[For the few moments during which the pat-down takes place, the stranger's calm, professional expression might seem the slightest bit forced. Remus is unused to physical contact; his contacts on the Continent have put his awkwardness down to his British sensibilities, but his fellow countrymen might recognize his aversion to touch as unusual even by their standards. Still, the awkwardness lasts only for a few seconds; by the time he is deemed clean of concealed weaponry or curses, the calm, professional expression is back in place.
He takes a step into the relative dimness of the warehouse and looks around as his eyes adjust. It's a huge, open place, like most warehouses; the wooden ceiling vaults high above their heads, held up by a network of steel struts securely riveted into the walls on all four sides; underneath the ceiling climbs an army of towering, free-standing shelves, neatly arrayed about four feet apart from one another like soldiers standing in ranks, marching regularly into the distance all the way to the wall on either side. Each shelf is made of dark steel and crammed with stock - none of it remotely identifiable as anything more than shadowed boxes, crates, jars or cauldrons: for all Remus knows, he might be standing in a warehouse full of contraband potions or banned grimoires. And around the ranks of shelving swarm a multitude of men, all similarly dressed in dark robes and hats or yarmulkes, moving in all directions with single-minded efficiency at their unknown purposes, carrying anonymous packages or hurrying to walled-off corners. It's all rather impressive to Remus, just in the scope of it if nothing else; he's certainly never worked in so large an establishment before.
His gaze snaps back to the man in front of him when he speaks, attentive and as composed as if he has seen nothing new. He answers smoothly and confidently.]
Lupin.
[He doesn't give a first name; those are generally not called for in his professional life. If the man looks amenable to formal introduction, he will hold out a hand to shake.]
no subject
He takes a step into the relative dimness of the warehouse and looks around as his eyes adjust. It's a huge, open place, like most warehouses; the wooden ceiling vaults high above their heads, held up by a network of steel struts securely riveted into the walls on all four sides; underneath the ceiling climbs an army of towering, free-standing shelves, neatly arrayed about four feet apart from one another like soldiers standing in ranks, marching regularly into the distance all the way to the wall on either side. Each shelf is made of dark steel and crammed with stock - none of it remotely identifiable as anything more than shadowed boxes, crates, jars or cauldrons: for all Remus knows, he might be standing in a warehouse full of contraband potions or banned grimoires. And around the ranks of shelving swarm a multitude of men, all similarly dressed in dark robes and hats or yarmulkes, moving in all directions with single-minded efficiency at their unknown purposes, carrying anonymous packages or hurrying to walled-off corners. It's all rather impressive to Remus, just in the scope of it if nothing else; he's certainly never worked in so large an establishment before.
His gaze snaps back to the man in front of him when he speaks, attentive and as composed as if he has seen nothing new. He answers smoothly and confidently.]
Lupin.
[He doesn't give a first name; those are generally not called for in his professional life. If the man looks amenable to formal introduction, he will hold out a hand to shake.]