#benbarnes

cluster @blackinnon-fest no-magical au, modern

The midday sun flooded the courtyard of the London University student dormitory with golden light, enveloping everything in a warm glow. But within this idyllic picture, absolute chaos reigned — as if a boisterous summer had finally broken free, bringing with it the bustle of upperclassmen preparing for a grand party to celebrate the end of another academic year.

By the entrance, speakers and extension cords were piled up, along with bundles of balloons and rolls of colorful garlands, promising to blaze with every shade of the rainbow come evening. Inflatable mattresses served as makeshift poufs — someone had already plopped down on one, laughing and waving a can of soda. Shoes — sneakers, sandals, boots — lay scattered here and there, as if their owners had kicked them off mid-run, eager to be everywhere at once and catch every moment of freedom.

Everyone was busy with something. Someone was enthusiastically hanging pennants between the trees, deftly leaping over strewn belongings; someone else was dragging pillows from the rooms to create an impromptu lounge area, arranging them so it would be comfortable to sprawl out, sunbathe, and gaze up at the endless summer sky.

A couple of guys were already fiddling with a projector, frowning in concentration and exchanging jokes — there was supposed to be an outdoor movie screening here in the evening. Everyone was in a good mood, because exams were behind them, and ahead lay two whole months filled with possibilities as boundless as the ocean. And this courtyard, ordinary and unremarkable that morning, was to become, for one evening, a place where memories are born — memories that would warm the soul for years to come.

In the center of this creative chaos, hands thrust into the pockets of his worn leather jacket and smoking his third cigarette in a row, stood Sirius Black. The smoke rose in a thin stream into the warm summer air, mingling with the hum of voices and the distant sounds of music drifting from the dormitory. He looked at the mountain of belongings that his girlfriend had hauled out of her room, and a slow smile spread across his face.

Only Marlene McKinnon could think of starting a mini-move on the day when all the other students were completely absorbed in organizing a party. She seemed to move at her own rhythm, yet still managed to smile at everyone she passed and toss off short, witty remarks. Three years of dorm life had not been in vain, resulting in a whole collection of memorable little things: an old poster of her favorite band, complete with an autograph — its edges already tattered and the ink slightly faded; a red guitar — its body bearing scratches, each one a reminder of some party, impromptu concert, or long evening under the stars; a box of photographs — snapshots capturing laughter, post-exam fatigue, awkward poses, and sincere embraces. They told the story of a student life full of highs, mistakes, and priceless moments.

Sirius took a drag of his cigarette, watching as Marlene McKinnon, blonde and disheveled, with the sleeves of her plaid shirt rolled up and a pencil tucked behind her ear, paused for a second to survey everything, then set to work with renewed energy. At that moment, he suddenly understood clearly: it didn't matter what tomorrow would bring — today, everything was unfolding exactly as it should.

"McKinnon," Black called out, raising an eyebrow. "Is that all yours?"

Marlene peeked out from behind a mountain of vinyl records, which she was unsuccessfully trying to cram into a cardboard box. Dust hung in the air, and the records kept trying to slip from her grasp. Now, her friends' jokes about them turning their apartment into a record store took on a special meaning — it seemed they weren't too far from the truth.

"That's not all of it," she cheerfully informed him, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Some of it's already here. I carried it while you were parking."

"You carried it?" Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "Have you lost your mind, hauling such heavy stuff?! What, did you rob Tower Records without telling me?"

"It's called 'being a music enthusiast,' Black," Marlene walked over to him, gave him a sly squint, and, standing on tiptoe, quickly pecked him on the cheek, leaving a crimson lipstick mark on his skin. "Don't grumble. You offered to help."

"I'm not backing out," he nodded, trying to keep a straight face. "I just didn't expect you to have a whole musical archive here. Complete with the history of each record."

"You signed up for this," Marlene smiled slyly and thrust the heaviest box into his arms, on which was written in marker: "FRAGILE, DO NOT DROP, OR I'LL KILL YOU." "Take it to the parking lot. And carefully — my favorite mugs are in there. Anticipating your question: yes, the ones with cats and ridiculous quotes that you're always making fun of."

Sirius eyed the box skeptically.

"Great," he drawled. "Not only does my beast have a record collection, but a mug collection too. I'm basically winning at life."

Marlene just laughed, grabbed her rolling suitcase, and walked ahead. The suitcase rattled discontentedly, bumping over the uneven asphalt. At the dormitory exit, they paused for a moment, involuntarily admiring the bustle in the courtyard: students were scurrying back and forth, some arguing, some laughing, others trying to simultaneously carry a tray of snacks and talk on the phone. Then the couple headed for the parking lot, where, among the gray and boring cars of the other students, stood her pride and joy. Marlene's second love, after Sirius.

Her "little star," as she affectionately called this car. The car was older than she was, had survived at least three owners and, probably, dozens of adventures. Anyone else in her place would have long since thought about something more modern, and many would have twirled their finger at their temple upon hearing of such a vehicle choice. But not Marlene.

Sirius lowered the box to the asphalt, opened the trunk, and together they began to pack her things inside, like special agents on a mission of extreme difficulty. Marlene got a bit tangled and stepped back to catch her breath. Her gaze fixed on the hood. There, on the blue metal, was the image she knew by heart — a cluster of stars above an ocean wave. Every time she saw it, Marlene felt her heart beat a little faster, as if a tiny motor were coming to life in her chest. She ran her fingers over the cold metal, and suddenly, that morning two years ago, when this car first appeared in her life, surfaced before her eyes.

Marlene had been in her second year then, living in the dormitory and taking buses to see her parents — buses that were always late, leaving her languishing in wait. She was nineteen, and she had gotten her driver's license long before her father, Howard McKinnon, announced that he and her mother had a surprise for her. She had wondered what it might be: a new laptop, which she really needed for her studies, or, at the very least, a bicycle to get to campus faster. But when Howard solemnly opened the garage doors, Marlene froze in her tracks. In front of her stood a blue '68 Ford, which looked almost new. But what surprised her most was her father's words:

"Sirius and I put it together piece by piece," he said, patting the hood with his palm. "He's a clever guy when it comes to vehicles, you know. His hands are attached to the right place."

Back then, Sirius had been dating Marlene for only a short while — about six months — but he had already managed to impress her parents. With her mother, Felicia, he had hit it off immediately: she loved his dark humor and the way he paid compliments as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She found his witty jokes amusing, and the way he could turn an ordinary evening into a little uproar. Her younger sister and brother, Lizzie and Michael, were also thrilled with him.

Marlene's older brother, Liam, thought her relationship with Sirius Black wouldn't last long, but after a few trips to the bar in the guy's company, he miraculously changed his mind and stopped teasing his sister. It was with her father that things proved most difficult of all. Howard McKinnon was a man of the old school — he had worked as a mechanic all his life, then opened his own small car dealership on the outskirts of town, which later grew into a whole chain. Howard didn't trust guys with bad reputations who wore leather jackets and spoke with that careless arrogance he initially mistook for conceit.

He needed time to see in Sirius Black not a rich kid, but a person with a difficult history. For behind Sirius lay running away from home, strained relations with his family, and a stubborn desire to build something of his own. Marlene had mentioned in passing that behind Sirius's external bravado hid a genuine talent: he understood cars better than many experienced mechanics, could fix almost anything, and approached his work with a focus that spoke of true passion. However, Howard didn't take this into account.

And Sirius, when he learned that Marlene's father ran a garage, immediately figured out how they could find common ground. He simply went to Howard and, without wasting time on lengthy pleasantries, said:

"Mr. McKinnon, I know how to assemble engines. My uncle Alphard taught me when I was a teenager. Do you have a place for me?"

Marlene's father didn't object, but he set strict conditions: a probationary period and the absolute requirement to show up for work on time. No exceptions or excuses — Howard McKinnon believed in discipline as the foundation of any endeavor. In the end, Sirius was never late. Not on a damp Monday when the streets were still shrouded in morning fog, nor on a Friday when all his friends were surely planning an evening at the pub. He showed up exactly at eight, with a cup of cheap coffee from the vending machine at the garage, and got straight to work.

In two weeks, Black had accomplished a lot. He washed all the floors in the garage without complaint, rebuilt three engines, fixed an old Jaguar that Howard had already written off for scrap, and even managed to befriend a stray dog named Diesel, who barked at all strangers and bared his teeth menacingly whenever anyone came within five meters. Sirius somehow managed to win his trust: first he fed him leftover sandwich bits, then started greeting him by offering his hand, and within a week, the dog was wagging his tail whenever he appeared and letting him scratch behind his ears.

Howard watched his elder daughter's boyfriend work and gradually grew to respect him. At first, it was cautious curiosity — he observed how Sirius handled tasks, noting his perseverance. Then came recognition of his skill: Howard saw that the guy really did have golden hands and a systematic, thoughtful approach to work. Sirius didn't whine, didn't complain about the tasteless vending machine coffee that tasted of burnt rubber, or the oil stains on his favorite leather jacket that would probably never come out. He just worked with focus, without unnecessary words. And he performed his duties not just well, but with a thoroughness and dedication rarely seen in young people.

Then Howard learned Sirius's story. Not from Marlene — she was too tactful to divulge someone else's secrets — but from Black himself. One evening, when the garage had closed and a torrential rain was pounding against the roof outside, blurring the outlines of the street, they sat in Howard's office. The room smelled of motor oil, wood, and the faint smoke wafting from an old ashtray. On the table stood a bottle of cheap whiskey, two glasses, and a plate of crackers.

Howard, leaning back in his chair, told him how he had started his business with a single nut and bolt and an old garage. How he fixed the first cars and slept right there in the garage to avoid wasting time on travel, how he built up his clientele bit by bit, proving that his work could be trusted. His voice was steady, but his eyes shone with pride for the path he had traveled.

Sirius listened, nodded, occasionally asked questions — and gradually began to talk himself. He shared about running away from home. Many considered it a desperate and reckless step, but Sirius still held a different opinion: his action had been the only right way out of the situation he was in. About his mother, who considered him the shame of the family, whose venomous reproaches and frequent scandals couldn't help but sting. About his father, who looked right through him as if Sirius were invisible, a nonentity. About his younger brother, who chose to obey their parents and stayed in that cold house where love was measured by achievements and conformity to expectations.

Sirius spoke about how he had first lived with his best friend James Potter's family — in warmth, surrounded by laughter and support, where he was accepted for who he was. And then he moved in with his uncle Alphard, who had returned from a long business trip — a man who didn't lecture him but was always happy to see him.

Howard listened without interrupting. Mr. McKinnon's expression remained inscrutable, but his gaze grew softer. From time to time, he silently poured another shot of whiskey — not to drown out the conversation, but to give Sirius time to speak his piece.

When Black finished, a silence fell. The rain outside had almost stopped, and faint glimmers of sunset were beginning to break through the clouds. Howard twirled his glass in his hands, looked at the amber liquid, then raised his eyes to Sirius and said something the other man still remembered:

"You know, son, I don't make mistakes about people. Marlene chose you — that means you've already won the main prize. Everything else is just little things that you and I can fix."

He hadn't called Sirius "son" a single time since that evening, but that night, their relationship ceased to be strained. Sirius nodded, swallowed the lump in his throat, and raised his glass.

"To the little things we can fix," he repeated.

Howard smirked, clinked glasses with him, and at that moment, something more than just an agreement between a father and his daughter's boyfriend was established between them. It was the beginning of true understanding.

Then Howard found an old Ford at a scrapyard, and Sirius, upon seeing the car, was fired up with an idea: he suggested Mr. McKinnon split the cost of the parts with him and make a real surprise for Marlene, who had a weakness for vintage cars. And so the two of them set to work in the evenings, after the garage had emptied and the sounds of the city had faded beyond the walls.

Sirius tinkered with the engine — taking it apart, cleaning it, reassembling it, muttering to himself and occasionally smirking when the mechanism responded with a smooth hum. Howard worked on the body: sanding off the rust, filling in the dents, priming and painting, carefully applying layer after layer.

They worked on the car for Marlene for nearly three months — meticulously and in secret from everyone. Once, Michael, Marlene's younger brother, nearly let it slip during a family dinner: after school, he liked to stop by his father's work and had seen Sirius at the garage. Michael opened his mouth to rat out his father and Sirius to Marlene, but Howard intercepted his son in time and had a serious talk with him.

They argued about which spark plugs were better — Howard insisted on those tested for decades, while Sirius argued that newer models were more reliable. They drank instant coffee from old mugs and listened to an old radio that only picked up chanson music and news summaries — the melodies drowned in static, and the announcer droned on about the weather and stock market reports, creating background noise for their shared labor.

And then, when the car was almost ready — the engine purred, the body shone with fresh paint, and the wheels were on — Sirius said:

"I need to add something."

The next day, he brought his friends to the garage: Remus Lupin and his girlfriend, Dorcas Meadowes. Dorcas, it turned out, was a first-class artist — with slender fingers stained with paint and a gaze that immediately noticed details. She brought a set of paints and brushes, and after talking with Sirius, got to work.

That evening, Howard, entering the garage, stopped on the threshold. He stood for a long time, looking at the hood, which now bore a beautiful and aesthetic cluster of stars above an ocean wave. The luminaries were painted with astonishing precision — as if they were real, scattered across the night sky, with waves rolling softly beneath them, shimmering in the starlight. It was quite symbolic, considering the meaning of Marlene's name.

Howard silently studied the design, then shifted his gaze to Sirius, who stood a little to the side, hands in his pockets.

"Marls is a starfish," Sirius shrugged.

Howard refrained from further comments. He simply walked over, clapped Sirius on the shoulder — a gesture more eloquent than any words.

Remus also offered his opinion:

"I think she'll be thrilled."

"I hope she appreciates it," Dorcas winked, setting down her brush and wiping her fingers on her apron. "Although, knowing Marlene, she'll fall in love with this car before she even sees the design."

Howard smirked, shook his head, and muttered:

"Yeah, that's her all right."

"Hey," Marlene's voice snapped Sirius out of his stream of memories. She was standing next to him, looking at the hood just as he was, and smiling. "Thinking about that day too?"

"Not only that," Sirius said, and his hand covered hers, still resting on the cold metal. His fingers involuntarily traced the outline of the stars on the design — the very ones Dorcas had painted long ago. "I remember every bolt and every scratch. And how your father called me 'son.' That moment… it meant a lot to me."

"He still calls you that," Marlene smirked, turning to Sirius. "He just doesn't dare do it in front of you. You know Dad — he'd sooner tear off his own arm than be sentimental every day."

"I know," Sirius turned to her. "Your father is a good man, Marlene. One of the best I've ever met. And he never treated me like an outsider."

"He saw in you what I see," Marlene said, moving closer. "A person with a heart. Who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Who knows how to work, to take responsibility for his words, and… to love."

Having said that, Marlene kissed him. Sirius felt warmth spread throughout his body, as if a small fire had been lit inside. Then Marlene pulled back and, drumming her fingers on the hood, said excitedly:

"So, darling, shall we go home?"

"Let's go," Sirius nodded, opening the door for her. His fingers paused on the handle for a second, then he turned around and added with a joking tone: "But before we set off, tell me honestly. Your father isn't planning to bury me somewhere outside the city because we've decided to live together, is he?"

Marlene climbed into the passenger seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and looked at Sirius with that special smile that appeared only when she talked about her family — warm, a little nostalgic, full of tenderness.

"You know what he said to me on the phone yesterday?" she asked, then answered her own question. "I called to tell him we're moving in together. And he was silent for about ten seconds. I got scared, thought he was going to start talking me out of it or lecturing me about not rushing things. And then he said: 'Tell Sirius to take care of the car. And tell him I'm glad my girl has someone like him.'" Marlene paused, then smiled. "So you've got nothing to worry about, Black."

Sirius smirked and started the engine. The old Ford came to life with that velvety growl that was the result of three months of work by him and Howard. The engine ran smoothly and confidently. Sirius closed his eyes for a second, listening to that sound — it reminded him of evenings in the garage, of arguments with Howard, of cups of bitter coffee and the radio. He looked at the stars on the hood — they gleamed in the sun, like those that had burned in the sky above him during the darkest nights of his life.

"We're off," he said, pulling out of the parking lot. The tires whispered softly against the asphalt. "The apartment is waiting. And this evening, if you like, we can stop by your parents' place."

Marlene put her hand on his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Sounds like a good plan," she agreed. "Mum, by the way, was planning to make dinner. Just don't give me away and start calling my father 'daddykins.'"

Sirius laughed, imagining Howard's expression.

"Deal, Marls. I'll call him 'Mr. McKinnon, sir, your majesty.' Okay?"

"Okay," Marlene smiled, looking out the window.

Boys..😈🔥& 🖤✨. So emotional, so hot... 🔥🔥🔥