from Malfoy. This wasn't over... not even close.
A few corners in, Harry's chest heaved—lungs dragging in hot, metallic air that felt too thin for the effort he was giving.
But the fight was far from over.
In his mirrors, a blistering white Audi R8 GT3 was glued to his rear wing, its headlights flaring with obvious intent.
P13.
Another car hungry to pounce. Harry's vision blurred at the edges—fatigue creeping in like a haze. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, forcing his focus back into the tunnel. One mistake—that's all it would take to lose everything he'd clawed back. But he wouldn't give it. He defended like a lion, every apex a battleground. The Audi poked left—Harry blocked. It feinted right—Harry slammed the door.
One lap. Then another. And another.
Time vanished while rubber burned. Thirty minutes bled by like seconds in a storm.
He pushed the Porsche with everything he had, the flat-six engine screaming like a war cry as he surged through traffic, fighting tooth and nail.
P11... P10... P9...
Harry was carving through the pack like a man possessed—like a fugitive breaking out of Azkaban with nothing to lose. But always—always—his thoughts curved back to Malfoy. That green-and-silver bastard was out there—likely already in P5, if not dancing on the edge of a podium.
P8... P7...
Harry's lines were clean—but his moves were getting sharper... tighter.
Reckless.
Each overtake was fueled by a kind of boiling desperation, his fury bleeding into his finesse.
"Harry, bloody hell," Ginny's voice barked through the comms, tight with stress, "the car already has enough damage—don't make it worse by binning it into another car with your goddamn risk-taking!"
Harry stabbed the radio button.
"I'm trying, Ginny!" he snapped through gritted teeth, swerving around a blue-flagged BMW M6 GT3 that limped into pit lane.
He wasn't slowing down, nor could he.
Then—chaos.
Approaching the Bus Stop chicane at Turn 8, two cars tangled violently in front of him—a Honda NSX GT3 and a Lamborghini Huracán locked wheels mid-corner and spun into a savage collision. Carbon fiber exploded and tires lifted. As sparks showered the tarmac, Harry threaded the needle, weaving through the carnage with split-second reflexes. The chicane blurred behind him as he launched out the exit. Back onto the high banks, the Porsche gripped Turn 12 with every ounce of downforce left. But then—a shift, a wobble.
The rear end subtly twitched... and it felt wrong.
Harry's breath hitched, and his thumb jabbed the comms.
"The rear of the car's starting to feel edgy," he muttered, lungs still burning from effort.
"Hang on," Ginny replied, her voice sharpening. "We've got a full course yellow coming. Once the pits open, we'll bring you in. Damage will be addressed."
"Copy," Harry said stiffly, trying to steady his breathing, eyes narrowing as the car twitched again under his palms.
And then—the yellow flag dropped. Track marshals waved yellow from every corner. The field began to slow—cars easing to 80 kph as the safety car button was pressed. Harry engaged it, the Porsche's systems adjusting, engine tone dulling. For a rare moment, there was stillness. Shutting his eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, and let it go—the sound relesing as a hard shudder.
The Porsche hummed beneath him, idling in wait as the field bunched up. They were on the home straight. And when he opened his eyes—he saw it.
P6.
Right in front of him was that same Audi R8—the one he'd fought off nearly an hour ago.
"All right," Ginny's voice returned. "Safety car's picking up the classes. Next lap, pits will open. You're heading straight in. Stay in the car—we're changing the rear right tire, fueling, and tearing off the windshield strip."
Harry thumbed the radio again.
"Copy," he said.
His jaw was clenched as his pulse still high. Now... it was a waiting game. The pit lane was coming. After one slow, crawling lap under the safety car, Ginny's voice crackled back into Harry's ears—clear and commanding.
"Box, box, box."
Harry's gloved thumb hit the radio.
"Copy."
He guided the Porsche through the exit of the high banks at Turn 12, the car drifting off the racing line toward the pit entry. The headlights shimmered off the reflective pit boards as the pit lane thickened into view—a row of teams, fireproof suits, and organized chaos waiting in the glare of the floodlights.
Then—
There they were... his team. Porsche jackets. Yellow helmets. Eyes sharp. Harry veered cleanly into the pit box, the car aligning within inches of the marks. Even now, his chest rose and fell in deep, ragged breaths—trying to reclaim any oxygen he'd lost in the relentless opening stint. His hand reached for the kill switch.
Click.
The flat-six engine cut instantly, plunging the cockpit into mechanical silence. Then—lift. The car jolted upward as the air jacks hissed to life, lifting the Porsche off the ground. In a blink, the crew launched into motion. The fuel hose dove in, windshield tear-offs ripped away, tools clattered—a mechanic dove toward the rear fender, assessing and patching the damage from earlier contact. Harry's pulse pounded in his ears louder than the circuit outside. A driver's worst fear wasn't the crash itself—it was the unknown. How long would it take? Would the damage cost them places? But at least under full course yellow, the penalty wasn't as steep. Still... every second dragged like an eternity.
His eyes darted—between the right-side mirror, the LED screens, the silent body language of his crew. They shouted to one another above the background roar of distant engines and pit tools hammering and clicking like a timed orchestra. He breathed deeply, the air filling his lungs. Once. Twice. Then again—still not steady. Hands staying locked on the wheel, his knuckles ached as his eyes slipped shut, just for a moment, trying to drown out the pressure, to find stillness in the chaos. But it didn't last.
Click. Creak. Crack. Bang.
The sounds of repairs finishing.
With one final wrench drop, a mechanic slapped the rear of the car.
Done.
Harry's eyes snapped open. He jammed his thumb to the ignition, then pressed the start button. The flat-six engine roared back to life, vibrating through the chassis like a beast reborn.
Bang—the car dropped as the air jacks released, the Porsche slamming back to the ground with finality. The lollipop rose, and immediately, Harry's foot crushed the throttle. Smoke erupted from the rear Michelins, the tires clawing at the cold pit lane surface as the car shot forward, gravel and rubber pelting behind him. But the track wasn't open yet. He merged back behind the train of cars under safety car formation, his headlights sweeping across the tail-lights of other machines who had pitted earlier and already reclaimed their places. Now it was just a waiting game. The other classes—GTLM, LMP2, and DPis—still had to pit in sequence.
For the moment, all Harry could do was stay in formation. But his mind was already burning. He was back. The car was patched, and the engine was singing. And the hunt would resume the second the green flag flew. Harry's sweat clung to his face like glue, soaked into the lining of his balaclava, stinging his eyes, sliding down his jaw. He weaved the car back and forth, side to side, in a smooth and practiced rhythm, keeping the heat in the tires—every motion deliberate, every breath ragged and tense.
"All right, Harry," Ginny's voice crackled through the comms, cool and measured. "Just keep weaving—stay calm. Everyone's waiting on the wave-by while the field reforms. The safety car's going to stay out a few more laps. Sit tight and relax."
Harry's thumb clicked the radio.
"Copy that," he muttered. "Where am I running?"
He nudged the wheel again—left, right, left—feeling the tires squirm beneath him, trying to stay in that narrow band of grip and temperature.
"P12," Ginny replied.
Harry hissed through clenched teeth.
"Shit..."
"But hey—this yellow helped us," she added quickly. "We gained time. That pit stop under green would've dropped us off the lead lap. We're still in this."
Around him, the circuit echoed with restrained chaos—a steady drone of low-revving engines as GTD cars snaked behind the safety car, all weaving in unison like dancers in a silent, fire-lit ritual. Brake discs glowed red-hot. Exhausts pulsed in the dark.
One lap. Then another. Then another.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly—minutes feeling like hours—as the race director sorted the running order, each class sliding back into its rightful position. Harry's hands didn't move from the wheel. He was locked in. Breathing… waiting.
Then—finally.
"Safety car in this lap," Ginny's voice returned.
And Harry's eyes sharpened instantly.
This was it. It was time to go back into the battle of metal and rubber.
"Green in five," Ginny said, voice turning crisp with intensity.
"Four..."
Harry's grip tightened around the suede wheel. Pulse rising. Engine vibrating beneath him like a coiled predator.
"Three..."
His right foot hovered, twitching, over the throttle.
"Two... one..."
Click.
He pressed the safety car limiter button.
Disengaged.
"Go, go, go!" Ginny shouted. "Punch it!"
BOOM—
Harry slammed the throttle, and the Porsche rocketed forward, tires screaming as they bit into the tarmac.
Green flag.
Chaos.
Cars darted left and right like startled animals. Headlights flared. Mirrors shook. Exhausts belched fire as the entire GTD field erupted back to full speed in a sudden, explosive pack.
Harry's eyes scanned—everywhere.
Left—right—ahead—behind.
A herd of GT3 cars clambered over each other, fighting for inches. Side mirrors scraped. Rear wings twitched. Cars squeezed each other with millimeter precision.
Harry stayed centered. He didn't flinch. Because Malfoy was still out there.And he hadn't left Harry's mind. But he didn't see him.
Where was he?
As Turn 1 approached, the whole pack surged toward the braking zone. The track narrowed.
Cars braked late, fenders nearly touching—like magnets fighting to separate. Harry braked hard, holding his line, staying in the middle, as an Audi R8 swept to the outside. Another Porsche 911 GT3 R lunged to the inside. They barely made it through Turn 2 without contact. Harry didn't lift, and still held his ground.
Turn 3. The International Horseshoe. He dove into the entry with surgical precision, still in the middle of a three-wide sandwich. To his left, the other Porsche edged forward. But Harry rolled more speed into the apex—and snaked his way beside it, shoulder to shoulder.
Turn 4. Harry dove down the inside with clinical precision, the nose of the Porsche edging past the other 911 GT3 R.
He held the line, keeping it clean and ruthless. That was two cars down.
P10.
There was no time to breathe or any time to celebrate. Up ahead—there was a gap opened heading into Turn 5, and undoubtedly, danger was written all over it.
But Harry didn't blink, nor hesitate... he took it, throwing the Porsche onto the inside, carving in toward the apex with only millimeters to spare. The tires shrieked, straining the suspension. He kept it tight, almost brushing the curbing as he slithered through the inside line—two more positions gained.
P8.
He kept going. Kept charging forward, teeth clenched behind the visor, sweat running down his spine, the car dancing under his control lap after relentless lap.
Twenty minutes passed—but it felt like nothing. The clock was bleeding, and Harry was chasing it. Then, ahead—chaos. A Mercedes-AMG GT3 and a Honda NSX tangled in Turn 6, skidding wide, bumping panels, both momentarily out of rhythm. No full course yellow, and that meant no mercy was given. Harry saw the line—and took it, roaring by as the two cars rejoined in his mirrors.
P6.
The GTD field was still compressed, like a coil wound too tight, all crawling over one another in the fight for top spots. Down the backstretch into Turn 8—the Bus Stop—Harry tucked in behind a Lamborghini Huracán GT3, its massive rear wing slicing through the air. He latched into the slipstream, closing the gap with precision. Timing it. Measuring it.
Then—
He made his move… swerving to the inside just before the braking zone, he jabbed the nose of the Porsche into the Lamborghini's blind spot—a daring lunge, clean and sudden. The Huracán tried to hold on, but Harry had already sling shotted through.
He exited the Bus Stop on the outside, but with more momentum, more grip—more fire.
P5.
And then—he saw it. Up ahead—green and silver. The serpent of that unmistakable Ferrari 488 GT3 trimmed in coiling livery, like it was painted with venom itself… Serpentine Racing and Draco Malfoy.
Harry's chest ignited with heat, a surge of something bitter and electric ripping through him the second his eyes locked on that car. The bastard was in front of him.
P4.
And Harry could feel it—that old tension flaring again, as if Malfoy had turned and sneered at him from across the Great Hall. Then Ginny's voice came through comms, a sharp anchor to the moment.
"Harry, you're gaining on the car ahead—fast. But I swear, whatever you do, do not throw this away. We are this close to a podium. No heroics and no stupidity. I mean it."
But Harry didn't press the radio,nor did he reply. Because all of it—Ginny's voice, the engine noise, the pounding heartbeats—it became background noise. All he saw... was that damned Ferrari. And the rivalry that had never died.
Turn 1 came fast. Too fast. Harry's grip tightened as he veered sharply to the left, throwing the Porsche into the braking zone on the limit—aiming to devour the inside line, to wedge the Ferrari wide, to force Malfoy to yield. But he didn't. Malfoy held his line—unyielding, cold, exact—sailing through the first corner with surgical precision.
Into Turn 2, still wheel to wheel. It was all too familiar, like old ghosts playing out in full speed. By the time they barreled into Turn 3—the International Horseshoe, Harry had swung to the outside, trying to carry the momentum, to sling past. But Malfoy—always a step ahead—cut in hard and held the lead.
"Dammit," Harry growled, heat coiling in his chest.
He pushed harder. Harder. The edges of his vision began to blacken, his pulse screaming in his ears. All he could see was that green and silver Ferrari. He had to get past, and he wasn't done.
"Come here, you pathetic worm," he hissed, eyes ablaze, diving into Turn 4, then stomping the brake into Turn 5, the Porsche's nose still pinned to Malfoy's rear bumper.
But then—a shadow appeared beside him. A massive BMW M6 GT3 slipped into view—closing the gap, a third contender rising into the fray.
Three cars. One line. They barreled into the entry of Turn 6, tension coiled so tight it could snap. And then—it did.
Crack—
Something went wrong... very wrong.
Harry's breath hitched. The Porsche snapped violently to the right, tires squealing in protest, just as he clipped Malfoy's rear quarter panel. The contact set off a chain reaction as three cars jerked into a zigzag pattern, unstable, chaotic.Harry fought the wheel—counter-steering hard—but it was too late. The rear broke loose, causing the Porsche to spin. Everything around him blurred as a herd of GTD cars scrambled to avoid the carnage.
BANG!
The BMW smashed directly into the rear of Malfoy's Ferrari, crumpling metal and scattering debris like shrapnel across the track.
BANG!
A Honda NSX, with nowhere to go, plowed into the side of Harry's spinning Porsche, throwing it into another wild spin. Steel screamed. Glass shattered. Carbon fiber erupted into the air. Harry's head slammed back against the seat as the car finally came to rest, smoke curling from under the bonnet. A sharp hiss escaped somewhere deep in the chassis.
And an unpleasant silence filled the cockpit. Then the faint hiss of coolant. The clicking of heat against bent metal.
"No!" Harry bellowed, his voice ragged, devastated.
It was carnage. His car's front end was annihilated, the splitter and fenders buckled beyond recognition. Malfoy's Ferrari—a mangled husk with the entire rear caved in. The BMW was crushed head-on, its front scattered in shards across the gravel. But it was the second hit—from the NSX—that had hurled Harry's car like a ragdoll, scattering more wreckage than his mind could process. Smoke billowed, lights flashed, and engines roared past... and that hurt. Harry's chest rose and fell in harsh, panicked gasps, his body trembling with rage and shock.
It's over. The car's fucked.
All that effort... for this.
His eyes scanned frantically—then locked onto it. Malfoy's Ferrari was crumpled and burned. And yet, the sight didn't bring relief. It brought a surge of hatred, choking and raw, crawling up Harry's throat like poison. His jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Then, slowly—his thumb pressed the radio button.
"I've..." he gasped, chest heaving. "I've just been hit... big time."
There was a pause.
"We see that," Ginny replied, her voice clipped, tight with controlled frustration. "Just stay where you are. If the car can move, crawl out of the way. If not, do not get out until the marshals wave you out."
Harry's fingers gripped the wheel.
"Ginny—" he nearly roared. "The car's fucked! I can't move!"
"Then STAY in the car, Harry!" she snapped back. "Wait for the marshals!"
His entire body shook. And then—a guttural yell erupted from his chest, primal and furious. His fists slammed against the steering wheel, once—twice—three times. The rage exploded. All that climbing, all that battling, leading to every risk, every corner, every breath—and now it was just a twisted pile of metal and shattered pride.
Then, motion blurred around him. Track marshals sprinted toward them, arms waving frantically. The corner workers signaled—get out. Harry leaned back, his head hitting the seat, sucking in another scorching breath. He reached down and unbuckled, the harness clicking free. Flinging the door open with trembling hands, every breath was searing with rage, shoes crunching onto broken carbon as he stepped out. And all around him, the aftermath of his battle unfolded. The car was ruined. Utterly, irreparably fucked. After nearly thirteen hours of racing, there was no saving it—no amount of duct tape, spare parts, or midnight miracles could fix the mangled mess that once was a Porsche GT3 R.Unless, by some divine chance, the team had an entire spare chassis hidden in the hauler—and they didn't. But Harry wasn't thinking about the car anymore. His eyes were locked—frozen—on a figure just ahead.
Malfoy.
The green-and-silver firesuit, the stormy glare, the platinum hair matted with sweat under his helmet. And with each seething step, Harry closed the distance.
He was walking fast—too fast—his blood boiling, fists clenched, teeth grinding beneath the taste of adrenaline and smoke. Malfoy met his stare. Then stormed forward to meet him.
"What the fuck was that all about, Potter?!"
Malfoy's voice cracked, full of rage and accusation. He shoved Harry hard, both hands hitting his chest. Harry stumbled back with a grunt, catching himself, jaw clenching.
"I didn't do anything!" Harry roared, his voice raw. "I got bloody clipped from behind! It's not my fault!"
"You clipped the back of my car and spun me out!" Malfoy barked, stepping forward again. "How the hell are you going to lie your way out of this one?"
Instinct surged—and Harry shoved him back, teeth bared. From somewhere behind, a voice yelled over the circuit noise—
"HEY! Get off the damn track!"
But they didn't listen. Their eyes were locked, pupils blown with fury, bodies tensed like coiled springs. For a moment, the world narrowed—just Harry and Malfoy, inches apart, hatred steaming off them like heat off fresh tarmac. Harry was a sliver away from swinging. So close it hurt. Instead, they stormed off the track—onto the grass, shoes crunching debris, sweat rolling down their backs under the fireproof layers. But they weren't finished.
Every breath Harry took felt scalding, like his lungs were on fire, just suffocating under his helmet, rage choking him tighter than any five-point harness.
"You think you're a hero, don't you, Potter?!" Malfoy snapped, circling him. "Just like always—going for a gap that didn't exist, trying to pull off some glory move like you're still at Hogwarts. You're pathetic!"
Harry's voice was thunder now.
"I wasn't going for a move!" he yelled, stepping toward him. His emerald eyes pierced like blades, burning with rage. "I. Got. Clipped. From. Behind! If your ignorant ass would stop playing the fucking victim—"
"HEY!"
A marshal's voice boomed.
"ENOUGH!"
Hands trembing, Harry unclipped the helmet, yanked it off with force as his breath roared in and out of his mouth like a furnace. Sweat gleamed off his face, his jaw set so tight it might shatter. He ripped off his balaclava, and his hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, clung to his temples. Then, the medical car skidded into view, tires squealing slightly as it rolled toward them, lights flashing. Harry turned to see it approach, his glare sharp, unforgiving.
"I'm not getting in that car with him," he panted, every word a tremor of barely restrained fury.
The marshal met his eyes sternly.
"We're not wasting another vehicle because of your temper," he snapped. "You're both getting in. End of discussion."
Harry's fist twitched as he nearly slammed the helmet to the ground. But he didn't... he held it, but only barely. His gaze cut back to Malfoy—who brushed past him, shoulder slamming into Harry's with venomous intent.
"Thanks, Potter," Malfoy muttered, his voice like acid. Then he stormed off, throwing open the car door and disappearing inside.
Harry turned, watching him climb in as he still stood in the gravel, still seething, chest heaving, teeth grit with restraint... standing there, unmoving, every breath was thick with smoke, rubber, and rage.
The low rumble of engines approached. The safety car rolled by, pacing the front of the field like a regal escort. Behind it came the DPi prototypes, sleek and sharp like predators. Then the LMP2s, all teeth and aero. Then the GTLMs, their factory livery glowing under the floodlights. And finally, the GTDs. His class. His fight. Harry watched them pass, one by one, the full train of surviving machines thundering down the straight with disciplined fury. And he was not one of them. His fists clenched at his sides, the helmet still in his grip, his knuckles white with pressure.
He should've been in that pack. He could've been fighting, still climbing the leaderboard... still chasing the podium. Instead—he was standing in gravel, beside the smoking carcass of a car he'd just bled for. And sure, the BMW had triggered the wreck. Any review would show that. But Harry didn't care. Because all he could think about—all he could see—was Malfoy… Malfoy, as always. Just like Hogwarts, just like every bloody encounter they'd ever had. It was a thorn under his skin, a splinter in his soul.
Harry's glare cut across the tarmac like a curse as Malfoy removed his helmet, now standing beside the medical car. His face was flushed, jaw tight, blond hair damp with sweat. He didn't even spare Harry a look. And Harry's fingers twitched. He wanted to scream—to roar until his throat gave out, to slam his fist right into Malfoy's smug, arrogant mouth. But he didn't... he kept it inside. And it burned. God, it burned. His chest felt like it was filled with fire, each breath a chokehold. With a sharp breath, Harry climbed into the medical car, sliding in beside Malfoy, shoulders tense, legs stiff. They didn't speak, nor did they look at each other. But the air was heavy, toxic, thick with the scent of scorched brakes, sweat, and pure hatred. Malfoy sat still, arms crossed, staring forward. Harry could feel the heat rolling off him—like a second engine idling at redline.
The medical car rumbled to life, bumping gently as it pulled away from the crash site, heading for the medical center, just a short drive through the infield. But the silence inside that vehicle was anything but peaceful. It was a powder keg. And Harry was seconds from exploding.
When they finally reached the building, the vehicle came to a slow stop—gravel crunching beneath the tires. Before the driver could say a word, Harry flung the door open and stepped out, slamming it behind him with a deafening bang.
Malfoy remained inside, the glow of overhead lights casting long shadows across his fire suit.
Refusing to look away, Harry's gaze bore into him, eyes like emerald daggers, sharp and unforgiving. The hate churning in his chest was so potent it made his stomach lurch—or maybe it was the impact, the disorientation from the crash finally catching up to him. Probably both.
A marshal gestured toward the white tent just ahead towards the first aid station. Harry followed stiffly, every muscle in his body coiled, every nerve fraying. Inside, the fluorescents buzzed as cool air hit his damp skin. Medics moved quickly, speaking in clipped, practiced tones. And Harry? He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wiped his free hand across his sweat-slicked face, dragging it down over his jaw, trying to pull some semblance of control back into his lungs.
Please don't put me in the same room as him, he thought bitterly.
Please.
"Mr. Potter, this way please," one of the medical examiners called out, motioning him toward a curtained bay.
"I'm fine," Harry snapped, his voice brittle, barely restrained.
"Mr. Potter," the examiner pressed gently, "it's protocol. Post-incident vitals. Just a few minutes."
Harry's jaw clenched. Hard. So hard it hurt.
He turned his head, giving Malfoy one final look—a venomous, soul-deep glare that could've split stone. Then, without another word, he followed the examiner down the corridor of white curtains. Each step was a thunderclap inside his helmetless head while each breath came with effort.
And beneath it all, the fire still raged.
Harry sat down on the edge of the examining table, his muscles stiff, shoulders hunched forward as though the weight of the wreck still clung to his body. His head hung low, the sweat-soaked strands of hair plastered to his temples, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Adrenaline was still roaring through his bloodstream. His legs trembled, arms twitching involuntarily. Every breath came in uneven, heavy pulls, as though he'd just finished another 24-lap sprint—except this time, it had ended in a pile of shattered carbon fiber and shattered hopes. And soon... soon the pain would set in. The crash might not have drawn blood, but it would come for him in delayed bruises, in stiffness, in emotional ruin.
Harry slowly raised his head as the examiner approached with a small flashlight gleaming in the man's hand.
"Just look straight ahead," the examiner instructed, voice calm, clinical.
Harry's emerald eyes tracked the light as it flicked on, then flinched hard as the beam sliced across his pupils. He grunted and pulled his head slightly away.
"Easy," the examiner said gently. "Relax yourself."
Relax? He wanted to laugh. Relaxing was a joke—a cruel suggestion, after everything.
Not when he had just lost the race, not after thirteen relentless hours of clawing his way back through the field—not after passing car after car, defending, lunging, surviving, bleeding time and energy, only to have it all ripped away in the chaos of one corner, in one blink, in one mistake not even his.
He'd been so close... if he had just gotten past Malfoy... if he had just slipped into that slot ahead...
There were only three more cars to battle. And Neville was prepped, ready to take the next stint. The podium was right there... and now—gone.
Gone.
The light moved across his eyes again. His eyes watered, involuntarily blinking under the white-hot beam searing across his vision. Then the flashlight clicked off. The examiner turned away, grabbing a clipboard and pen from a nearby table, scribbling quick notes in silence.
Head dropping again, Harry's eyes squeezed shut as his lungs trembled as he tried to pull in a deeper breath—tried to override the chaos inside him. But the adrenaline wasn't done. His fingers twitched on the edge of the table, his right foot bouncing unconsciously. His whole body buzzed with pent-up fury.
It was like trying to breathe after dueling a giant and losing.
He couldn't calm down, nor could settle. But he didn't want to. He wanted to get up, march back out, and punch Malfoy in the face—just once. He wanted the bastard to know what it cost him. And he was sure—absolutely sure—that the incident was already being replayed and dissected on every screen in the paddock.
Commentators picking it apart, pausing on angles, assigning blame. But Harry didn't need analysis. He knew the truth. He wasn't the one at fault. He was just a passenger, caught in the middle of racing chaos. A miscalculation from the BMW, a ripple effect. A bad hand dealt. And still, Malfoy would blame him. Because he always did.
The examiner returned, this time holding a stethoscope. Harry swallowed hard. His throat burned, dry from grit and fury, reluctantly unzipping his firesuit from the top.
"Now, Mr. Potter," the man said calmly, positioning the stethoscope over Harry's chest, "take a deep breath."
For a moment, Harry didn't move.
His lungs felt too tight, like anger had settled inside them and refused to leave. The coiling pressure of defeat sat like a boulder in his ribcage. But—with effort, he obeyed. His chest rose, strained, his eyes shutting again. Then his chest fell, a shaky exhale leaving his lips. But the rage remained—burning beneath the breath like an ember refusing to die.
"Again, please."
The examiner's voice was steady, but Harry heard nothing but static. He pulled in another deep, shaky breath, lungs aching with effort—when the door burst open.
Then—
"Harry—"
Ginny's voice cut through the sterile air like a shockwave. His eyes flew open. There she was—wide-eyed, flushed, storming into the room with urgency in every step. The sight of her made his heart stutter, a jolt tearing through his chest like a misfiring engine.
"Oh my God," she whispered, stepping closer, her gaze scanning him—his sweat-drenched face, the tremble in his hands, the red flush on his neck.
Harry's head turned toward her, another breath escaping his lips, this one shuddering, fragile.
"Harry—"
"Miss Potter," the examiner interrupted, taking a firm step between them, "I need you to please wait outside until—"
"He's my bloody husband, mind you," Ginny snapped, voice sharp enough to slice glass. "I have every right to be here."
Harry barely managed the word—"Ginny"—his voice cracked, as if everything inside him was unraveling all at once.
She turned toward him fully, eyes blazing with emotion.
"We saw the replay," she said, her tone forceful, urgent. "It wasn't your fault. Not even close—"
"I know." The words burst from Harry, his tone tight, desperate, barely controlled. "But Malfoy's already running his mouth—blaming me for clipping him—"
"Well, fuck him," Ginny snapped, her arms crossing in defense of the man she refused to let break. "He's a spoiled, self-obsessed prat. He's always been that way. This is what he does, Harry—he gets under your skin. He's never changed. He won't."
The medical examiner leaned back in, carefully pressing the stethoscope to Harry's chest again. Harry flinched at the touch.
If only this damn examination would end.
Every second he sat there felt like he was being dissected, suffocated under bright lights and the echoes of a wreck that still looped in his mind. He couldn't take it. His gaze locked on Ginny, eyes burning. He inhaled for the examiner's sake—deep, rigid, full of smoke and fury—then exhaled in another shaky gust. But his heart refused to settle. It kept pounding hard and fast, nearly punishing, echoing the external mayhem, slamming against his sternum like it was trying to fight its way out. He couldn't calm down. Not with Malfoy's voice still ringing in his ears.
"What about the others?" he finally asked, jaw still tight.
Ginny let out a breath, her stance softening just a little.
"Distraught," she said honestly. "But fine. Hermione's absolutely fuming though. She told the guys to nail the setup, and from everything you, Ron, and Neville gave back—it was perfect."
Harry gave a bitter scoff.
"Yeah." He shook his head. "Too damn bad it all went to waste."
Ginny didn't respond... because her silence told him everything.
Harry's eyes flicked toward the examiner, irritation rising again like a fresh tide. "Can I leave now?" he asked flatly without any softness or gratitude, a venom that was barely restrained.
The examiner sighed. "Your vitals are elevated, but your reflexes are strong—"
"Good." Harry cut him off, sliding off the table, his shoes hitting the floor with finality as he threw the examiner a glare so dark it could have torn through lead. "Then that's all I need to know."
And without another word, he stormed out, fists clenched, jaw set with blazing emerald flame licking through the irises. The wreck was behind him, but the rage he felt deep inside his bones was coming with him.