I've gone way over the limit and it doesn't really feel like microfiction anymore. But I can't cut it short, I really like it all :( and it's not a fact that new chapters will be released every day, but I don't plan on abandoning the story, I was very inspired by the idea
newspaper @blackinnonmicros
modern! au & no magic! au, muggle! au Chapter One, in which Marlene McKinnon has a brilliant idea
The student campus always smelled of coffee, especially in the mornings. The drink helped to perk up, dispelling even the most stubborn thoughts of sleep and restoring energy, resetting the internal compass for studying. However, today everything felt particularly exciting. It was always like that when change loomed on the horizon: they brought something grand and simultaneously stirred a sweet, almost nerve-tingling feeling of anticipation in the chest, throwing everything off its usual rhythm.
Marlene McKinnon had settled into the empty office of the university newspaper's editorial room, which she had managed to transform into her little sanctuary in just half an hour. Before her lay spreads, clippings, pencil sketches in a chaotic but personally logical order, and beside them sat a small stack of vinyl records — she had managed to haul them from home, hoping their magic would help her tune into the right course for the upcoming work.
Her light, slightly curly hair was gathered in a messy bun, with unruly strands constantly escaping and falling over her eyes every time she bent over the layout. And there, on thick paper, bold type proclaimed:
"Your Musical Taste — A Magazine for a New Generation of Music Lovers."
Marlene was in her third year of the design program, but her heart belonged not so much to interior design as to music — she lived and breathed it, and every chord was part of her pulse. For many years, she had studied at a vocal school, and on rare free evenings, when studies, extracurriculars, and meetings with friends and family finally released her from their grip, she sang in a small club, where the dim lights and the hum of voices opened a door to another world.
How had the idea of publishing her own magazine — and based at the university — even come to her? It turned out to be almost laughably simple… and at the same time inevitable. The newspaper was dying: circulation was shrinking with each issue, students were increasingly ignoring print pages in favor of scrolling news on their phones, and the administration was no longer hiding that by the end of the semester, the publication would be shut down, like another line crossed off a list of "what once was."
But Marlene saw not an end in this, but a beginning. In the fading lines, she saw not emptiness, but space for something more contemporary. She wanted to turn boring news into a vibrant musical magazine with its own rhythm, where various articles would be published. For example, about Led Zeppelin — about how their guitar riffs tore the air apart; about The Clash — about their rebellious and ageless spirit; about Nirvana and their fragile power that resonated with everyone who had ever felt lost. She dreamed of writing about forgotten 80s bands whose records were hidden on the far shelves of music stores, and about new artists who were playing in dimly lit London bars. Those whose voices hadn't yet been stamped with critics' clichés but already knew how to reach someone's heart.
Marlene knew she could handle the design. After all, she always had Dorcas Meadowes — that same school friend whose friendship hadn't crumbled after graduation but had, on the contrary, taken on new hues. Besides, Dorcas wasn't just a friend but a true artist: her works breathed character, and her eye for composition seemed almost supernatural. A few tips from her, and the layout would shine so brightly that even the most indifferent student couldn't pass it by.
But Marlene understood perfectly: she couldn't pull off such a large-scale project alone. She needed like-minded people — people whose eyes lit up with the same fire as hers, those who were ready to argue until hoarse about which font best conveyed the rebellious spirit of punk rock, and who didn't consider it insane to devote an entire spread to a forgotten demo tape of some underground band. What she needed most acutely was someone who felt music not as background, but as a living, complex universe — someone who knew how it was constructed from the inside, what its nerves and sinews were woven from.
And then her gaze swept across the table and stopped on a business card, as if deliberately left in the most prominent spot. Black letters on thick paper: "Sirius Black. Programmer. Guitarist of the band 'The Marauders.'" Marlene ran her finger over the embossing, as if checking whether the card would disappear at the lightest touch. Fragments of conversations about the band surfaced in her memory — noisy rehearsals in James Potter's garage, the lead vocalist and their founder, sharp, catchy riffs that Sirius played with such casual confidence, as if the guitar were an extension of his arm.
She and Black had first met in their first year. Their majors were different, but fate had brought them together in shared philosophy classes, where students either desperately fought sleep or tried to adopt a thinker's pose without fully understanding what was being discussed. It was then that Sirius had managed to casually slip Marlene his business card. And all with the air of a man who knew for sure: the world had to remember his name. At that moment, he had seemed unbearably arrogant to her, like a self-absorbed poodle who did nothing but pose in front of mirrors and collect admiring glances from girls. It was infuriating! In retaliation, Marlene had even acted childishly and stuck gum to his shirt.
And yet, contrary to all logic, something about him had caught Marlene's attention. Perhaps it was the way he argued with the professor — not for show, but as if he genuinely wanted to get to the heart of the matter, even if he did it with a defiant smirk. Or the way his eyes lit up whenever the conversation veered from dry theory to something alive and interesting to him. Or maybe it was simply that beneath all his cocky confidence there was so much energy that she wanted to be part of it.
Either way, Marlene didn't throw away that business card. Even when a stack of useless papers was mercilessly tossed into the trash, her hand seemed to pluck the card from the pile on its own. She kept it somewhere in the bottom of her bag, then moved it to a desk drawer, then into a notebook — as if waiting for the moment when this piece of cardboard would finally find its meaning.
She smiled and bit the cap of her pen — a habit she just couldn't shake. Now, Sirius was more to Marlene than just a talented musician, more than just the guy she'd been dating for six months. He was her challenge — the one who constantly pushed her to go further, to look beyond what she wanted to see. Her inspiration — because the moment he picked up his guitar, the world seemed to grow louder. They complemented each other perfectly: his playing and her vocals. And at the same time, Sirius Black was her favorite headache: stubborn, sharp, always arguing for the sake of arguing, yet capable of melting Marlene's irritation in an instant with some stupid, disarming smile or supporting her in a difficult moment.
Sirius often performed with his friends at student parties. He was an excellent guitarist, but it wasn't just about technique: there was a wild energy in his playing, as if he wasn't just performing music but pouring out everything that was churning inside him through it. And he had plenty of inner demons, considering his break with his family in his teenage years.
And yet he could explain with burning eyes why "Bohemian Rhapsody" wasn't just a song but an entire universe woven from contradictions, and why "Smells Like Teen Spirit" had been a revolution that reshaped the musical landscape. He managed to program in Python, pass his exams with good grades — and all this despite skipping half his lectures, showing up on campus only to tease someone or stage a mini-concert in the hallway.
Marlene paused for a moment, as if listening to her own thoughts, then grabbed her smartphone. She found the chat with Black in the messenger and, without hesitating, pressed the voice message record button.
"Hey. Listen, I have this idea… the kind that you'll either say 'that's genius' or 'you've lost your mind.' Anyway, Black, I have a proposal for you. Urgent. Come to the university editorial office, I'll show you everything. Spoiler: if you agree, I might even let you choose the cover for the first issue. And bring the record player!!"
Oddly enough, Sirius responded almost immediately — not with a text, but with a call. His sleepy, slightly hoarse voice came through the receiver, as if he had just lifted his head from the pillow and hadn't quite believed the world was already awake. Marlene paused for a second, allowing herself a tiny moment of weakness: to imagine how wonderful it would be to lie in his arms, inhaling the scent of his shirt, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. Or to drive each other wild with caresses, indulging in all sorts of indecent things.
But she immediately shook herself, chasing away those thoughts. After all, music was sacred. For that, she could even sacrifice morning sex with her hot boyfriend.
"McKinnon," Sirius grumbled into the phone, "not only did you sneak off at the crack of dawn, but you also send me voice messages at eight in the morning, promise me some cover, and talk in a tone that makes me want to drop everything and run to you. Fine, I'll be there in twenty minutes. But if this is another one of your brilliant ideas that turns out to be total nonsense, I'll make you listen to my new track until lunch. And don't even think about saying you have a class — I know your schedule."
Marlene smirked. Sirius was fairly brief in his message and didn't even let her get a word in edgewise. Half an hour later, he burst into the editorial office in his signature style: dark jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and that leather jacket he wore even in the heat, unafraid of melting. Black stopped at the threshold. His gaze darted around the room, catching details: stacks of vinyl records, scattered sketches, sheets covered in pencil notes, draft headlines circled, crossed out, corrected again. Something like shock flickered in his gray eyes, then genuine surprise, and then he suddenly saw not a cluttered room, but a map of a familiar yet alien universe. And then his usual defiant smirk slid back into place, as if it had never disappeared.
Sirius slowly walked over to the table and ran his fingers over the layout. He lingered on her sketches, his gaze gliding over the pencil marks where Marlene had written band names, drawn arrows, connected ideas that even she thought were insane.
"Marls, you want to save the newspaper from being shut down by turning it into a music magazine?" Sirius placed his palms on the table, and the wood creaked slightly under his impatient pressure. "And you want me to help you?" He leaned in and touched his lips to her temple.
"I've always appreciated your ability to put two and two together quickly," Marlene smiled contentedly, stroking his chin, feeling the slight morning stubble under her fingers.
"Well… I'm in. But on one condition: the first page will be dedicated to The Marauders. You'll do the interview, and we'll pick the silliest photos — so everyone knows this magazine isn't old-fashioned, not a dusty archive, but something alive, real, with character," Sirius ran a hand quickly through his hair, copying James Potter's signature careless gesture.
"No problem," Marlene declared defiantly, hands on her hips, tilting her head slightly as if ready for an argument she actually enjoyed. "Just keep in mind, this isn't a one-band show. It's a magazine about music. About its history, its scars and victories, about how it breaks and rebuilds people. About what we love. And if you think I'll let you turn the first issue into a promotional brochure for The Marauders, you don't know me very well."
He cupped her face in his hands, leaning closer, so she could feel his breath.
"Don't stress," he said. "The magazine will be so good that even Jim Morrison would smile in his grave. Because when you've got an idea like that, McKinnon, and a voice like that, and that kind of passion…" he kissed her, lightly brushing her cheekbone, as if this gesture could say more than words ever could, "you can move mountains. And I'll be right there. And together, we'll write why Abbey Road isn't just an album — it's a whole religion."
Marlene closed her eyes in pleasure, absorbing the moment: the weight of his palms, his captivating voice, the promise he didn't speak aloud but that resonated in every word. Then she smirked, looking at Sirius from under her brows — just enough to let him know she appreciated his support but had no intention of becoming a passive muse.
"Just don't try to turn me into a rock ballad heroine," she lightly tapped his wrist but immediately intertwined her fingers with his. "I don't need odes. I need a partner."
Sirius snorted. He let go of her face but didn't step back; instead, he braced his palm on the table, tilted his head, and stared at the scattered sheets.
"By the way," he continued, "Jumbo never stops raving about The Beatles. He's got a thing for them: can spend half an hour explaining why 'Here Comes the Sun' is an anthem for humanity, and then another half arguing that 'Revolution 9' is pure chaos, and that's exactly why it's genius. So we can channel his energy in a positive direction. Let him write about the Beatles — at least his rambling will be useful for once."
Marlene laughed. She had long since gotten used to the Marauders constantly teasing each other. She reached for the stack of papers, pulled out a blank sheet, and handed it to him with a conspiratorial look.
"Exactly! Well, now we're officially partners in crime!" Marlene snapped her fingers contentedly and leaned back in her chair so suddenly it creaked in protest.
"Ooh, save some energy for the night," Sirius grinned, a playful note slipping into his voice that usually made Marlene roll her eyes, though this time she just snorted.
Then she smirked slyly, and a pencil flew at Sirius, but he caught it effortlessly mid-air without even looking.
"Marls, you don't suit being a drummer," he continued, twirling the pencil between his fingers before placing it back on the table.
In response, she laughed. And so Sirius and Marlene sat in the editorial office until evening, sorting through records, listening to tracks, arguing about whether to include an article on the Sex Pistols or focus on Pink Floyd; Sirius explained how sound worked, while Marlene showed him how fonts could convey mood. At some point, as it grew dark outside and two cups of cold coffee and leftover takeaway pasta appeared on the table, Sirius caught Marlene's hand and pulled her toward him, making her rise from behind the desk. His fingers closed firmly but gently around her wrist.
"Aren't you afraid of going crazy with this kind of workload?" Sirius's voice held a mix of concern and care that he usually hid behind sharp remarks and laughter, but now it slipped through.
He spun her around the empty office, as if they were truly dancing to magical music that played only for the two of them. Marlene rested her head on his shoulder and replied, eyes half-closed:
"Don't worry. We'll go crazy together. And it's even more fun that way."
"And what have I gotten myself into, you little dictator?" Sirius smirked, and slinging Marlene over his shoulder, he headed for the door.
"What are you doing?" Marlene laughed, hitting him on the back. "Put me down, you madman! I'm not a backpack!"
"Looking after your sleep," Sirius whistled, deliberately swaying slightly, as if carrying her was the most natural thing in the world. "And you know, I still prefer my dorm room. At least there's a real bed there, not a chair that's about to break a leg. Besides, James is gone with Lily and won't be back until tomorrow evening."
Marlene smiled, burying her nose in the rough fabric of his leather jacket. She liked this prospect — not just to rest, but to spend the evening and the night in Black's company. And so they left, leaving the records and sketches behind in that little editorial room that was about to become a story about music and love.
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