You find yourself in The Marauders' orbit by way of a job you're not sure you deserve. They can't seem to get rid of you.
fem!reader, almost famous au (kind of), 1970s muggle au, enemies-to-lovers-ish
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 3.7k words
The metal door rattles as you knock your fist against it. You flinch, then do it again, three echoing bangs before the bouncer inside answers.
“Yes?”
He looks harried. It cows you, your voice less certain than you mean for it to be as you say, “Spellbound Magazine?”
“No. This is The Yard.” The bouncer is impassive, but you’d almost say he looks pleased to be able to shut the door in your face.
“Wait, wait!” You wedge your foot in. Hold up your press pass in a shaky hand. “Sorry, I meant I’m with Spellbound Magazine. I have an interview scheduled with one of your bands tonight.”
Begrudgingly, he checks his clipboard. Glances at your press pass. “Hold on.”
The door shuts again.
Your short, surprised breath clouds in the air in front of you. Hold on? What are you holding for? Your editor hadn’t given you hardly any instruction at all for what you were meant to do once you got here, but it seems like this douche could keep you locked out here all night if he wanted to.
It has the feel of a test. Like if you were a real journalist, an experienced one, you’d know what to say to get in the door. You’d hand the bouncer a cigarette and waltz in asking, The band’s in the dressing room? Cool, thanks. I know the way.
As it stands, you’re cigarette-less and more liable to bite your tongue off from nerves than to use it for anything helpful. You’re about to raise your fist and knock again anyway when the door swings open.
“Hi!” Inside is a girl about your age, with a feathery coat and a halo of dark curls. Her bright smile feels like a punch of relief. “Spellbound?”
“Yeah.” You step closer, shaking the hand she sticks out.
“I’m Mary. I handle the boys’ PR.” She steps back, and after a brief glance at the bouncer, you follow her inside. Mary sets off.
“Awesome.” You hurry to keep pace with her, sidestepping rushing backstage crew and trip-hazard wires. “Um, and when you say ‘the boys,’ do you mean…”
“Oh! The Marauders.” Mary laughs. “I forget they’re not just the boys to everyone anymore.”
“Have you worked with them for long?”
The glance she shoots over her shoulder at you is humorous, cryptic. You get the itch to turn on your tape recorder. “A while, yeah.”
Before you can ask her to elaborate on that—and if she’d mind possibly being quoted in your article—Mary turns a corner, and you’re looking at the stage.
The venue isn’t large, but it bowls you over how huge the crowd is. They’re wall-to-wall, teeming, and buzzing with a loud, anticipatory fervor.
“The boys are just doing final checks,” says Mary, “but they’ll be out in a minute, and afterward I’ll have someone show you to their dressing room for the interview. Sound good?”
“I get to watch the show?” you ask dumbly.
She looks surprised. “Of course. Can’t write about musicians without hearing the music, right?”
“Right,” you echo.
Mary grins. “Great. Don’t leave without seeing me, okay? I’ll want to know when to expect the issue.”
You don’t know those sorts of details. You hardly know who to ask to learn those sorts of details. But you nod at her, and she blazes off, and then you’re alone. Backstage at The Yard.
You brush your fingers over the curtain tied back from the stage, imagining years of history trickling through your fingers like dust. The Who might have played here. Bowie. Marc Bolan. You’d pass out if you weren’t so keen on staying conscious for your interview
Your first interview. You’re still floored to have been offered it, honestly. Green as you are, a rising titan like The Marauders is no small gig. Either your editor wants a reason to fire you in your first month at Spellbound, or he has a lot more faith in you than you do.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the speakers buzz to life as one.
“Hello? Is this thing on?”
Screams erupt from the crowd as they recognize the voice instantly. They surge towards the stage, hungry.
“Stupid fucking thing.” There’s a dull beat, like someone tapping the microphone. “Do you think they can hear us?”
The crowd cheers impossibly louder. Across the dark stage, you spot the movement of a few dark shapes, and despite your weak attempts at professionalism a thrill races through you.
“Oh. Guess so.” The voice grows a bit cheeky, the facade of ignorance slipping. “Well, suppose we better get on with it then.”
Sirius Black steps onto the stage, and everyone loses their minds.
For one fleeting moment, you almost wish you were a photographer instead of a writer, because you’ll never be able to come up with the words to capture this. The way Sirius saunters into the spotlight as though he’s made of it, dark hair gleaming and guitar strap slung carelessly over his shoulder. The way fans at the front claw at the stage like they’d die to get a scrap of his leather boots under their fingernails. The way your own heart rockets into your throat, despite being on the same level as him while the fans aren’t, despite having prepared yourself for this night all week.
Bandmates James Potter and Remus Lupin follow him out to no less lively reception. Sirius and Remus plug their instruments into amps while James gets cozy behind the drumset. While Sirius continues working the crowd, Remus glances to the left for hardly a moment—just long enough to catch sight of you. You’re hardly the only person standing off to the side of the stage, but you must look somehow distinct from the crew, because his eyes lock on you like you’re something out of place.
His head tilts slightly, as though to say, And you are?
You hardly have an answer for him. Your hand comes up of its own mind, a sort of shrug that might be a wave. You try not to grimace at yourself.
And then they start.
There’s no countdown. You’re not prepared for it—you don’t know how they’re prepared for it. There was no signal that you could see. It was like fucking teleapathy. And far from the last magic show The Marauders have in store for fans tonight.
The crowd throws itself into motion as the band plays the opening bars of their first hit, The Phoenix. The lights change from blue, to orange, to red. You scramble for your notepad, wanting to take down the set list before you forget it.
Sirius is a born frontman. When the light hits him, he’s larger than life, and he’s good enough to take the crowd with him, too. Remus absorbs the adoration in a different way. He keeps his attention on his bass as he plays, seeming entirely focussed on the music, except for once in a blue moon when he’ll glance at someone in the audience. They go absolutely rabid for it. James is, clearly, just thrilled to be here. He’s got as much energy as the fans. His drumsticks move nearly faster than you can keep up with, until one goes sailing offstage halfway through the third song. A crew member has a replacement in his hand almost instantaneously.
It’s difficult to imagine these boys playing in pubs and small parties, as they’re alleged to have done for almost two years before making it big. The story goes that James was talking to Rita Skeeter, one of the biggest names in musical journalism with a self-proclaimed nose for talent, without any clue who she was; he charmed his way onto the scene on dumb luck. Looking at him now, you can believe it.
Short of your jotted-down set list, you’ve no clue if there’s anything you’re supposed to be doing. You end up simply enjoying the show. The Marauders’ discography is short enough that they’re able to play every song in a single show, their audience growing more enraptured seemingly with each one. By the end, Sirius’ hair is a wild mess, James has lost three drumsticks to the crowd, and Remus only looks a tad sweatier than he did when they came out. The crowd roars their devotion as James thanks them all for a great night.
You stand still as the stage goes dark. You’re humming with adrenaline and most definitely in the way, crew pushing past you to get to the stage and begin undoing everything that had gone into making the show as vibrant as it was. You step back, meaning to get out of their path, and find yourself on someone else’s toes.
“Ouch.”
“Shit, sorry!” You turn, finding yourself at terrifying proximity to a sweaty shirtfront. You step away cautiously, looking behind you this time to avoid any more collisions.
“It’s okay. I step on them too, just not usually so hard,” says James. His voice registers only half a second before his face, shiny with sweat and as smiley as he’d been on stage for the last hour. James Potter. “Are you the journalist?”
“Um” —Fuck, are you?— “yeah.”
“Perfect. Mary’d fry me if I lost you.” James grins. “We’re ready if you are.”
You nod dazedly, letting him turn and lead you away. When Mary said that someone would come and collect you, you didn’t imagine she meant someone from the band. You watch James wave hello to various crew members, too dumbstruck to remember the pen in your hand.
“Did you like the show?” he asks you.
“I…yeah. It was amazing.” You take in a breath. “It’s obvious why your tour sold out so fast.”
“You think so?” James sounds genuinely pleased. It’s endearing. Is that the sort of thing you can put in your article, that he’s endearing? “Thanks.”
Your voice peters off into shyness. “Of course.”
James leads you down a hallway that leads to another hallway, and then you find yourself stepping into a room where Sirius Black is groaning, “Ah, fuck. James, you weren’t actually supposed to bring her here. You were supposed to shove her out the side door, you twat.”
You stop at the threshold.
The room is blurry with cigarette smoke, but almost better for it. It feels frozen in time. The vanities with marquee lights around the mirrors, the discolored velvet settee, the hanging aroma of cigarettes—it’s all just as you’d imagined a dressing room would be. You feel the need to reach back to your past self and squeeze her hand. It’s a dingy, dilapidated dream.
“Settle something for us.” Sirius’ smooth voice pulls you back into the present. “Remus wants us to change the setlist to close with Red Rose, but we’ve always closed with Sweet and Easy.”
“It doesn’t have the same effect,” Remus mutters, seemingly vexed by an argument already lost.
“Right, and this effect has nothing to do with Red Rose’s bassline.”
The hint of teasing is barely detectable in Sirius’ tone, but the way Remus rolls his eyes suggests he’s either heard it or has saintlike patience for his diva guitarist’s moods. You watch as James tosses himself over the back of the settee, tousling Remus’ hair in a conciliatory fashion. It’s surreal, seeing them all in motion like this. As though magazine photos have come to life.
“Red Rose ends fairly definitively,” you say, slowly. “With Sweet and Easy, the riff at the end gives you a chance to prolong it if you want to. Like you did tonight.”
“So you were paying some attention, then.” Sirius looks pleased.
You frown. “It wasn’t my first time hearing your music.”
“No?”
“No.”
He appraises you. You get the sense that it’s more for show than anything, the glitter on his eyelids flashing in the light. “You can come in, then,” he decides.
“Oh god, sorry.” James turns around on the settee. “You didn’t really have to stay out there.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “Door open or closed?”
Sirius hums. “Closed.” He drops one eyelid in a wink. “Don’t want to spill all our secrets to you and then have Colin the sound technician blab them before you can.”
You smile at him, though you doubt that. The Marauders are the emerging heartthrobs of England. They have a way of making fans feel as though they know each member of the band intimately, but when you’ve actually read their interviews you haven’t felt like they’ve revealed much at all. It’s all fluff—Sirius admitting he prefers dogs to cats, humorous tales of James orchestrating pranks in school, Remus divulging that Moonage Daydream is his favorite non-Marauders song. You think these three silly boys are better at giving press the runaround than they let on.
You take a seat in a chair perpendicular to their settee and turn your tape recorder on, setting it on the ottoman between you.
Remus extends a pack of cigarettes to you in silent offer.
“Thanks.” You take one. Look at James, sitting unaffectedly while Sirius and Remus smoke next to him. “You don’t smoke?”
It’s a small test. James has answered this question before; you’re only wondering if he’ll give you the same response.
“No,” he says.
“Have you ever tried?”
He shakes his head, shrugging. “Haven’t ever really wanted to.”
You consider him a moment. “Fair enough.” You set your cigarette down on a side table, unlit. “I’ll do it with you, then. Remus, how old were you when you started smoking?”
Remus’ eyebrows lift, but Sirius laughs. It’s a blasé, false sound. “We went to boarding school, gorgeous,” he says, as though that’s answer enough. “Are we going to talk about cigarettes this whole time?”
“I was just curious.” You lean back in your chair, trying to pretend like your heartbeat isn’t bumping in your fingertips. “Don’t want to scare you with all the big questions straightaway, right?”
Sirius props his chin on his hand, eyes locking onto yours. They’re a watercolor gray-blue no photo you’ve seen could approximate. “We can take it,” he promises.
It feels like a challenge to hold his gaze, so you do. “Okay. Which of your songs means the most to you, and why?” Sirius opens his mouth to respond, but you turn away. “Remus?”
Remus looks surprised to be asked. With how quickly Sirius and James both seize the mic, the public hardly knows anything about him. “Good question,” he hums. You do your best not to let the compliment go straight to your head. “I suppose The Phoenix.”
“And why’s that?” you prompt.
“It’s the first song we all really collaborated on.” Remus is looking at you, but you don’t miss the fond smile James sends his way. “I can’t play it without thinking about the fun we had writing it.”
You nod, beaming internally. Why don’t people corral Remus into taking questions more often? He’s fucking phenomenal at it.
“And you?” you ask Sirius.
Sirius affects a look of shock, pointing at himself. “Oh. Is it my turn?”
You bite down on a smile. “Yes.”
“Lovely. Just checking.” He leans back, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. “My favorite would have to be Fever Dog. Means a lot to me.”
Your lips part, though really you should have expected this from him. Fever Dog is widely considered The Marauders’ most scandalous song. Whenever they play it live, Sirius will pick a woman in the audience and put on a grand show of lusting after her. Some have argued he should have to make a formal apology to one venue for what he did to their microphone stand.
You stare at Sirius, and he stares back at you. He’s going to make you ask.
“Why?” you ask, cheeks burning.
He grins. “Oh, you know.”
You wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for you to pry it out of him. If he thinks you’re going to use your time on that, he’s got another thing coming. You turn to James.
“And what about you? Which song means the most to you?”
“Actually,” says James, his smile a shade away from sheepish, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be fairly tight-lipped about that one. My pick is a song we’ve only just written.”
An ember of promise flares to life in your middle. “It’s unreleased?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“When can we expect to hear it?”
Sirius tuts. “Now, doll, you heard him. He can’t say.”
“Come on.” You lean forward and look at James, nearly pleading. A brief conversation about smoking and bland answers to what was meant to be your most revealing question; so far, all you’ve managed to get is the same fluff as everyone else. “There has to be something you can tell me. What’s it about?”
“Our lips are sealed,” Sirius answers for him.
“Does it follow the trajectory of Lookaround, or are you returning to your old sound?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it called?”
“Sorry, we’ve really got nothing for you there,” James laughs. “As of now it’s still only called Track 8.”
The other boys go still. James doesn’t seem to realize why until you piece enough of yourself back together from the wreckage of your own shock to open your mouth.
“You’re releasing an album?”
Sirius’ unruffled facade is back in place in a millisecond, but James’ eyes widen, and that tells you all you need to know.
“We label all our unreleased songs as numbers until we come up with a decent title.” Sirius gives a careless wave of his hand.
You shake your head. “You’re releasing an album,” you say certainly.
Remus sighs, covering his eyes with a hand. “Oh, Jamie.”
This is huge. Gigantic. The Marauders have risen to fame on singles, which is impressive enough—word of an impending album will blow up their fanbase. And to have the news break during their first tour—
“Now, what would give you that impression?” Sirius asks. But you see through him, now. His insouciance is all for show; he’s scrambling.
A laugh stumbles out of you, giddy. Before you can launch into more questions, the door to the dressing room opens.
“Unless we want to get caught in traffic, we really should—” The round-faced redhead stops mid-sentence when she spots you. “Oh. Sorry. Are you all almost done, because…”
“Lily.” James’ tight voice is an obvious cry for help.
The woman’s eyes find him instantly, her posture straightening. “What?”
He smiles, abashed. Still hopelessly endearing. “I might have messed up.”
“She knows about the album,” says Remus from behind his hand.
Lily looks between the three boys for a handful of seconds—James’ contrite expression, Remus’ defeated posture, Sirius eyeing your tape recorder like he might grab for it. Her shoulders slump. “Oh, fuck. Seriously?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Sirius insists.
“Right. Sure.” Lily rolls her eyes. She crosses the room, picking up your tape recorder from the ottoman—you nearly lunge for it, panicking, but she only hands it to you—before taking a seat in its place. “Hi,” she says, seeming to collect herself enough to give you a halfway friendly smile. “I’m Lily. I’m the boys’ manager.”
You smile back, mostly at the way she calls them ‘the boys,’ just like Mary did. You wonder if it hints at a familiarity not usually so common between bands and their teams. You shake Lily’s hand.
“We’re not ready for people to know about the album,” she says calmly.
You steel yourself. “It’s my job to write about these things.”
“I understand that.” She presses her lips together. “What can we offer you?”
You feel your eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry?”
“What if we promise you an exclusive on breaking the news about the album, but you wait until we give you the go-ahead to publish?”
You’re shaking your head before she’s done. You don’t want to make any enemies—certainly not before you’ve even established yourself in the industry—but you have a job to do. There’s no good reason you shouldn’t publish this tomorrow.
“Should I get Mary?” James asks worriedly.
Lily holds up a hand. “We’re fine. What if—”
“What if you let me write about the process?” you blurt, then shy at interrupting. “Sorry.”
But Lily’s eyebrows have drawn together. “What do you mean?”
“I, um.” You clear your throat. Try not to think about the other three sets of eyes on you, focussing only on Lily. “I could document the process of The Marauders creating their first album. It could be a feature in Spellbound.” You start talking faster as the idea solidifies, growing excited. “I’d have to ask my editor, but I’m sure he’d approve it. You let me stay with you for a while on the tour, do a few more interviews, sit in on some things, and I hold the news about the album until you’re ready to release it. With the full inside scoop.”
For a while, Lily only looks at you. You scan her face, trying to gauge any reaction, but she’s unreadable while she seems to be doing the same to you. “That could work,” she says finally.
“No!” Sirius is aghast.
Lily grimaces. “Sirius—”
“No, we cannot take the fucking enemy—” He sends you a look. “—nothing personal, gorgeous—on tour with us.”
“We may not have much choice,” says Remus. His expression is weary, though thankfully not particularly hostile when he looks at you. The cigarette between his fingers has burned nearly to the filter.
“We can’t finance you travelling with us,” Lily tells you.
“I’ll pay for myself,” you reply thoughtlessly. How you’re going to do that is a problem for another time. “Do you have a tour bus I can ride along on?”
She looks begrudging. “Yes.”
“I can sleep there.” James cringes as if in sympathy at the idea, but you don’t second-guess yourself. “You won’t have to pay for anything.”
Lily takes in a breath. She glances at the boys briefly, but sticks out her hand. “Alright. You come on the bus with us, we give you two formal interviews, and you hold the news about the album until I say.”
