Chapter Text
The Prophet - changing the word
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The Harvest Ball
Brown leaves fall on campus grounds and nothing but a crippling fissure opens among the Oxford student body today. The start of the year ball named Harvest Ball falls upon us tonight, to glee or to disaster, only time will properly tell; only time and only the nametag on the inside of your dress (is it Italian or is it French?) When you distinguish the designers from the rented suits, try not to make it matter. When you see your fellow students work half the night to be able to afford the ticket, try not to make it matter. Really try.
Written by Moony.
Remus didn’t have trousers that matched his jacket. Lily told him it didn’t matter, that it was a stupid thing to worry about, but he couldn’t stop looking at his fucking trousers as they walked, hands shaking inside his pockets, heels crashing against wet concrete.
Remus has never gone to a University ball before. Why would he? A whole night in which the wealthiest students danced between glasses of bubbling champagne that were probably worth half Remus’ rent and discussing whether or not poor people deserved to live? Morally, he was against it. But this choice hadn’t been made by him, not really. He’d been invited to the ball by his favourite professor, Minerva McGonagall. She was not only the most impressive of his teachers but the one that cared for him the most, and the one that was willing to give him a recommendation letter for the apprenticeship. The apprenticeship.
He had been dreaming about writing for the BBC for practically his whole life. As it so happened, McGonagall had been BBC News director a decade or so ago and upon her resignation, she’d started teaching Professional Writing for the English Literature degree at Oxford University. Remus was pursuing this exact degree because a journalism degree was nonexistent in Oxbridge. Not everyone enrolled in the course was interested in journalism like Remus was (if any) and even though being an Oxford student would surely make an impact on the prospect of his application, he had to pull all the stops because he was, technically speaking not a journalism student, and this was an apprenticeship for journalism students . McGonagall herself had not been one, she had graduated in Oxford for PPE and only after the fact had gone into the journalism sphere. Remus suspected she saw herself in the excited little student he was, watching her speak as if she were God herself.
A few weeks ago, she’d stopped him and asked, “Will I see you at St. John’s Harvest Ball, Lupin?”
He’d been just about to leave the lecture room, Lily in tow. McGonagall was putting on her coat, her line of conversation seemingly casual and nonchalant. Remus really had to contain a laugh. Lily and him had made a habit of taking the piss at this year’s ball’s name. (“Harvesting balls? Is it really the season?” Remus had said, jokingly and Lily had cackled. “D’you think they grow on trees or on soil?”)
“Oh, no. I don’t think so, Professor,” he’d said, apologetically. He didn’t even know Professors went to balls. “Too much to get done.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie per se, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either. Remus did not care for the balls at all, he thought they were a ridiculous waste of time and space; and mainly he could not think of how to even begin to afford the bloody thing.
“Shame! I’m chaperoning and I thought at least I’d have some amicable company. Evans?”
“Sorry, Professor. We can’t really afford the ticket.” And Remus had almost gasped.
It was perhaps his customary precaution about disclosing his lack of wealth; not an unfounded one. He’d been used to being dismissed for it, being made lesser than for it. In a school like Oxford, this was just expected. His Welsh accent had sometimes been enough for him to be underestimated, even insulted; his peers surprised a man with his accent could muster intelligent thoughts. These antecedents had made him wary, paranoid even, of letting people know he was a broke Welshman who was attending University solely thanks to the financial aid programme. He was scared that by it being revealed to McGonagall, whom he looked up to severely, her perception of him would wane with it. To his immense pleasure, McGonagall barely batted an eye at Lily’s comment.
“If that’s the problem I have a few spare tickets; a chaperone’s perk. Fancy them?” Remus hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitched. Unconsciously, he thought of Sirius Black (he’d probably be there, wouldn’t he?) and felt the urge to puke. “I’d love to speak to you some off-campus about the BBC.”
His heart fluttered out of his chest. Without much else thought, he blurted out; "Then, we’d gladly take them!" He couldn’t see Lily’s face, but he felt her shaking, probably delighted with this turn of events. In fear of appearing way too eager, he lessened; “If that would be okay with you, Professor, we’d love to go.”
McGonagall didn’t really look put off by Remus’ sudden enthusiasm. On the contrary, she looked quite pleased with herself, a smile appearing on the thin of her lips.
“Excellent. I’ll hand you the tickets sometime over the week.”
“Brilliant!”
As soon as they left the classroom, Lily deflated on him, laughing. “Remus Lupin going to a fucking ball? Now this is some Prophet-worthy stuff.”
“Bugger right off.”
So there he was now, standing in front of the imposing St. John’s building, dressed in the one and only suit he’d owned since Sixth Form and a pair of borrowed trousers that were too short for him and that were a slightly different shade of black than his jacket. He’d had to google how to tie up his tie and Lily had managed to make his curls look somewhat presentable. She was rather excited about the whole thing —even if it was just because the prospect of Remus in a ball amused her— and she looked stunning. Her bright orange hair was long and curled, her cheeks with pink accompanying her freckles, her lips painted passion red. Her dress was emerald, long and drapey and faux silk, its colour made the tint of her green eyes look about ten times brighter.
He’d been walking around the place with Lily’s arm interlocked with his, helping her along in her beautiful, rented green silk dress and murderous heels, and looking for McGonagall for about an hour. The space looked, admittedly, rather stunning. He’d never been to this particular building on the university premises and it was huge. High ceilings, yellow bricks, ancient, history dripping out of its creases. It courtyard in the middle, where flashing coloured lights made way for the smoking crowd and the faint of heart. Inside there was a big open space, where most people stood, glasses on hand, laughing away, and to the furthest side, an amalgamation of tables and chairs ready for the so-called feast the ticket price promised. Like most things at Oxford, it looked taken right out of time and shot out into modernity, only to be disrespected with radio pop songs and drunken students.
When Remus saw her first, McGonagall was cornered. She was joined by what seemed to be the entirety of the professor staff; he even spotted some higher-ups hovering around her. Perhaps it was just Remus’ biassed conviction that she was the most interesting person of the lot, but it seemed like they were hurdling her, pestering her even. If not for his humble position, he might’ve run to rescue her. Lily seemed less worried about it;
“She’s just talking, Rem. Give her a minute or two.” Then she smiled devilishly. “There’s an open bar, you know?”
Suddenly, the prospect of a drink seemed like the best idea on Earth.
The open bar served wine and champagne but not much else. The people behind the bar were students. Remus knew it was an option, though it seemed utterly ludicrous to him, for a student that wanted to attend a ball but couldn’t afford its full price to work half the night in exchange for being charged half the ticket. To him, this seemed impossibly stupid. Making students work to afford half a ticket price? Making it seem like this was the accessible option? (Which it was the only one, mind). Remus recognised a couple of people there, he smiled at them guiltily and asked, as kindly as he could, for some wine. Lily asked for beer, but they didn’t have any, so she settled for champagne.
“Puaj, I fucking hate champagne,” she murmured, drinking the thin glass in one big gulp. Then she turned around and asked for a refill. Remus laughed.
“Why are you so keen on alcohol tonight?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I can’t fucking stand these people. I can see them judging the way I’m dressed,” she said, taking another sip of her glass and looking around the ballroom with a face of disbelief and detestation.
“We better keep our ears open, Lils. Lord knows what Prophet-worthy conversations we might overhear.”
She laughed into her drink. “Now you’re thinking.”
The feast was incredible. Remus, who was used to living off Ramen noodles and cheap coffee, had been easily impressed. It was a three-course meal; a main course of paella (just then he’d found out what that was). They sat on the clothed white chairs, a complicated assortment of cutlery, and a couple people Remus and Lily vaguely recognised. Most were from different houses, different courses, and the conversation was rightfully light and superficial ( “What’s your major?” “Who’s your roommate?” “Do you know Ryan?” “Isn’t this rice lush?” ) But mostly they had a good time laughing at Professor Slughorn, who had chosen a head-to-toe purple suit, with an abominable yellow bowtie as his preferred attire for the evening.
“He looks like one of Snow White’s dwarfs,” one of them provided, just as dessert was being brought out; a chocolate volcano. Remus laughed with them.
“Yeah, and the lot following him around,” another added, referring to the horde of students following the old professor around like moths to a flame; the Slug Club. "Which do you think each one is?"
“Slughorn is definitely Dopey,” a girl supplied. Remus had barely registered her name as Dorcas.
The first guy laughed. “And Snape?”
“Well, he’s Grumpy, duh.”
Lily went stiff next to him. Remus’ eyes jumped back to the Slug Club. Snape was there, black suit, bowtie, and shoulder-length greasy hair. Perhaps all their collective gazes on the back of his neck started burning him because he turned around. For a horrifying minute, Snape stared back at them. Well, actually, not at them but at Lily. It was a burning stake to the heart, a solid sixty seconds of awkwardness. When he turned back, the whole table laughed at the coincidence. Lily did not. She stepped out of her chair, leaving the white napkin that had lain on her lap back on the table.
“Sorry, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” she explained, exclusively to Remus.
“I’ll go with—”
She shook her head. “Finish your plate, then come find me, alright?” Remus was just about to protest when she spoke again; “Really, I just need the loo.” And she walked away.
Remus knew, very well, Lily Evans did not need to go to the bathroom. He considered keeping eating for a good second but quickly decided against it. He followed her, all the way through the empty dance floor and to the bathroom doors.
“Lily!” he called. If she heard him, it didn’t show. She disappeared into the bathroom door marked simply as ladies, closing it right on his face.
He sighed, closing his eyes and devised, out of the corner of his eye, a way to the outside. Suddenly at a loss of appetite, he walked towards it. He basked in the silence of the outside world; the cold hitting the smallest spot of his exposed collarbones, the white shirt under his black suit sticking to his chest. He held his head with his hand, pressuring his sides, leaving forwards on the white balcony rail. It was a rather stunning view from the slightly uphill building, the city blooming, shining below him, sparks of light like shimmering stars. He lived in that city, he was always there, inside it, with its noise and its smell and its evident flaws. But from there, this high up, none of that was visible, it was only its superficial beauty that shone.
“Remus Lupin,” he heard from behind him and he sighed, letting his head drop between his shoulders. “Do my eyes deceive me?”
He turned and there he was.
If Sirius Black could be commended for anything, it would be for looking like he belonged in the most prissy of scenarios, yet still managing to maintain the certain aura of a mischievous rockstar. The facts were these; he looked good. His black hair was slicked back and smooth, and a thin line of black eyeliner; probably carefully placed yet it still looked effortless and cool. His suit was entirely black. Black shirt, black jacket, black vest, black shoes, black necktie, black handkerchief, all perfectly tailored to his body and all perfectly coordinated in colour. If Remus knew (or cared) about suits perhaps he would’ve recognised it was an Armani. Yet, no matter how attractive Sirius Black had ever been, (this was an objective fact, nobody would’ve dared argue against it) it could’ve never made up for how much of a giant dick he was; and for how much Remus hated him. He’d met Sirius Black on his first day at Oxford and ever since he’d had a pungent distaste for him. The foundation of their relationship was built on this very encounter, flamed by consequent ones and maintained over a period of about two years. To Remus, Sirius Black represented everything he hated about the world; childish, petulant, ostentatiously rich and privileged and insanely egotistical. There was not one redeeming quality on a speck of Sirius Black’s obnoxiously fit body.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Black.” He returned his eyes to the city that shined, not before heavily rolling them.
“No, but really, why on Earth are you here?” He stepped closer, putting himself next to him. There was a twinkle in his eye that he felt the urge to punch out of him. “I’m genuinely curious.”
Remus pivoted towards him, his hip settling on the rail. “I was invited.”
“Ah, did the Prewett thing finally get beneficial?”
This struck a particular nerve.
Remus had been seeing a guy named Gideon Prewett for the better part of a year. Never anything serious or official, just an on-and-off situation. Gid was a good guy; sweet, amicable and a satisfying shag yet things had never progressed further than that, to Remus’ admitted disappointment.
Gideon was on the wealthier side of the spectrum; definitely more comfortable than Remus would ever be but not Black level rich. Nevertheless, Remus had never seen benefits of the monetary sort for his complicated relationship with Gideon because he’d never thought to ask, and the idea of it frankly made his stomach turn. How Sirius Black could have the faintest idea of any of this, he did not know.
“You’re an insufferable bastard, did you know that?” he spat.
“So I’ve been told.” Not a tinge of anger in his voice. “But really, who invited you?”
“It’s honestly none of your business.”
“You look good, Lupin. Who knew you could pull yourself together so well?” he asked, one of his eyebrows quirked. Backhanded compliments were a Black staple, Remus was quite used to them. “I have to say, though, I barely recognized you without those antiquated jumpers of yours. I almost miss them.”
Remus really tried not to get riled up, but he couldn’t help it; he was a little tipsy at this point and his patience was running thin. “Fuck off.”
He started walking back inside but he wouldn’t get rid of him that easily, he knew better than that. The dance floor was getting crowded again, most people finishing their meals and going back to casually mingle. Sirius was still following him.
“James was telling me he thought he saw your Evans and here I was thinking maybe he was hallucinating,” he walked right behind him as Remus entered again, closing his eyes in a fruitless attempt to tune him out. “I made him put his drink down, but she’s here too, isn’t she?”
“You can go tell Potter to keep drinking,” he muttered and stomped away, directionless.
Sirius laughed. "Good thing you—"
“Mr Lupin! I thought that was you!” interrupted a voice.
Suddenly, right in front of him, was Minerva McGonagall. She was in a beige pantsuit, her grey hair up in a bun. She didn’t have her glasses on and the green eyes that had always pierced Remus’ soul were significantly tamer, probably due to what was on her hands; a big glass of red wine, half-finished. Remus stopped dead in his tracks, heels digging into his shoes. Sirius materialised on his right, smiling.
“Minnie, you may want to lay off some of that wine,” Sirius said informally, catching McGonagall’s glass from her hands and casually giving it to Remus. He took it automatically, too dazed to do anything else.
“Oh, I better, I better. Poppy’s gonna kill me if I turn up home smashed,” she said, chuckling, hanging onto Sirius’ arm for support.
“She sure as hell would.”
Remus gaped at the two of them. He looked at his professor; this apex of knowledge, a serious, studious woman and then at Sirius; the antagonist of every single one of his tales, the antithesis to every single one of his morals. Several things crossed his mind. Most were elaborate theories, of the paranoid sort, of how Sirius had managed to befriend his biggest inspiration and his greatest chance to achieve his dream just to spite him, just to have something else to hang over his head. And this may sound like he was going insane, which maybe he was, but he had good reason to believe Sirius was at least somewhat capable of all that.
“You— Sorry, you two know each other?” he stuttered, the glass of wine hanging from his hand.
“Of course, Remus,” Sirius said. His smile turned into a satiated devil’s smirk that genuinely basked in Remus’ confusion and astonishment. “She’s as good as my godmother, this woman.”
“Don’t, Sirius.” McGonagall snorted. “I’m an old family friend of the Potters, you see?”
Remus didn’t see but that wasn’t important, he supposed. His world had just shattered. “Right,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t know you two were friends,” she continued. Both of them laughed, impulsively.
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly. We’re just—”
“Just classmates,” Remus finished quickly, realising he probably shouldn’t let it be known that they were mortal enemies if she so fondly regarded Sirius.
“Classmates, right,” he agreed and McGonagall seemed fairly satisfied with this answer.
“Are you both here to take the piss out of Horace with me?” she proposed with a cheeky smirk.
Remus was slightly horrified but he didn’t show it. It felt like watching his parents get drunk; it was embarrassing, reductive. He hadn’t even thought about the possibility of such a woman getting tipsy, much less joking in such a weirdly normal, ordinary way with him. And he’d imagined this would be a good opportunity to talk to her about a recommendation letter? He really had romanticised her a great deal, hadn’t he?
“I mean, a purple suit? The jokes practically write themselves,” Sirius supplied, to McGonagall’s apparent delight.
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”
And Remus might’ve added something, to get on her good side, but he just couldn’t think of anything worth saying. Slughorn did look ridiculous but that seemed way beyond the point. Sirius continued, though, with an elegant display of carefully disguised insults towards him, the professor absolutely cracking up while Remus stood idly there for a fair two minutes, completely mute. Finally, when she was sweeping the tears from her eyes, she turned to him as if she’d only just remembered he was there at all.
“Remus, dear, you wanted to speak about the apprenticeship, did you?” A beat. He blinked at her. Had she just called him Remus? Was this working?
Sirius considered him as well, suspiciously interested. “Oh, did you ?”
“Well, yes. I’m applying next week, I was hoping you could give me some insight, and perhaps—”
“Recommendation?” she supplied, merrily. Remus’ eyes opened. As he was trying to process this, McGonagall looked at her hand, empty, started looking around, and muttered; “Oh, where did I leave my—”
“Certainly, that would be— yeah, yes, that would be incredible,” he tried. At this point, McGonagall seemed rather distracted.
“Well, of course, Mr Lupin. It would be a certain pleasure of mine. Where’s my, Christ…” She kept scanning the room, with a frown on her face. Remus wasn’t sure she was listening.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Sirius, did you know he was interested in journalism?” she off-handedly told him.
Sirius cocked his head, looked him in the eye and smiled. It was menacing. “I had an inkling.”
“Is my glass over there?” she asked no one in particular, looking at some spot behind Remus; which he would later discover was the bar. “He’s rather brilliant,” she added.
“Oh, I’m not—”
“You are, boy, you are.”
“So, you could write the letter?”
“Letter? Oh! Certainly, certainly.” This gave Remus not a drop of comfort, but he considered it a win nevertheless. “Now, where in the bloody—”
“The application is due for Thursday of next week,” he explained.
She nodded fervently, but she didn’t seem to understand his words, she was too preoccupied with; “Well, then…I’ll— I seem to have misplaced my wine glass.”
“Minnie I took—”
“Did I leave it at the bar—?” She completely dismissed them both and started marching towards the bar, right behind him. Remus turned and followed.
“No, professor, I have it right—”
A total of three things happened, in slow yet immediate succession, the minute Remus started that sentence. The first was McGonagall turned. It was probably because of what Remus was trying to say; ‘I have it right here’. In a perfect world, she would’ve carefully turned around, Remus would’ve given her the wine and saluted her and that would’ve been it. That did not happen, because the second thing that occurred was that Sirius Black ran into him. Remus felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder, caused by Sirius’ chest crashing into his back. The third thing, also the most unfortunate one; was that the wine glass was on his right hand, and his hands were very sweaty — an assumed outcome of the entirety of the previous conversation. So, inevitably, the crimson liquid landed right on Minerva McGonagall’s impeccable cream-coloured pantsuit (on her breasts, more specifically) tainting her jacket a deep pink and garnering a considerable amount of gasps; one from herself, one from Remus, a few from a couple lucky spectators, and one —most surprisingly— from Sirius Black, which turned rather quickly into a laugh.
“Bollocks!” she exclaimed, a load of emotion flashing on her ever stoic face, her arms raised to her sides, clothes completely ruined.
Remus’ jaw slacked, stuck in place, the empty wine glass still gripped reluctantly on his shaking fingers while Sirius was giggling behind him. If there were people watching, Remus didn’t notice. There was a sort of tunnel vision right now, all he could see was red dye on white fabric and all he could hear was a snickering idiot on the back of his neck.
When he finally reacted, he simply blurted out; “Holy sh— fu— Oh God, I’m so sorry!”
“What in the bloody hell?” she muttered, looking down at her chest.
“I’m so sorry professor, I’m— let me—” he tried, reaching out to her arm in an attempt to— well, he didn’t know what he was attempting, actually.
McGonagall took a step back. “Boy, let me go.”
“I’m so sorry I—”
And she walked past them, presumably to the bathroom. Several faces turned to watch her as she walked. Those same faces then turned to Remus; shamelessly incriminated by the empty glass on his hands and the pool of burgundy by his feet.
“That was so good,” Sirius laughed.
“Oh, God...” Remus murmured to himself.
“Lupin, you are an entertaining son of a bitch when you want to be! And here I was thinking I’d be the talk of the night, with all this sex appeal, you know? But I was wrong, so wrong .”
“Shut the fuck up!” He saw red, in more ways than one. Throwing his hands to his side, facing him deadly on, he muttered between his gritted teeth; “Fucking—this is your fucking fault.”
Sirius smiled, simply. “Is it? I didn’t drop red wine into my professor’s white suit.”
“You gave me that glass! You bumped into me!” he screamed, slowly convincing himself that this had been no unfortunate accident. “Do you—God’s sake! Is everything you do a calculated effort to fuck me over?”
“Fuck you over? No, not exactly.” He winked.
God help him, he was really being tested. He sought out to the skies for a good second, asking himself, was this a trick of the universe to push his limits? Was his some sort of cruel test put on by the overruling entities of the world, to see if they could get him to break, to commit murder in the middle of a crowded ballroom? He thought, if that was the case, they were doing a pretty bloody good job at it.
Oh, Lords that be, please give me strength.
“I might strangle you.” His fists were tightening.
Sirius, to his credit, did not flinch, not even when Remus’ face transformed into something of a scary sight. To his credit, he laughed when he took a step closer to him, fingers crushed between palms and nose flared. To his fucking credit, he said, cooly; “I’m a lot stronger than I look, you know.”
“I am, too.”
With a one-sided smirk, he put an open palm to Remus’ chest and looked up to his eyes. The faint touch burned deep within Remus, like an allergy flaring up from his chest up to his face. It shut him up.
“Lupin, I think it’s been enough of our sexually enticing rivalry for one night, wouldn’t you agree?” He patted him right on the chest, as if he were a misbehaving dog, then winked one last time, just to drive this last point home. “Good luck on that apprenticeship.”
Lily found him about twenty minutes later, outside by a rubbish bin. He was on the verge of tears and he’d drunk an approximate of ten glasses of champagne (he hated champagne, too). The music had turned up all the way and most people had retired to the dance floor, clicking their heels and dress shoes into the veined marble, bobbing their heads to cheesy tunes.
“Remus? Where have you been? What the fuck happened?” She knelt down to his level.
“Where have you been?” he protested, but his muddy mind couldn’t bring itself to be mad at her. “Can we go home?”
“God, let’s,” she said, barely audible under the thudding sound of saturated speakers. She extended an arm towards him. “These heels are murdering me.”