The White Flowers of Surrender

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The White Flowers of Surrender

Monday 31 December 1984 – Saturday 26 January 1985

Diagon Alley, London; Old Basford, Nottingham.

Rated PG for emotional complexity.

She was sitting sideways on a striped Regency sofa, her hair caught up in a pretty Celtic-knot clasp, chatting to Glenda Foster. Her face froze the instant she saw him, and what little colour she had in her cheeks drained out.

"Good evening, ladies," said Sturgis. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything too private."

"Oh, no," said Glenda. "We were talking about our jobs. Come and tell us about yours, Sturgis."

Sturgis folded his long legs onto the ground at their feet and admitted, "Mine's boring. But I've been hearing you quite regularly on the Wireless, Glenda. How did the W.W.N. discover your talents?"

Ariadne had not moved. As Glenda repeated to Sturgis her description of her job interviews – followed by a glowing description of two personal meetings with the great Celestina Warbeck – Ariadne sat like a statue, unable to tear her eyes away. Remus saw Sturgis jerk his head to beckon him over; he heard Glenda's exclamation as she recognised him and made the invitation verbal; yet nothing registered; the vague feeling that some kind of social response was required washed over him without any indication of what that response should be.

Ariadne was here.

She was real. And in front of him. Here.

The only social reality that did register was that she was as much mesmerised as he was. She didn't know what to do about this unexpected meeting. And nor did he.

Glenda was moving over and telling him to sit on the sofa. Next to Ariadne. He couldn't judge the appropriateness of this insruction, but it was an instruction in a situation where no other cues existed, so, like a sleepwalker, he moved over and sat down.

"Are you all right, Remus? You look as if you've just seen a ghost." He did understand that question, but Sturgis didn't seem to expect an answer.

"You look as if you haven't eaten properly for weeks," said Glenda. "Are you sure you're keeping sensible hours, Remus? Are you living with people who understand about balanced meals?"

Wide of the mark, he thought. No ghosts. Nothing to do with diet.

Suddenly he pulled himself together. "Good evening, Glenda. I'm living alone, as it happens. Carry on about Celestina. Do you think she'll agree to a Wireless interview?"

Encouraged by Sturgis, Glenda carried on. Remus didn't have to say anything except "Um" and "Really?" because Sturgis supplied so many real questions. But he quickly realised that a sofa, no matter how long, is really only designed for two people. He was entirely blocking Glenda's view of Ariadne. If he turned around to face Ariadne, Glenda would be in turn blocked out of the conversation. He tried leaning back and facing straight ahead and found that the girls could now see each other, but he could not see either of them. A sidelong glance suggested that Ariadne had unfrozen, but she still had nothing to say. She was there, her arm an inch from his, and she was breathing. But she was obviously not thinking about Celestina Warbeck.

"Oh, don't be so anti-social, Remus," said Sturgis. "What do you think?"

"It would be fine," said Remus automatically, trying to decipher the words that had flowed around his head. Glenda hoped for a chat-show. That meant...? She wanted to interview Celestina Warbeck on the Wireless, but that wasn't strictly news. But she hoped to move out of news into a chat-show. An interview could open the door – the front door? Who was at the door? No, an interview would provide the opportunity to do something a little different. However, it seemed a little ambitious to ask for her own show when she had worked for the Wireless for only fifteen months...

"I don't think it's too ambitious," he tried again. "You have a good speaking voice, Glenda. It shouldn't be stifled by reading only what other people have written."

"That's what Ariadne said," said Glenda, "but I was just trying to explain, when you two arrived, how hard it is to do anything independent in the broadcast industry. Everyone wants those creative jobs, and there are only so many programming spots in the week."

Ariadne was still sitting an inch away from his right. He could hear her every breath. He knew that his arrival had thrown her off balance. Why hadn't Glenda noticed that Ariadne had stopped speaking? He shouldn't be here. But how could he extract himself from the situation? He scanned the room, hardly knowing what he was looking for, but feeling that Ariadne was marking his gaze.

Finally his eye lighted upon their hostess. Emmeline was turning around from the opposite sofa, at which she had just seated Dedalus Diggle next to Arabella Figg, and she made her way over to greet them.

"So glad you could come, Sturgis," she said. "And it was really clever of you to winkle Remus out of wherever he hides nowadays. Can I fetch you anything?"

Ariadne sprang to her feet. "I'll help you, Emmeline," she said. "I'm expecting that lots of people would like more drinks."

Emmeline displayed no surprise at Ariadne's eagerness and said, "Perhaps we should bring the mulled wine in here. We have trays in the kitchen."

Remus tried not to watch Ariadne's retreating back. She had not been at all glad to see him. It was so unlike Ariadne not to know what to say to him. Clearly, she had not yet become indifferent to him. She must still think about him. Perhaps she even thought about him fairly often.

He had been wise to give her a wide berth.

He had been unwise to attend a party hosted by a mutual friend. He ought to have guessed that Ariadne might be among the guests.

And now she would avoid him all evening.

Remus wondered how many more months it would be before he accidentally met Ariadne again. Many, he told himself firmly, since I shall be more careful in future to avoid mutual friends.

Yet he did owe her an explanation. Otherwise he had abandoned her to endless limbo.

How would he manage such a complicated operation without appearing to encourage her to keep thinking of him?

By the time he had collected his thoughts enough to realise that he should follow her into the kitchen and ask what troubled her, he was too late. Emmeline told him that Ariadne had already taken the Floo home.

Four evenings later, a Post Office owl dropped a letter through Ariadne's window. Her heart leapt to her throat. She knew that handwriting, even though it was impossible.

Why, after so many months of silence, should Remus write to her? If the letter was so short – if it said no more than "Happy New Year" – why was he bothering? That scrap of parchment should have burst into flame and burned her robes – should have burned her – if it said anything worth reading. Yet, somehow, she was able to open it. And it really was from Remus.

Ariadne,

I apologise for failing six months ago to give a clearer explanation of why I was breaking off contact. At the time a clean break seemed wisest, and I assumed that you would know really that you were better off without me. Now I accept that it was too sudden and mysterious. I should have spelled it out and trusted you to accept my reasoning, even if you didn't like it.

I hope this clears it up.

I have taken your advice and enrolled in a Muggle college, where I'm learning to be a teacher for Muggle schools. I am happy sometimes; write back to tell me that you are happy too.

Remus.

Nothing was any clearer. If it had been "mysterious" then – if he ought to have "spelled it out" – then why did he not "spell it out" now? He yet gave no reason why the "clean break seemed wisest", so of course she could not understand why she was supposed to be "better off without him". As for being happy, she could only claim that she was trying, but that happiness was very hard work.

She had been awkward with him at a party, so he had written in order to tell her nothing at all.

The only change was that he had written.

She had no intention of replying tonight; he had kept her waiting for four days, and it would be demeaning – a most undignified over-eagerness and even whining – to force herself on his attention in less time than that. Instead, she read the last of the scientific papers on what was already known about Appetite Suppressant drugs. She hated the project; she writhed in boredom at the thought of developing it; but Professor Jigger always had said that she had to start her own calculations in the New Year, so there was no room for further procrastination.

It was not until Wednesday that she borrowed Thangalaathil and sent him to Nottingham. She knew that Remus would read the letter, but he would have no reason to reply to it unless he really was hiding something. No matter. She had forgotten why she had wanted him to have the last word between them; it did not seem important now.

Dear Remus,

I'm writing by the light of the full moon, thinking of you, hoping you are safe, and trusting you will be well again by the time this reaches you. What do you do at this time of month? Have you a friend with you?

Thank you for clarifying what happened. I am grateful for your attentions during my final year at Hogwarts and I am only sorry to have made a fool of myself by reading too much into your interest, for I heard what I was wanting to hear instead of what you were actually telling me. I thought I understood people, but I realise now that I gave way to wishful thinking.

It was doubtless good for me to face up to my own vanity and conceit. I assumed that I knew you better than anybody; if I could be so mistaken about what was happening between you and me, then my judgment about everybody and everything is worthless. I once accused my Cousin Lucius of being a Death Eater, but I had no proof. I nearly set off on a wild goose chase to prove that Veleta Vablatsky was yet alive, wasting time and money to invade the privacy of people of whose guilt there was no real evidence. I have been tempted to distrust even Professor Jigger, to whom I owe my future livelihood. There seems no end to the possible mistakes that I could have made.

So I have had a timely lesson in not believing anything without due evidence. I will accept this caution as my lasting gift from you, my greatest teacher.

Ariadne.

She had not answered his only question: she had not stated that she was happy. She had spent the last six months missing him a great deal more than he had considered possible, perhaps almost as much as he had missed her. And there was more at stake in her life than whether or not she spoke to him. She had said so: I thought I understood people, but I realise now that I gave way to wishful thinking... I assumed that I knew you better than anybody; if I could be so mistaken about what was happening between you and me, then my judgment about everybody and everything is worthless.

He knew that her self-confidence had been severely dented; doubting her judgment about him was actually causing her to doubt her judgment about everything else.

I did this to her... No. It had to be done. I am a werewolf. In the long term, she will be happier without me.

But how long would "long term" be?

It seemed that he owed her an explanation. But how could he explain that she had read him correctly unless he also implied impossible promises in his explanation?

It was only one more day before she held his answer.

Ariadne,

Of course you were not mistaken. Nor am I in denial. What happened between us is not in question. You are dearer to me than anyone on earth. I still think of you every hour. Is that clear enough?

I am sorry that I under-estimated your affection for me: I did not seriously believe you would still be thinking of me all these months later.

The essential point, however, is unchanged, for it is not about love. You have no future with me. Trust me on this one: it's a lucky werewolf who even has friends, and a fantastically self-centred one who has a lover. One day you will be grateful that you escaped from me so easily.

Please continue to trust your instincts. No one knows people better than you do. You were right about me, and you are probably right about everyone else too. In particular, I wouldn't for a moment trust Arsenius Jigger to serve anyone but himself; if you try to treat him as trustworthy, you are certain to meet trouble.

Meanwhile, console yourself, as I do, with the knowledge that you have been profoundly loved.

Remus.

That night she fell asleep with the letter in her hand and she slept deeply for the first time since Remus had left.

The next day she went to work cheerfully. Everything is all right. She handed another of the blue-bowed bottles over to Manjula Patil without a second thought. Mrs Patil does no evil. She was sure of that, certain of an unspoken, unproved fact for the first time in six months.

She did not ask why she was kept behind to mix potions for all of Saturday afternoon. What does it matter if Professor Jigger cheats me, so long as I'm knowing he's cheating?

She almost laughed out loud when Belladonna complained that she was lazy and careless. Madam Jigger has nothing against me; she complains about everybody equally. It was miraculous how sure she was about the world.

Remus does love me.

Even when she returned home to an empty flat, her mood sobered only a little. Sarah was out to dinner. Hestia had gone to a Hobgoblins concert with Ivor. The owl's perch was empty, so Thangalaathil must have been out on an errand. Even Simba and Bast were asleep on the sofa. There was nothing to do except drink the tomato soup that Hestia had left out for her at lunch time, tidy away the piles of clothes that Sarah had strewn all over the living room and hall, and then sit down at the kitchen table to re-read Remus's letter, even though she now knew it by heart.

However comforting the sentiment, there was no question that it was a message of dismissal.

And however much Remus demanded that she respect his right to be unselfish, there was no question of allowing herself to be dismissed without a fight. Not when the stake was his happiness as well as hers.

The question was, what kind of reply would be most likely to persuade him.

Dear Remus,

It's a great relief to know that I can trust my own perceptions. I am yet becoming used to looking at the world clearly again. It's made my life a great deal more negotiable. For the last few days I have indeed been happy sometimes.

Remus, why are you only happy "sometimes"? Does it not make you happy to be thinking that you will become a teacher? Are you not glad to live among people who will never suspect your lycanthropy because they are not believing the condition exists? Is not your conscience easy now that you have done your duty and more towards me?

Or have you been over-scrupulous in throwing away happiness (mine as well as yours)? Is the wolf the only reason that you hold aloof from me? The wolf is only dangerous when it is loosed; it hurts nobody but you when it is locked away. I have already helped you lock away the wolf several times and covered its tracks from the prying eyes of the unsympathetic world. Please do not tell me that I cannot handle the wolf.

Tell me instead that you will be my friend, and I promise not to ask for more than friendship. With brutal honesty I can assure you that friendship alone will be almost enough.

Ariadne.

"Almost enough." He knew only too well that she was right. Friendship alone was not enough, but it truly was almost enough, and enormously better than nothing. But giving her nothing was probably the best way to protect her since she had very obviously missed the point.

It did not occur to him that, by answering her letter, he was entering the debate and very tangibly giving her something. He composed his reply on the same day, between planning his science project and re-reading the chapter on how to teach the multiplication table.

Dear Ariadne,

This week I am doing what the Muggles call teaching rounds. I go to a primary school and assist the teacher in the classroom, sometimes teaching the class myself. Yes, I did have to begin a day late because I was "sick" the Monday before last, but the Muggles never question the excuse of winter flu. I enjoy the work, my secrets are safe, and of course I still miss you.

What I need to explain to you, with some force, is that missing you is not the issue. Becoming a wolf once a month is only a small part of the lycanthropic problem. (Now that I am living in my own house, there is in any case less trouble with my Transformations; I can lock myself in the garage, as I did when I was a child.) Even the recovery days are not a huge problem; I can bind the injuries and sleep off the exhaustion, and I am well by the time the gibbous moon rises. Yes, I do accept that you handle that aspect of the problem better than most people; but don't be so naïve as to assume that managing the Transformations would manage the whole problem.

You have seen with your own eyes what can be done to werewolves. I cannot promise that I will never hurt anyone, and I certainly cannot promise that no unscrupulous person will ever use me to hurt some third party. Let me remind you that I once nearly killed your cousin Severus – if James Potter had not been at hand to save the situation, Severus would have died and society would have blamed me for killing him. Connell Dewar was less fortunate – he had no friend, and some Dark witch tricked him into committing a gruesome murder. Because episodes like these can and do happen, werewolves are distrusted and shunned.

You need to understand that I am a marked man. Every wizard in Britain has access to the Werewolf Registry. Even if employers forget to check my background, in the end they don't want to employ the "unreliable" type who mysteriously vanishes once a month and then comes home sick. Your brother's attitude was absolutely typical. Professor Dumbledore is the only wizard who has ever willingly employed me after knowing the truth.

No job means no money. A life of lycanthropy is a life of poverty. I am luckier than most in owning a house; few werewolves ever possess so much. Even as it is, I often do not know how I will feed myself from one week to the next. (I am presently living off savings, which will run out in about eighteen months, leaving me unable to finance my final year at college.) It is out of the question that I shall ever be in a position to support a family – aside from the safety problems that would arise if a werewolf were so foolish as to have children!

A werewolf finds social life as difficult as working life. It is a life where friendly overtures are often spurned, where casual acquaintances rarely wish to know us better, where few friends remain loyal for long, where officials who know our condition politely show us out of public buildings and merchants who know it will not even buy from or sell to us.

In a word, it is a life of lies. Every new place, every new person, every new situation represents a game of "how long can I hide the truth?" When I deceive those who trust me, as I deceived your parents, I have the chance of normal work and friendship. But these deceits close the door to close friendships, for intimacy relies on telling the truth.

There is one other option for a werewolf, the one that I am currently taking. We can live among Muggles. They believe our lies about the nature of our illnesses; they do not check registries before they work or learn or eat with us; they think they are our friends. But they are friends whom we are doubly deceiving, for we are pretending to them that magic does not exist. There can be no intimacy amid such deceit.

Ariadne, this isn't the life that I want for you. You need to live in a community where you can tell the truth, where you will be accepted on your own terms, where you can rely on your friends, where you will find work easily, where you can one day have children. You cannot have any of those things with me.

If you tried to be with me, I think in the end you would resent that I had dragged you into this lifestyle. Love could not survive that kind of betrayal; in addition to all the other components of despair, you would be tied to a man whom you could not love. I would rather remember you as the woman who did love me once.

Remus.

As soon as she saw the envelope, she knew that the battle was half won. Despite the forbidding tone of the content, she knew that if he had bothered to write so many words, he wanted her to reply, and if he wanted a reply, he was persuadable. It was not until the fifth reading that she recognised the flaw in his logic.

She wondered if she dared to correct him; he could out-logic her any day. Yet, this time, he was wrong. And he was susceptible to logic. If only she could make herself hold onto the argument for long enough to expose the flaw – she could do logic if she forced herself – she knew that he would concede the point.

Dear Remus,

You did not answer my question. Is friendship not on the agenda?

As to anything more, I am not understanding your argument. Can you prove that I would never find work simply because I was associated with you? You have the misfortune to be shunned by employers, but it does not follow that I would be unable to set up my own business, or even that Professor Jigger would terminate my apprenticeship, simply because I knew you.

Are you believing you will always be poor? Perhaps you would rather not work among Muggles, but once you are a teacher, you will certainly not starve. And why should I be poor after I become a journeyman?

You have not as many friends as you would like, but does it follow that you are doomed to have none? Emmeline and Sturgis know your secret, and they would be friends if you would let them. Hestia, Ivor, Kingsley and Glenda all showed a great deal of compassion to Connell Dewar: why should they shun you? Or me for knowing you?

Whatever some fearful people might do to us, there will always be other people to whom we will be able to tell the truth. There will always be somebody else to love.

It seems that you are proposing that we forswear the certain happiness of being together because of the possible unhappiness that awaits us later. Instead, you wish us to embrace the certain unhappiness of separation, because it might possibly lead to an absence of unhappiness (a negative happiness) later. It strikes me as highly irrational to give up a certain good of a definite nature in order to obtain a possible good of an indefinite but negative nature; to choose a certain evil in order to avoid a possible evil that might, in fact, never occur.

I do not believe that adversity necessarily kills love, but there is only one way to find out. Stop avoiding me, and allow us to live it out naturally. Even if we lose the gamble (which I am not believing we will), we will at least have a certain happiness meantime.

Remus, are you happy without me? If you are, say so, and I will never trouble you again. If you are not, consider that I am certainly not happy without you. This is a matter of absolute indifference to the rights and wishes of every other person on the planet; it concerns only you and me. Is there a reason why we should not be happy?

Ariadne.

She waited until Monday, another five days, before she sent the owl to Nottingham.

On Saturday the snow began to melt, and Ariadne could once again feel the cobbles under her shoes on the way to work. Professor Jigger met her at the door of the shop in a very bad mood.

"Miss MacDougal, is this your doing?"

An empty-clawed owl swooped over Jigger's head and outwards to the fresh air. Ariadne stepped over the threshold.

"Owls all ruddy morning, before we're even open. That was the fifth. Did you ask your stupid friends to send them?"

"I did not, sir." There was no sign of any letters in the shop.

"It's all out the back in the laboratory," Jigger complained. "Dropping their stuff all over the place."

Ariadne stopped in the doorway to the laboratory, realising what he meant. The laboratory was full of flowers.

Not just formal bouquets, such as a florist might package, but garlands, trails, even individual blooms, dropped all over the place. No wonder it had taken five owls to bring them all. All the flowers were white. There were roses, lilies, violets... She wondered for a moment if it were not some mistake in an order for herbs since there was nothing in writing to indicate that the flowers were for her. But it was obvious that neither Professor nor Madam Jigger wanted them.

She picked up a bunch, and suddenly realised that it contained a message. Somebody had researched herbology symbols quite thoroughly. White roses, the symbol of "aspiring love"; lily-of-the-valley, meaning "humility" and "return to happiness"; white heather, which usually meant "protection", but some herbologists used it for "wishes come true"; mistletoe, for "difficulties surmounted"; even white nasturtiums (which was impossible, was it not? But definitely, they were nasturtiums) for "victory". Best of all, wreath upon wreath of white violets, signalling "let's take a chance on happiness".

"Who sent this rubbish?" asked Madam Jigger.

"There is no card," she replied truthfully. But of course she knew who had sent them.

"It'll throw pollen into the potions. It's not allowed, do you hear? If it happens again, you're out of here."

"I'm thinking you're not needing to worry, Madam Jigger. It's not real. All these flowers are Conjured." Ariadne began to pick them up and pile them onto her desk. The white flowers looked, even smelled, real, but she was sure they were not real. They had no long-term chemical or physical properties. They would vanish in a matter of hours.

White flowers, for surrender.