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“No.”
“Hollander, you are being dramatic.”
“I’m not, but even if I was, the answer’s still no.”
“You cannot simply say no. We are co-leads of this investigation, are we not? You are not boss—”
“You aren’t, either! You can’t just make these decisions without talking to me about it—”
“If there was any chance of talking and not simply being told no, I would—”
“—have to agree on a way forward, Rozanov—”
“Then agree, Hollander!”
Hollander didn’t answer, choosing instead to simply glare at Ilya across the pristine surface of his desk. Ilya ignored the stab of arousal in his gut that came with being subjected to the full force of Shane Hollander’s dark eyes. They were always so intense, focused so wholly on whatever he was looking at, and when that was Ilya, well.
He crumpled with a groan, slouching back in his chair in a futile attempt to get his thoughts back on track.
“This is not a critical mission parameter, Hollander. We are just setting up basic team structure—”
Hollander let out a little snort of derision. It was, unfortunately for Ilya, needlessly cute. “Attempting to bring half of the department in on this doesn’t count as setting up a basic team structure, Rozanov.”
“It is necessary,” Ilya argued. Hollander had never led a covert operation of this size, and was clinging stubbornly to the insane idea that they could run it within mission parameters, on schedule and under budget. Ilya knew they’d be lucky if even one of those happened. “First part of an investigation is always the most labour-intensive. If we keep it at bare minimum of staff, information will slip through the cracks. We will be building the operation on incomplete data.”
The tactic worked. Hollander’s brows drew together at the horrific concept of incomplete data.
“We narrow down the team as soon as we establish scope of the Desjatyj Krug supply chain,” Ilya said coaxingly, going in for the kill. “And if investigation widens again later, we will already have extra people with basic knowledge of the mission that we can bring in to assist.”
Ilya let this percolate, resisting the urge to pressure Hollander into a quick response. It was easier than usual to suppress his natural impatience, since he got to stare at Shane uninterrupted while he waited.
Hollander had let his hair grow unusually long. It flopped over his forehead as he scanned the list of Ilya’s preferred operatives, and Ilya had to shove his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from brushing it out of Hollander’s eyes for him.
Wordlessly, Hollander reached for his quill, and made a few decisive crossings-out before shoving it back across the desk. He’d removed half-a-dozen names — junior Aurors-in-training, mostly, and two desk jockeys Ilya’d only really included because he wanted someone else to do his fucking paperwork for a change.
“I can work with this.” Ilya let out a sigh, as though making a noble, painful sacrifice for Hollander’s benefit.
“You’re a saint,” Hollander replied, dry as dust, and Ilya couldn’t hold back a grin. Hollander was fucking funny when he wanted to be, which admittedly wasn’t often. But Ilya was seeing flashes of it more and more since they’d broken the matryoshka Transfiguration together; little glimpses of Shane beneath the coolly serious exterior.
“This is what they tell me,” Ilya agreed solemnly, and was rewarded by the tiniest twitch of Shane’s lips. “Pope very impressed with my owl experiment, created St. Ilya’s Day in my honour.”
“How do you even know who the Pope is?” Hollander asked, looking startled. “You’re not Muggle-born.”
“Six months in catacombs under the Vatican,” Ilya replied. “During my time at the Department of Mysteries.”
Inwardly, he shuddered at the memory. Ilya had never minded ghosts — he’d even befriended a couple of heavily Bludgered spirits that haunted the Quidditch pitch, back at Durmstrang — but the ones under the Holy See had been another matter entirely, tied to the earthly plane by ancient magic. Ghastly. Infernal.
Predictably, Hollander’s jaw tightened at the mention of the Department of Mysteries, his tiny smile gone in an instant. Ilya still didn’t know why Hollander hated that he’d worked there, but after The Incident, Ilya had thoroughly learned not to ask.
“I will run this by Wiebe,” Ilya continued, hoping to push past the sudden tension. “So long as the funding is approved, we could hold first briefing by the end of the week.”
“Works for me,” said Hollander, all crisp efficiency once more. “I’ll ask Rose for an initial equipment estimate. We’ll be able to get the standard Dark Detectors right away, but the specialized gear may take some time. She might be able to fast-track it, though. She’s pretty good with stuff like that.”
Ilya just nodded. Great. Of course Rose Landry, who was both undeniably pretty and irritatingly good, would be pretty good at getting Shane whatever he needed. She was pretty good at a lot of things. Making Hollander smile, for one, teasing out a lightness and ease that he never showed around Ilya. Getting him to agree to after-work drinks and group activities, while every one of Ilya’s invitations had been turned down with varying degrees of politeness and suspicion.
Worst of all, she was by all accounts pretty good at dating Shane Hollander, which she’d done for nine interminable, agonizing weeks last summer, the two of them eating lunch together in his office and leaving work hand-in-hand until Rose Landry was one more pretty sundress away from Ilya turning her Ministry badge into a Portkey to literally anywhere else so that he never had to look at her again.
“Was there something else?” Hollander interrupted Ilya’s ruminations on Rose Landry’s forced relocation, eyebrows raised questioningly.
“No,” said Ilya quickly, getting to his feet. “Just thinking about the equipment estimate. I would like to put in a request for a Pensieve, if possible.”
“Why?” Hollander asked. Surprisingly, his tone held no skepticism, only curiosity.
“We know Desjatyj Krug are running a highly sophisticated operation. It is decentralized. Many routes, separate chains of command. Different types of magical concealment, depending on the product they are moving. We will have to track down many sources, and most will not want to talk. Maybe we will only see them once, never again. Certainly they will not testify, if we ever get to that point.”
“We’ll get to that point,” said Hollander firmly, and Ilya felt another jolt of lust at the determined set of his jaw, the steady confidence of his gaze.
“In which case we will need reliable evidence,” Ilya replied, shooting Hollander a small smile that, to Ilya’s delight, the other man returned. Two smiles in the same conversation — a new record. “And it will be easier to discuss the information we receive if we can enter the memory. We will not both be present at every interrogation.”
“Makes sense,” said Hollander, and his usual grudging acceptance whenever Ilya made a good point was nowhere to be found. “I’ll write up a special dispensation to give Wiebe.”
Ilya could recognize a polite Hollander dismissal when he saw one. “I will leave you to it then.”
If there was an extra spring in his step as he left Hollander’s office — the third time in a row that they had parted on amicable terms — that was nobody’s business but Ilya’s.
⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤
As much as he wanted Cliff on the op, even Ilya could acknowledge that the squad needed him at the helm of their other ongoing investigations while Ilya focused on the Desjatyj Krug. Still, he found himself missing Marleau’s easygoing nature more and more as the operation picked up speed.
“I’m just surprised Hollander hasn’t tried to drown you in the Pensieve yet,” Marleau commented, when Ilya expressed this to him, three weeks into this new arrangement. “No offence, Rozy, but you’re a fucking nightmare at the beginning of a new op.”
Ilya glared, but couldn’t bring himself to argue. Normally, he prided himself in his trust in his squad and laid-back approach to leadership, but he was intense at the start of investigations, somehow both maniacally strict with his team over their attention to detail and impatient with the speed of their progress. Ilya’s working theory was that the lack of immediate danger made him restless and irritable. Cliff’s theory was that Ilya had a certain capacity to be a pain in the ass, and, much like a liquid, would fill that space with new irritating behaviours if placed in a too-calm environment.
“It has gone better than I expected it to go,” Ilya admitted. “Hollander has not done so many covert ops, but he has more Auror experience than I do in the field. He sees problems I would not think of.”
“Well, if there’s one thing Hollander’s good at, it’s pointing out problems you haven’t noticed,” Cliff teased him. Ilya’s laugh was only a little strained around the edges.
Hollander’s determination to keep their working relationship civil was a good thing. Ilya knew that. It was certainly an improvement from the animosity that had sprung up on Ilya’s very first day, and leaps and bounds better than the awful chill that had descended between them after The Incident, ravaging any progress Ilya had made toward changing Hollander’s terrible first impression. But he couldn’t help feeling oddly dissatisfied, desperately wishing he could crack Shane’s facade open like an egg to see what hid behind the pristine professionalism. He wanted to claw his way into Shane Hollander’s carefully ordered world, crawl around inside his head, taste every inch of his skin —
“Rozanov.”
Both Ilya and Cliff looked up. Hollander was hovering at the threshold, somehow managing to look both polite and vaguely disgusted at the state of Ilya’s office.
“Hollander!” Cliff grinned, stuffing the rest of his sandwich into one cheek. “Just the man we were—”
“What do you want, Hollander?” Ilya cut across Cliff forcefully, drowning out what was sure to be a humiliating sentence.
“I—” Hollander looked uncertain now, for some reason, his cheeks flushing a dull red. Fuck, Ilya wanted to bite them. “I only wanted to check if you got the report from the Welsh regional office—”
“Yes, I have boring report. No, I did not read. It is five million pages long.”
Cliff stood up, crumpling the newsprint his chips had been in with one gigantic fist and chucking it at Ilya. “Later, Rozy. Hollander.”
Ilya batted away the projectile, arcing it over Hollander’s head with a non-verbal Levioso to smack Marleau on the ear.
“How can you not have read it yet? It’s been in your in-tray since Tuesday,” said Shane crossly.
Ilya raised his eyebrows. “And you know this how?”
“Because I put it there.” Shane retorted, finally entering Ilya’s office and squaring up for battle across the desk. “To build the investigation on solid data, you need to actually look at the data, you know.”
Ilya shot him his sunniest smile. “Why should I, when you have already read it and will tell me what’s important?”
Shane glared. Ilya had begun to categorize Shane’s glares on a sliding scale, the last few weeks. Currently, he was scoring a six, bordering a seven. Not great, but not a lost cause, either.
“I have been busy, Hollander. Not all the data we need can come from official sources.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Shane, eyeing him with more than a little suspicion.
“It means sources that are not official,” said Ilya, deliberately unhelpful, just to watch the way Hollander’s lower lip stuck out when he was irritated. It was subtle, not enough to be called a pout — Ilya doubted Hollander was even aware of it — but it occupied far too large a corner of Ilya’s brain, especially late at night, when he was drifting in that liminal space between awake and asleep.
“I have been reaching out to contacts. So have Connors, St-Simon, Price.” Ilya rattled off three of his most experienced Aurors, all of which he’d brought on because of their well-established covert networks.
“We will see results, but it will be much slower than your regional offices. Better information, though,” Ilya added with a wink, and to his surprise, Hollander broke eye contact, lashes fluttering a little as he fidgeted with one of Septya’s stray feathers scattered across the desk.
“Are you bringing them in for interviews?”
Ilya barked out a laugh. “I would never see them again if I did. No, most will not risk being seen with us for long. Brief meeting, then I send Septya to them later for their coded report.”
“Septya?”
“Septentria. My owl.” Ilya nodded to the enchanted office window, which showed the snowy London streets eight levels above their heads. “We are lucky it is winter. She is quite pale for an eagle-owl.”
“I… what if we combined the reports as they come in? Instead of both doing separate analyses of what we get.” Hollander fiddled with the feather, biting his lower lip in a way that was proving extremely fucking distracting as Ilya attempted to follow his train of thought. “I can summarize the Welsh report, but if any of your contacts are in that area—”
“Two,” Ilya replied automatically, flicking through his mental arsenal. “A hag in Carmarthen and a Gwyllgi breeder in Snowdonia foothills.”
“A what breeder?”
“You do not know this?” Ilya brightened. “They are like dogs, Hollander, but much better. Very strong and beautiful. When I visited last year, he had entire litter! Two months old, and already larger than most wolves. Breath not lethal yet, of course, but eyes already dark red and glowing in the night—”
“Nevermind,” said Hollander hastily. “What I’m trying to say is, I’ll be able to get more out of the report if I have the intelligence from your contacts to look at while I do it.”
“I can see why this would help. But like I said, I cannot guarantee when I will receive their replies.”
“I can work with what you have for now.” Hollander was beginning to talk a bit faster, that bright flame of enthusiasm sparking to life. It was what had first made Ilya’s heart skip a beat, the day he met Shane Hollander. Almost two years later, the sight still warmed Ilya through like sunshine. “If we map out the smuggling routes region by region, we can send scout units to each one to test the magical signatures—”
“Which will make it easier to identify more routes as new information comes in,” Ilya finished, already envisioning the map in his mind’s eye. “And if we draw it using Dimensional Ink and cast a Spatial Expansion Charm—”
“—we can imbue the map’s geography with the trace signatures to figure out how the entire concealing enchantment structure operates, that’s brilliant!”
Ilya wasn’t sure who was more surprised by this unexpected praise, him or Shane.
“Thank you,” he replied automatically, after a few seconds’ stunned silence.
“Right.” Shane was scarlet, now, gaze flitting in every direction but Ilya’s. “Well. I’ll just… okay. Send me what you have.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, only stopping to close the door conscientiously behind him. Ilya stared at the door for a second, then, firmly resolving to not think about it, grabbed the stupid report from his in-tray. Anything was better than sitting around wondering if Shane Hollander had finally decided to stop hating him.
⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤ 𓅓 ⛤
Cracking the security enchantments on Hollander’s office door took over two hours. By the time Ilya’s muttered alohomora clicked open the lock, his shirt was damp with sweat and sticking to his back. His hands were trembling slightly from exertion when he finally turned the knob. Hollander was powerful, Ilya knew that — and while they might be matched in their skill in the field, it was another thing entirely to try and break his careful, complex spellwork single-handedly.
Thinking longingly of the emergency vial of Pepperup Potion he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk, Ilya stepped cautiously inside Hollander’s office, alert for any secondary security measures. He’d braved the freezing rain outside to arrive a full three hours before his shift began, because Hollander always showed up at least forty-five minutes early. Ilya had to work fast.
To his dismay and grudging gratitude, Ilya’s accomplice to this forced entry had been none other than Rose Landry. As the Auror Office’s Head Warden, she was the only one who held the counter-spells to the protective magic that prevented any alterations to the offices on this floor. In Ilya’s (admittedly biased) opinion, she could do with a brush-up on her Legilimens training, because she’d been surprised but eager to help when he explained that Hollander was just so busy working on their investigation, he hadn’t had time to request an office expansion and had asked if Ilya could please take it off his plate, as a favour?
She’d lifted the wards for three hours — more than enough time, if Ilya’d actually had permission from Hollander to enter his office and perform the expansion, which he definitely didn’t. There were now twin timers ticking down to Hollander’s arrival and the wards re-setting inside Ilya’s head, and he fought to find that cool, dispassionate state of mind he sank into during missions. Get in and get out.
Hollander’s office was as pristine and fastidiously organized as ever. Ilya’s wandlight passed over the overstuffed shelves of alphabetized spellbooks, the spotlessly tidy potions station, the gleaming brass Dark Detectors lined up on the fireplace mantel. In one corner, the surface of Hollander’s Foe Glass swirled and shimmered in the dim half-light. Ilya deliberately avoided looking at it too closely.
Shutting the door behind him, Ilya lit the wall sconces with a wave of his wand and did a slow circuit of the room. Each office on the floor had a small storage cupboard for potion ingredients, field equipment, or — in Haas’s case — an entire Bowtruckle farm, which he’d successfully kept hidden from the rest of the office for six months, until Boodram tried to borrow his Invisibility Cloak and ended up in St. Mungo’s for two weeks.
It was this door that Ilya tested, finding it unlocked, and he examined the contents. Rows of meticulously organized ingredients, labelled trunks of field gear, and, to Ilya’s surprise and delight, an Air Wave Gold racing broom, perfectly aligned and polished to a shine.
“ух ты,” Ilya muttered, stroking the handle with reverent fingers. He’d never played Hollander, back in their Quidditch days, but he’d certainly heard of him. Fast, nimble, and highly strategic, Shane Hollander had been a frontrunner for the national squad before his early retirement. Ilya remembered the stab of disappointment he’d felt when he’d heard the news and realized he’d never get to find out who was the better Seeker.
Carefully, Ilya moved the broom to lean against the desk, then conjured a large armoire to hold the cupboard’s remaining contents. To make space on either side of the door, he had to rearrange some of Hollander’s furniture — there would be hell to pay for that, Ilya was sure — but he at least managed to keep the ingredients in alphabetical order as they flew onto their new shelves.
Standing on the threshold of the now-empty closet, Ilya passed his wand from one hand to the other. Despite his father’s best efforts, he’d never lost his ambidexterity. Ilya’s creative spellwork was just plain better if he used his left hand, and practical spells more powerful when cast with his right.
Methodically, he began to clear away stray thoughts, letting his mental image of the expansion grow larger and more detailed in his mind’s eye. The hum of magic started to build around him, and he imagined channelling it in and up as he cast the Undetectable Expansion Charm. Vibrant orange light crackled from his wand, temporarily blinding him.
When the spots finally faded from Ilya’s vision, the cupboard doorway had expanded, tripling in width until it stretched across the blank expanse of wall around it. The closet itself was now a comfortably-sized second office with a direct line of sight to Hollander’s desk. Ilya was pleased to see he’d even managed to replicate the pattern of the tile so that the flooring flowed seamlessly into the original office.
The chime of the clock on the mantelpiece cut short Ilya’s admiration of his own Transfiguration. Sticking his head out into the hall, he aimed his wand in the general direction of his office.
“Accio!”
A series of loud thumps, bangs, and crashes accompanied the contents of Ilya’s office as they zoomed between the cubicles toward him like a crazed herd of elk. He flicked his wand at each as they arrived, directing them to their new locations in Hollander’s office. Desk, chair, bookshelf, and filing cabinet all flew into place, followed shortly by the miscellaneous knick-knacks and magical instruments that normally sat upon them. Knowing how pissed Hollander would already be once he became aware of this unwanted renovation, Ilya decided to leave his more lethal plants and experimental potions where they were.
He was just conjuring up a large blackboard to hang on the wall space between their desks when the cool, collected voice of the Ministry elevator floated down the hall.
“Level Eight: Auror Office.”
“Pizdets,” Ilya cursed under his breath, hastily performing a final scourgify to tidy up the remaining mess of his relocation. Grabbing a stack of papers at random, he slid behind his desk seconds before Hollander appeared, looking distinctly bedraggled, hair and sensible coat both rain-drenched. He stopped dead on the threshold, mouth falling open in shock.
“What—?”
“Good morning,” said Ilya cheerily, looking up from the Welsh report, as though he’d been heavily engrossed in it until now. “Very rainy outside, yes? I do not think I will get my lunch walk in today.”
“I…” Hollander took a few slow steps into the room, eyes flicking in every direction as he tried to take in the changes Ilya had made. “Rozanov, what the actual fuck is going on?”
“Well, I finished report from the Welsh office, and it looks like a new one has come in from Inverness.” Ilya nodded politely at Hollander’s in-tray. “I thought you may wish to read it first, so I have not touched it.”
“You— I don’t— you haven’t—?” Hollander’s voice sounded strained, shoulders creeping higher and higher with every stuttered syllable.
“No, I have not,” Ilya agreed placidly. “I am considerate office-mate in that way.”
As expected, this proved too much for Hollander.
“Considerate? You— tell me this wasn’t your idea.” The messenger bag slipped off Hollander’s shoulder and hit the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. “Rozanov, tell me you didn’t just decide to hack the wards, break into my fucking office, and move yourself in without so much as a hint to anyone else, let alone permission.”
“I did not hack wards,” replied Ilya, rather flattered that Hollander thought he had the power to break protective enchantments that took six highly skilled wizards to set up in the first place. “Rose took them down for me.”
Hollander goggled at him. “Rose—?”
“Yes, she was very helpful. Nice girl, Rose Landry. Do you know if she is seeing anyone?”
Shane’s face had bypassed pink and turned deep red, freckles washed out by the force of his angry blush. “I — you’re joking. I can’t believe this. Are you fucking kidding me?”
With a crack, the crystal ball on the mantelpiece shattered, sending wet shards of glass in every direction. Ilya straightened in alarm. “Hollander, there is no need to—”
But Shane wasn’t listening. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Who the hell do you think you are, breaking into my office and setting it up the way you want? Holy shit.” The other man turned on his heel, pacing, raking his hands through his damp hair. “I could kill you. I could actually fucking strangle you right now, Rozanov, what the fuck—”
Ilya was coming to the slow, sinking realization that he may have made a mistake. He’d known Hollander would be pissed. He hadn’t expected rage to the point of accidental magic.
“Hollander, I did not damage anything, I swear. I kept everything much the same, I just needed space to—”
Shane wheeled around. “You can’t just move in without my permission!”
“Would you have given your permission?” Ilya asked — not unreasonably, he thought.
“Of course not!” Hollander dropped into the chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands. He appeared to be taking very large, deep breaths.
“Then what was I supposed to do, Hollander? Beg on hands and knees? Tattle to Wiebe that you are not being team player?”
It was a pointed dig, possibly below the belt, but now Ilya was too frustrated to care. Surely Hollander had to know by now that his unwillingness to adapt was his greatest flaw as an Auror. Though Ilya was far from a model of professionalism — very far, depending on who you asked — he liked to think he was at least aware of his many shortcomings. But Hollander never gave an inch, never admitted to a single mistake.
Or maybe that was just around Ilya. Maybe if it came from Boisseau, or Pike, or Rose Landry, Hollander would listen, possibly even appreciate their advice and suggestions. The thought was tinged with an odd, stinging grief.
Ilya gave himself a mental shake. There was no sense mourning something he’d never had. Merlin knew he’d lost enough without adding Shane Hollander’s imagined friendship to the pile.
Hollander had removed his face from his hands and was now staring blankly into space. His mouth was settled into an unhappy line, brow creased in a way that had Ilya shifting guiltily in his chair.
“I am sorry I did this without asking first,” said Ilya, and he meant it. Winding Hollander up could be fun, but Ilya could see how disoriented and anxious the sudden change had made him. He’d never meant for that. “I knew it would upset you, and I did it anyway. This is not being a good partner.”
He waited as Hollander digested this information, resisting the urge to over-explain.
“Thank you,” said Hollander at last. His jaw was still tight with anger, but his shoulders fell from his ears ever so slightly.
“We disagree about so many things, I still assume your answer to anything I suggest will always be no. But this is not fair to you,” Ilya added, as Hollander opened his mouth to respond. “Because we have gotten better at this. I am trying, you are trying. And it is producing good work.”
Hollander stared at him, his expression unreadable. Ilya used the time to wonder how likely it was Rose would help him out again with removing the wards on his own office. Maybe if he expanded his, he could gradually encourage Hollander to spend more and more time working there —
“Why do you want to work in the same office?” Hollander asked, interrupting his train of thought. To Ilya’s relief, there was only cautious curiosity in his voice, the same as when he’d asked Ilya about the Pensieve.
Ilya frowned. He thought it would’ve been obvious. “It is standard for nearly all investigations longer than a month for partnered Aurors to share an office, no? Consolidates data, easier communication. Presents less of a security risk when all information is kept in one place. Serves as a hub for operational planning.”
Hollander traced patterns on his desk with a fingertip. “Right. I mean, yeah. It is standard. I guess I just didn’t think we’d be doing that.”
“Investigation will last at least six months,” Ilya replied. “Probably closer to a year. Maybe more.”
“I know. I’ve just never—” Shane broke off, flushing slightly. “This is my first long-term partnered mission. I don’t normally… I just didn’t think of it.”
The admission was startling enough to make Ilya stop to consider it. The Dark Artefact Disarmament Squad usually worked in teams of two, but each Auror on the squad had different areas of expertise, so the pairings shifted constantly depending on what type of Dark magic they were up against. Hollander specialized in Dark artefacts containing or protected by poisons and encoded curses, but since he’d become Lead Auror he probably didn’t do much fieldwork anymore, let alone partner up regularly with the same person.
“It makes sense,” said Hollander, dragging his gaze up to meet Ilya’s. “Sharing an office. You’re right.”
Ilya tried not to look too pleased with himself, but Hollander caught it, anyway.
“What isn’t right is breaking into my fucking office to move in without my permission, and tricking Rose into helping you.”
“I know,” admitted Ilya, but Hollander didn’t soften.
“I mean it, Rozanov. Don’t ever pull this kind of shit again, or I’m going straight to Wiebe.”
“Fair enough. But Hollander, will you do me one favour?”
Hollander bristled, all angry-kitten offense. “You’re seriously going to ask me for—”
“I will not pull this kind of shit again, no matter what,” Ilya interrupted. “But it would be much easier for me to avoid if I feel you will genuinely listen to what I am saying, even if it is something you do not like.”
“I don’t—” Hollander protested, then broke off, biting his lip as he realized he was about to prove Ilya right. Ilya suppressed a grin, and the ghost of an answering smile tugged Hollander’s mouth. “Fair enough.”
“So we are good, now?” Ilya asked cautiously.
Hollander shot him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. “No, I’m still fucking pissed at you. But I’m guessing the wards are already up again—” Ilya nodded. “—and I’m already too busy today sorting through your intel to fill out an official complaint, so.”
“You are too good to me, Hollander,” Ilya clutched at his heart. “I am not worthy to breathe the same stale office air as a partner so tolerant, efficient, professional—”
“I will strangle you with that stupid tie,” said Hollander idly, as he began to flip through the contents of his in-tray.
“Hollander!” Ilya moved his hand to cover the tie protectively. The red and gold serpents twisted sinuously beneath his fingers, moving sleekly through the charmed silk. “This is Altai Azhdaya tie! You cannot speak this way about the best team in the European League—”
As always, Hollander took the bait. “Best team in the League? They’re not even the best team in Siberia!”
“Oh, so I suppose you are a fan of weak British team with terrible aim and slow Chasers?”
“You don’t even know which one I support!” Hollander’s ears flushed when he was indignant, but not when he was angry. Ilya filed this information away carefully.
“It does not matter, all British teams have terrible aim and slow Chasers.”
“At least our League has refs that aren’t fucking blind—”
Ilya waved his wand at the door to keep Shane’s ranting from spilling out into the hall, and settled in for what promised to be a thoroughly enjoyable morning.