Hi! Thanks for taking a few minutes to check this out! This is my first fan fic, so please bear
with me and review if possible--thank you so much to those who already have!! I take all reviews
seriously. For those of you who have been following this, I've done some minor editing on the
text and changed the length of some of the chapters, and added new material at the end. Sorry it
has taken me so long--I've been traveling and haven't been able to get to a computer till now!
After today, updates will occur more frequently, I promise!

***
She flashed him a smile as she ran out into the rain. Drops trickled down the nape of her
neck, mixing with sweat and dust until a miniature trail of mud streamed under her shirt.
Reaching up, she loosened the band holding earth-brown curls so that her hair blazed out
like a flag smacking into a breeze. He stared as her knees suddenly buckled and she knelt
to smell the earth, placing her palm in the mud-an impression which would remain till the
men returned the next day. She tossed her head back, gesturing him to come close, as the
mud oozed into her jeans.

He approached, hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence, and crouched beside
her. His mistake, one which he never seemed to learn from, occurred when he broke eye
contact. All of a sudden, her leg swung around and pitched underneath him, throwing him
off balance. More quickly than a stray at a table scrap, she was on him, bearing an
Amazonian grin.

"That's two," she said.

***
Christine Fields sat back in the overstuffed chair, running one hand upon its cushioned arm
as the other reached for her drink. "Thank you, Rosemerta," she smiled, her soft voice
blending with the snowfall outside.

"Are you sure, ma'am?" Rosemerta looked doubtfully at the drink. "If it isn't. . . ."

"It's fine. Really. One can never have too much chocolate."

Rosemerta arched her brow and glanced over to the bar, where a patron met her glance and
shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. Maybe it goes well with . . . ." She bent down to view
the cover of the tattered book the young woman was cradling.

"Plato," she responded quickly. "A Muggle philosopher," she added, lowering her voice.
The pub was virtually empty, but there was no need to advertise certain things.

"Ah, I see," said Rosemerta, who really didn't see at all where Muggle philosophy had
a place in the isolated village of Hogsmeade--or any philosophy at all, for that matter.
She shifted the tray she was holding to her other hip, and meandered her way towards the bar,
allowing her posture to speak for her.

Christine peeked over her book, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. If this was what the
mainstream wizarding world thought of the classics, it might be a long five months.
Sighing, she flung her arm over the back of the chair, and, shifting her weight, rested
fetus-like in the corner. She draped her ankle over the arm--freedom of movement with
increased modesty was one advantage of wearing robes. It was only after she was comfortable
and attempted to start again at her studies that she felt it--despite her best efforts, she
had attracted the attention of someone behind her. Motionless, she shifted her concentration
backwards, closing her eyes in an effort to block this new world out for a moment. Everything
was so active here--it was not so different from her training with Geral, she supposed, except
that there she knew her place and that of everyone around her. Finally, she identified him,
just as his attention shifted. Another instant and she would have missed him. The soldier
in her analyzed first--he bore no threatening intentions, at least, and apparently didn't
realize she had noticed him--all this could work to her advantage, if it was necessary for
her to--

"Ma'am?" Rosemerta was back, laying a palm on her velvet-covered shoulder. "You alright?"

Mistake Number One. Christine slowly opened her eyes. Feigning a long yawn, she stretched
and smiled. "I'm fine. Perhaps I've read enough for today." With the flexibility of year
of training, she bent over the chair, gathering up her books and notes. "Thank you," she
added, handing the barely-touched mug of chocolate back to Rosemerta. "Put it on my tab,
would you?"

Rosemerta nodded, and Christine strode briskly towards the door, grabbing her outer cloak
as she went. At the last possible second, she stole a glance in the direction of the man,
attempting to take one of those mental snapshots she was so well-known for, and strode out.
It was only when she found herself in the blindness of the rapidly falling snow that she
analyzed what she had seen. He, too, had been sitting with books, his back to the fire.
His robes, although rather old, appeared clean and well-ordered, as were his hands, despite
their proximity to a quill and bottle of ink. They had been rugged hands, well-shaped, with
lines like her father's. He looked older than he was, she guessed, as Kevin had. Wisps of
gray had begun to take shape around his face, but Christine suspected that was more from
stress than age. It was his eyes, though, that showed his true, non-biological age. . .
there had been more in those eyes than an instant could analyze--they were deep eyes, with
a hint of something she couldn't discern in them. . . She stopped, and laughed at herself.

"Only you, Chris, could turn a potential threat into a possible date in under three minutes,"
she scolded herself aloud. Chuckling at her own incongruity, she adjusted the parcel of books
on her back and melted into the snow.

***
Remus Lupin shivered as the open door let in a blast of air. Pulling his cloak tighter around
his shoulders, he moved towards the fire, hoping to absorb some additional warmth. He glanced
towards the chair where she had clanged in his direction, like one glances at a piece of
furniture or a person on a Muggle bus. That was good, though, he supposed. The fewer people
who noticed him, the better. Some things--and he knew exactly which ones--people could discern
with instinct more so than with logic, and he certainly didn't need another person giving him
that look again. This woman, however, hadn't looked at him that way--of course, she may have
been distracted by the fact that everyone in the pub was looking at her. Strangers who weren't
students were rare in Hogsmeade; after all his time and Hogwarts as a student and as a teacher,
he still got his share of glances. To have a strange woman appear from the midst of a winter
storm, particularly one who wore a velvet cloak and read Muggle books, was a rare occurrence
indeed. Especially, Remus mused, someone who held herself with such confidence amidst strangers,
as if she were royalty and it was the rest of the world's loss for not realizing it.

Rosemerta came over to collect his now-empty mug of butterbeer. "Another, Professor?" she asked.

"Thank you, no. I'd best be on my way."

Rosemerta laughed, catching his sideways glance towards the door. "Noticed her too, did you?"

Somehow, Remus didn't think he had noticed the woman in the way some of the wizards at the bar
had, but, taking advantage of her observation, asked, "Who is she?"

"Name's Christine, and this is her first time in Hogsmeade. That's all I could get from her."

If that was all Rosemerta could learn about the woman, it was all anyone would know, Remus
thought. Retracing her footsteps and nodding to Rosemerta, he stiffened his thin body to the
cold and stepped outside.