Disclaimer:
I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.
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Author's note:
This chapter is for worldbuilding, showing what Arthur has left behind. If you're not familiar with racing, don't worry. I've made sure anyone can understand what's going on.
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"...copy that, Lucas. Two more laps, then box. Watch the temperature on turn seven, it's getting greasy."
The voice crackled through Lucas Aalto's helmet radio as he hurled his kart through Copse corner at sixty miles per hour, the engine screaming just inches behind his head. Rain spat against his visor, turning the world into a blur of wet tarmac and spray from the kart ahead. His body was pressed hard against the left side of his seat as G-force tried to tear him away from his racing line, every muscle in his neck and shoulders straining to keep his head upright.
The kart beneath him felt alive, its chassis flexing and chattering over the bumps, transmitting every vibration through his hands and spine. He could feel the rear tyres sliding slightly as he fed in the power, the back end wanting to step out on the damp surface. But Lucas knew this feeling, had lived with it since he was old enough to reach the pedals. It was the edge. That knife-thin line between grip and disaster that separated the quick from the dead.
He lifted off the throttle for a fraction of a second, feeling the rear tyres bite again, then buried his foot back down as the track straightened towards Becketts. The rev counter needle swept past eight thousand RPM, the engine note climbing to a shriek that would have been deafening without his helmet. The spray from the kart ahead was blinding, but Lucas held his line, trusting his memory of the track and the slight changes in sound that told him where the corners were.
Through the radio, he could hear the metallic chatter of his pit crew preparing for his arrival, the pneumatic hiss of air guns and the sharp commands of the chief mechanic. This was Formula 4 testing at Silverstone – serious business, where lap times were measured in tenths of a second and every detail mattered.
Lucas braked hard for the chicane, feeling the kart dive forward as the weight transferred to the front wheels. He turned in precisely, clipping the apex kerb with surgical accuracy, then fed the power back in as the track opened up again. His eyes were already scanning ahead, reading the racing line like a mathematical equation, calculating the geometry of speed.
Two more corners, and he was on the home straight, the pit lane entrance rushing towards him. He lifted off the throttle and raised his left hand to signal his intention, pulling across into the pit lane as his speed dropped from a hundred and twenty miles per hour to the mandatory forty in a matter of seconds.
The Aalto Racing pit box was a symphony of controlled chaos. His father stood at the pit wall with a stopwatch and laptop, his face set in the same focused expression Lucas knew from his own reflection in the mirror. Two mechanics in matching overalls swarmed the kart before Lucas had even switched off the engine, one checking tyre pressures whilst the other connected a laptop to download the precious telemetry data.
Lucas pulled off his helmet and balaclava, his blond hair dark with sweat despite the cool September air. His face was flushed from the physical demands of wrestling the kart round Silverstone at race pace, but his eyes were sharp and analytical, already mentally reviewing every corner of the session.
"How did that feel?" his father asked, not looking up from the stopwatch display.
"Rear's sliding in the wet sections," Lucas said, accepting a bottle of water and taking a careful sip. "Lost it slightly through Luffield, but the balance is better than this morning. What does the timing say?"
Mr. Aalto's eyes flicked to the laptop screen where the data was already beginning to populate. "You found two-tenths on your best time. Good progress." He paused, scrolling through the telemetry traces. "But you're still losing time somewhere. Let's have a look."
They huddled over the laptop, Lucas studying the coloured lines and numbers with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts. To most people, it would have been meaningless; graphs showing brake pressure, throttle position, steering angle, and lateral G-force. To Lucas, it was a roadmap to perfection.
"There," his father said, pointing at a section of the trace where the line dipped slightly. "Copse corner. You're losing two-tenths consistently. You're turning in too early, compromising your exit speed."
Lucas nodded, memorising the data. In this world, everything was measurable, quantifiable. There were no mysteries, no magic – just physics and the relentless pursuit of hundredths of a second. He could see exactly where he was losing time and exactly how to find it again.
"Right," he said. "I'll attack it later on the exit. Better to sacrifice entry speed for a faster run down the Hangar Straight."
"Precisely." His father closed the laptop with a satisfied click. "Take fifteen minutes. Hydrate, and we'll send you back out for a qualifying simulation."
Lucas nodded and walked to the back of the pit garage, where a folding chair waited next to a small table covered in racing magazines and technical manuals. He was reaching for a bottle of energy drink when his father appeared at his shoulder, holding an envelope.
"This came this morning," Mr. Aalto said. "From your brother."
The envelope was made of thick, cream-coloured parchment that felt expensive and strange between Lucas's fingers. His name was written on the front in Arthur's familiar scrawl, but the ink looked oddly dark and seemed to have an unusual sheen to it.
Lucas tore it open and unfolded the letter, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline as he read.
Lucas,
Hope the karting's going well and you haven't wrapped yourself around anything permanent. Things here are absolutely mental, and I mean that in the best possible way.
You wouldn't believe this place. I'm writing this in our common room, which has a fire that never goes out and portraits that actually talk back to you. There's this one called Sir Cadogan who keeps challenging people to duels and yesterday he tried to get James to fence with him using a poker from the fireplace.
Lessons are mad. Yesterday in Charms we learned to make feathers float, and this morning in Transfiguration Professor McGonagall turned her desk into a pig and back again like it was nothing. James tried to charm his tie to knot itself this morning and nearly strangled himself. Fred said it was the best laugh he's had all week.
The castle's enormous. We're still finding new rooms and staircases. James reckons his dad never found half the secret passages, and we're making it our mission to map the whole place. We've already found this brilliant little room behind a tapestry where we can plan properly without prefects breathing down our necks.
Oh, and we've got a ghost for a History teacher. Professor Binns. He's about as interesting as watching paint dry, but at least when he's boring you to death, it's literal. There's also this poltergeist called Peeves who throws chalk at anyone who looks at him wrong.
The Potions master is absolutely mental, which is almost refreshing, and the Herbology greenhouse has plants that try to bite you if you're not careful. Honestly, some days I think you've got the safer hobby.
Write back when you can. Mum and Dad say to tell you they're proud and to stop trying to shave milliseconds off your lap times by skipping meals.
Your considerably more magical twin,
Arthur
P.S. - James snores like a chainsaw. Fred says we should slip him a Silencing Charm, but I told him we're not supposed to learn those until fourth year. Shows what I know.
Lucas read the letter twice, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Talking portraits and floating feathers and teachers who could turn desks into pigs. It sounded like something out of a children's book, the sort of fantastical nonsense that belonged in fairy tales rather than real life.
But it was real. Arthur was living it, breathing it, probably taking it completely for granted by now because that was what Arthur did. He adapted, he conquered, he made everything look effortless.
Lucas folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket. Around him, the sounds of the racetrack continued; the whine of engines, the bark of radio communications, the sharp metallic ring of tools on carbon fibre. This was his world. No magic, no mysteries, just the pure, brutal honesty of physics and engineering.
Ghosts and talking hats. Arthur was chasing the impossible, learning to bend reality to his will. Lucas was chasing tenths of a second, hunting for the perfect line through corners that had been mapped and measured and analysed by thousands of drivers before him. He wasn't sure which was more insane.
But he knew which was his.
A mechanic appeared at his shoulder. "Ready to go back out? Track's drying up a bit."
Lucas stood and reached for his helmet, the familiar weight of it settling over his head like armour. The radio crackled to life, and he could hear his father's voice already discussing strategy with the engineers. Data points and tyre compounds and aerodynamic settings – the language of speed.
"Box is ready when you are," came the voice through his headset.
Lucas pulled on his gloves and walked towards his kart, where the mechanics had finished their checks and were already moving the tyre warmers. The machine sat there waiting for him, all carbon fibre and aluminium and barely contained violence. No magic required.
He settled into the cockpit and fired the engine, feeling the familiar vibration through his spine as the revs climbed. His father gave him a thumbs up from the pit wall, and Lucas returned it with a sharp nod.
Two-tenths at Copse corner. Patient on entry, aggressive on exit. The data didn't lie, and neither did the stopwatch.
He selected first gear and rolled out of the pit box, the wet tarmac reflecting the grey September sky above. The track stretched out before him, six kilometres of precision engineering where every metre mattered and every mistake was measured in thousandths of a second.
Arthur could keep his magic. Lucas had something better: the absolute certainty that if he was faster, it was because he'd earned it. Every lap time, every position gained, every victory. It would all come down to skill and determination and the relentless pursuit of perfection.
The engine screamed behind him, the world narrowed to a ribbon of wet tarmac, and he pushed the throttle down, hunting for the perfect line.
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