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Despite Christine's, justified, reservations, going with the flow worked out quite well for them. At least, it had for the first few days of the trip. They'd only been in the little town for three days. But they had been a wonderful three days. So, Christine found herself cautiously optimistic for the rest of their stay.

Her uncharacteristic optimism was, however, about to be tested.

The initial days of their holiday had been spent entirely in the wizarding area of the town. On their fourth day, though, Christine's friends decided they wanted to go and explore muggle France.

This was a decision that struck apprehension deep into Christine's heart. Her friends were all purebloods and half-bloods. But even her half-blood friends had spent very little time in the muggle world. Which, Christine supposed, was probably why they were all so eager to dive into it when they had the opportunity.

The problem was, they were all so magical. They didn't have a clue what a parking meter was, and they still giggled over muggle money. Which they all apparently found hilarious.

It was enough to make Christine quite certain they were all going to be arrested for breaking the International Statue of Secrecy before lunch. It was an inevitability Christine resigned herself to pretty quickly. Instead of dreading it, she had decided to enjoy the oncoming fuck up. And keep an eye out for any tidy escape routes along the way.

Maybe come up with a few believable excuses, too. Detour on a trip to Lourdes to cure their insanity? Her friends wouldn't like that one bit. But Christine thought the Muggle Worthy Excuse Office would like it.

And if they ended up making her use it, well, they deserved whatever she threw at them.

Because her friends fortunately had managed to retain some sense of self-preservation, Christine was unanimously nominated to be in charge of their outing. She had mentally prepared a day that would amuse the other girls and keep them all out of trouble. Though she didn't let on that she'd planned it all in advance.

They were supposed to be doing things spontaneously, after all.

Christine was happy to maintain the illusion, since it made Francis and Emily so giddy. But privately, she thought it was too much of a Gryffindor thing to do more than once.

If the girls suspected anything, they didn't mention it. In fact, they were delighted with Christine's choice of activity. She'd brought them to a flea market, which was joined in the morning time by the local farmer's market. When they saw the maze of stalls filled with everything and anything under the sun, they stopped complaining that Christine had woken them up so early.

They scattered, looking at everything that caught their attention with an almost childlike enthusiasm and curiosity. Any other part of town, and Christine was sure that behaviour would have drawn a lot of attention to them. But at an open air market like this, it was pretty much expected. Especially from tourists, which her friends obviously were.

Yes, they'd all dressed quite convincingly in muggle clothes. But it was too easy, still, to see that they weren't from the area. They were just too damn English to blend in with a place like this. And that could be said no matter if they were in the magical or muggle part of town.

For one, they didn't speak a word of French between them. Instead chatting and squealing in loud, excited English. For another, everything from their accents, to the way they carried themselves, and the way they dressed, screamed British. It was glaringly obvious to Christine right then that they'd never known anything different before.

Christine sometimes overlooked the possibility that not everyone had the same variety of experience as she did. But then she was reminded of it again and again. As she saw the stalls and people the other girls flocked to. Posh, bougie, or artisanal were the traits her friends felt most comfortable with. She watched them drink café au lait, and eat handmade, overpriced, creps and macarons with a small smile.

But once she was satisfied they were going to continue to behave themselves, Christine left them at it. She wandered off to a place in the market she'd be much more comfortable. Far away from the bourgeoisie hipsters her friends had fallen in love with over the last few hours. They were on the opposite end of the market place. Christine guessed they could stand the hipsters about as much as she could.

Christine stopped when she came to a boot selling beautiful scarves and shawls. Next to which there was a far more reasonably priced coffee truck. And outside them both was a fold out table. Around which a very intense game of snap was being played. The participants exclaiming in an effortless combination of French and Romani.

She relaxed and strolled into the stall with the scarves. The woman in charge of the place eyed her a bit suspiciously, but Christine ignored her. Focused instead on picking out a few presents for her step-mother and her little sisters from among the cloth and jewellery.

When she paid for them, and a few things for herself, she used the French her father taught her to speak to the woman. The woman raised an eyebrow at her, but Christine didn't react, and the shopkeeper seemed to relax a good deal.

Christine's primary school teacher had told her she sounded like a gypsy when she spoke French. The Parisian woman had meant it as an insult. But she had always wondered if it was true. She supposed she had her answer.

"I don't know you," the woman commented in Romani, clearly testing to see if Christine could understand the language.

"You don't," Christine replied in kind, "I'm just visiting."

The game outside had quietened down significantly. The shopkeeper obviously wasn't the only one curious about her anymore.

"How do you write yourself, child?" the woman asked, narrowing her eyes at Christine again.

Christine shrugged at her to show her lack of concern at the woman's unhidden wariness.

"Rumancek," she answered simply, and waited for the woman to return the favour.

She wasn't left waiting for long.

"Badi," she said without any ceremony, "Why do you speak French, you're Romanian?"

"My father taught me, his mother was from Bordeaux."

Badi nodded as she began to pack Christine's purchases into a paper shopping bag.

"What should we call you?"

"Kalo," she answered after a moment's thought.

Her parents and sisters had been the only people to call her by her Roma name before, but it felt right to give it to Ms. Badi.

"We'll see you again, Kalo," Badi said in parting.

Christine left the shop with a wave and grabbed herself a wonderful, reasonably priced coffee. When she left to find her friends again, it was with friendly waves of the other Roma bidding her goodbye.

As she walked away, Christine felt more like herself than she had since she left her home behind. Even if it was only for a short time. Whatever her friends had gotten up to in her absence, it was worth it.

A/N - Rin here, I thought I should explain somehow why Christine was so angry with the muggle world, and why she hated government and social workers so much, when she thought McGonagall was one. To this day, Romani people face a lot of discrimination in Britain and Ireland. I've always thought of her father as being Roma, but I realised I never put it in the story at all. So, here it is. I hope this doesn't feel too sudden or like it doesn't fit. If it does feel like that, let me know and I'll work on it.