October, 1995 - Saint-Quay-Portrieux, France

Remus hesitated at the gate to the stately stone house, set well back from the quiet cobblestone street winding its way up from the harbor. The idea of breaking into some unsuspecting Muggle's home in the middle of the night did not appeal to him in the slightest. Still, if what Dung had heard was true, they needed to act quickly and quietly to secure the artifact before the Death Eaters learned of its existence. He reached over the gate to the latch and let himself into the garden, leaning his broom against the stone wall. Blue flames flickered to life in his palm, lighting his way as he followed the garden path to the back of the house.

At his whispered Alohomora the back door opened with a slight click. Moving quickly through the kitchen he entered a wide hallway. On his left a winding staircase led up to the second floor, it's walls adorned with antique swords and ancient armor; to his right was the entrance to a well-appointed study. An large, oak desk dominated the center of this room, behind which was a floor to ceiling bookshelf lined with leather-bound texts. Ignoring the temptation to rifle through the books, Remus turned his attention to the artwork that lined the walls. 
The entire collection was impressive, but Remus' eyes were drawn immediately to the Gothic panel prominently displayed along one wall. Extinguishing the flame in his hand, he quickly found the Muggle light switch, bringing the panel into sharp relief in the dim room. The vivid painting portrayed Arthur, his expression pitiless, standing in the mouth of a cave brandishing a dagger. In the foreground cowered the hag, her hands raised in supplication. Gray skin hung loosely against her frame and wild, dark hair covered her sagging breasts. Behind Arthur stood Saint Quay with crucifix raised. In contrast to the heavily shadowed form of the hag, Arthur and his knight were rendered in vivid colours and framed by halos of bright sunlight that streamed into the cave. If the panel turned out to be genuine, it was truly an extraordinary find. Taking a deep breath, Remus aimed his wand at the wall and whispered, "Aetas Revelio," enveloping the portrait in a pale, pulsating light.



The sudden sound of steel crashing upon marble rang through the house. Remus swore and jumped back from the wall, his heart pounding. Turning slowly he found himself staring across the hallway at a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, set at eye level halfway up the stairs and surrounded by the gleaming-edged swords that had once lined the walls of the landing. A single sabre slid the remaining way down the stairs, ringing at each step. His eyes followed the slippers to a pair of green and purple polka dot pajamas. The matching top led in turn to a heart-shaped face framed in soft pink curls, exactly the same shade as the slippers. He imagined the effect would be more than a bit pleasant, if the face were not currently schooled into a vaguely familiar scowl. Then he wondered how it was he had missed the rather dangerous looking, if ancient, firearm aimed in his direction. 



The young woman walked cautiously down the stairs until she stood level with him in the hallway. Remus spared a glance for his wand, which he had dropped when she startled him, and which now lay out of reach behind a pedestalled bust in the corner of the room. He imagined that Mad-Eye would have quite a bit to say about his lack of vigilance – that is, if he managed to make it out of the situation with either his life or the Statute of Secrecy intact. 



He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Ah, hello. I'm terribly sorry if I frightened you." 



"What do you think you're doing?" The young woman was British, he was relieved to note. At least he wouldn't risk antagonising her further by trying to communicate in his rather rusty French.



"Admiring your collection?" was the first thing that came to mind, but judging by the woman's expression she was not amused. He noticed with some trepidation that the firearm had not wavered from its aim at the middle of his chest. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be forward, but is that thing armed?"



"What? Of course it is!" she replied, although she seemed a bit nonplussed by the question. Her eyes narrowed. "Are you armed?"



"What? Oh, no, no. See?" He undid the clasp of his cloak to reveal the plain white shirt underneath. "No weapons."



"What about your wand?"



"My ... what?"



She rolled her eyes. "Your wand. I saw the glow from the study as I was coming down the stairs. Besides, its not like your average Muggle burglar traipses around in a cloak these days."



He pointed an accusing finger at her. "You're a witch! Blast Mundungus Fletcher and all of his empty assurances. 'It's quite safe, Remus, they'll all be out for the night. Not to worry, Remus, it's just some old Muggle bloke and his daughter.'"



In hindsight his outburst was probably less than wise considering his position. As the young witch stepped back in alarm her foot caught on the edge of the Persian rug that lined the hallway. She managed to catch herself before stumbling into the stairs, but in the process dropped the gun quite forcefully onto a nearby table. It went off with a rather deafening bang.



"Bloody Hell! You just shot me!" Remus clutched at his arm and looked at her incredulously.



"I shot you!" she cried at the same time. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Here, let me help you."

The young woman rushed into the study and reached for his injured arm.

Remus hissed in pain and withdrew his arm from her grasp. "I think you've helped me quite enough, thanks!"

Logically he knew that the injury was not life-threatening. He had inflicted far worse upon himself during the full moon. Yet something about the idea of being shot by a Muggle firearm was disturbing enough that he felt himself grow queasy. He subsequently found himself in no position to argue as she took his uninjured arm and led him out of the study and in to the sitting room, where he sank gratefully onto an over-stuffed chair.



"Sit there. I'll go and get the first aid kit."



Remus leaned back into the chair, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into. Looking around he noticed that this room quite a bit more comfortable and less formal than the rest of the house. The chair he was sitting in seemed more suited to a Liverpool television room than a manor home in Brittany, for one, and indeed there was a large Muggle telly on the opposite wall. His eyes came to rest on a portrait over the fireplace. An elegant woman in deep blue robes stared down at him with slight smile on her face under an arched eyebrow. Remus knew that expression. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, he knew the inspiration for the portrait. Suddenly, the girl's familiarity made sense. He groaned. He was going to kill Dung.



"It's only a flesh wound." The young woman had apparently interpreted his groan as one of pain as she came back into the room carrying a large box of bandages and ointments. He noticed that she had retrieved her own wand, which was now stuck behind one ear. 



"Yes, well, it's my flesh." He sat up straighter in the chair, trying to restore some modicum of dignity after practically swooning in the aftermath of the ... accident.



"I've said I was sorry. The gun's an antique; I didn't even know it was loaded, much less that it would still fire. And it probably wouldn't have if I weren't so dead clumsy," she added with a self-depreciating frown as she ripped apart his sleeve to examine the wound.



"Excuse me?"

"I tripped, alright! So sue me."



"One might have second thoughts about waving around dangerous weapons if one is prone to clumsiness."

 He shifted irritably in the chair as she prodded the wound.

"Well, one might also have second thoughts about breaking into our bloody house and trying to steal our paintings!"



"I... point taken." She began dabbing at the wound on his shoulder with one of the ointments from the rather well-stocked first aid kit. He took the opportunity to study her more closely. He could see the resemblance now – the shape of the face was rounder, but the high forehead, the intense grey eyes – the girl was a Black, through and through. To his surprise he noticed that her hair was now a deep shade of red, matching the colour high in her cheeks.

"Wasn't your hair pink, before? Or have I just lost quite a bit of blood?"



"What?" She took a lock of hair from her bangs and gazed at it in surprised. "Oh. Must be the stress. It's not everyday I shoot a burglar, you know." She gave a shrug and closed her eyes for a moment in concentration. Immediately the roots of her hair began to turn pink. He watched in fascination as the colour flowed through her curls until her head was covered in the same soft pink he had noticed earlier.



"You're a Metamorphmagus." 



"Apparently," she agreed distractedly while aiming her wand at the gash along his arm. "Episkey. There, that should take care of it. It really was just a flesh wound. Now, what am I going to do with you?" She sighed. "I should have just called the police."



"Why didn't you?" he asked her curiously. "It's the middle of the night, an intruder is in your house ... why didn't you call the police?"



"There wasn't time, was there? I came downstairs for a snack and there you were. Then I thought I'd gone and killed you. And besides, I wasn't sure how I was going to explain to the local gendarmes what a wizard was doing in my father's study. We do have the Statute of Secrecy in France, you know." She rounded on him in annoyance. "And anyway, aren't you glad that I checked first to see if you were alive?"



"Yes, yes, of course. We seem to be at a crossroads, then. You don't wish to involve the local constabulary and Merlin knows I'm certainly not keen on the idea, either. I'll tell you what, you let me go, and I solemnly swear that I will never again try to steal one of your paintings."



"I'm not sure why I should trust the word of a thief."



"Consider it an act of self-preservation. I should hardly want to walk in on you and one of those firearms again."



"Next time I'll be sure and have my wand."



"Even more reason, then. I'll just retrieve my broom from your garden and I'll be off." He stood, too quickly as it turned out, and immediately had to grab the back of the chair to keep from falling as the floor pitched beneath him.



"You're hardly in any position to fly a broom. Where are you staying?"



Remus closed his eyes against the spinning and took a deep breath. "In the wizarding section of Saint Brieuc, an Inn called the Witches' Quarter."



"That's not far. I'll drive you in Dad's car."



Remus was still feeling a bit unsteady as the young woman drove the car around to the back of the house, but the subsequent drive to Saint Brieuc presented ample opportunity for him to regret his choice not to fly. The witch handled the Muggle automobile like it was a broom at the Quidditch World Cup. She seemed to take particular delight in navigating the roundabouts. Several times he was sure they were going to spend the rest of their lives going around in circles, only to have the car dart down a side street at the last minute.

Finally they arrived at the entrance to the Wizarding village of Saint Brieuc.

Remus let out relieved sigh as they screeched to a halt at the curb. He climbed unsteadily out of the car and turned towards his companion with the question he had been meaning to ask throughout the ride, had he not been hanging onto the seat for dear life. "Did your father paint that portrait over the fireplace?"



"Yes, it's a picture of my Mum."



"Then you are Andromeda Black's daughter."



"Andromeda Tonks," she corrected. A wistful expression crossed her face, making her appear even younger. "You knew my mother?" 



"I only met her once. I ... was ... friends with your cousin, Sirius." Seeing her face regain it's guarded look, he elaborated. "We were at Hogwarts together, a long time ago. I'd forgotten how beautiful your mother was. I can see the resemblance, now. You must be Nymphadora."



"Tonks," she replied. At his puzzled expression she blushed and gestured to the green and purple polka dots peeking out from under her hastily donned navy pea coat and Doc Martens. "Nymphadora hardly suits me, does it. It's just Tonks."



"I think Nymphadora suits you quite well, actually." Seeing her brows knit in annoyance, he quickly added, "But Tonks it is. And I am Remus Lupin. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tonks."

She rolled her eyes but accepted his proffered hand. "Lovely, a polite thief."



"The portrait is quite good, you know. Your father is an excellent painter. Then he, ah, must have painted The Death of the Black Hag, as well?"



"Thank you ... Wait, how did - ?" She looked at him in surprise.



"How did I know that it's a forgery? The spell I cast, just before you stumbled" he tried to smother his grin – unsuccessfully by the way her eyes narrowed – "upon my activities. The more intense the color, the older the artifact. That so-called 'lost panel by the Master of St Giles' is closer to 2 years old than 600."



"Bugger." She chewed her lip uncertainly. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"



"Considering the circumstances of our meeting tonight, I don't think it's necessary to notify the authorities." He was suddenly aware of just how taxing the events of the evening had been, and longed for his bed at the Inn, no matter how narrow and lumpy the mattress. "Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you, Nymphadora Tonks. I only hope that the next time we meet it's under less painful circumstances," he couldn't help but add.



"I take it there'll be no more breaking into my home in the middle of the night, then?" she smirked. "Good night, Mr. Lupin."

"Remus," he amended, holding on to her hand a bit longer than absolutely necessary.



"Remus," she agreed.