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"Idiot. Moron. Fool. Dipshit. Exceptional individual. Dumbass. Jerk. Devil-"
A litany of fond nicknames greet Yuri ten seconds after the portkey he assured his good friend Viktor was for SURE the correct one, drops them off in not only the wrong city, but on entirely the wrong continent. They were attempting to reach Australia, so as to be killed by spiders and snakes, but end up in Africa, to be killed by different spiders and snakes. They know they're in Africa because their portkey (an old rave flyer) drops them off in front of a sign saying: 'Welcome to Durban, South Africa. Dankie boi'. There's no escaping the A-word, at least.
"I hate you," says Viktor, lovingly, his eagle eyes furious and affectionate behind a pair of wraparound douchebag polarized slanted sunglasses. Sunglasses he is extremely proud of, being a muggle item he purchased from a muggle shop with muggle money, Yuri in tow. If only Hermione could see him now. Dropping the flyer, he pats a breast pocket and pulls out a packet of Bulgarian cigarettes, lighting one and taking a deep drag before continuing. "I'm sure you do these things on purpose. But I shouldn't blame you, really. You were just born wrong, Karkaroff."
Opposite him, standing on the green verge on the side of the road where a series of palm trees form spiky halos behind his head, the one responsible for this latest shenanigan unconsciously copies the younger man and whips a box of black Russian cigarettes from a trousers pocket, placing one to his lips ostentatiously. He also wears sunglasses, normal, black ones. Yuri takes a deep drag as cars drive by under a bright sun gradually cooking the pair of Slavs alive. Releasing the smoke at Viktor, he speaks.
"Vitya, those are swimmer's goggles."