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I said that my chances of getting in with the muggle president are as good as getting in with Yuri Igorevich, but that was bullshit and bollocks because my mother, on a nice, bright Saturday morning, makes me aware of something incredibly pertinent:
"But Katya, if the muggle president lives right next door to your office, and he is aware of the wizarding world's existence….how is it that I have no grandchildren yet?"
Truuuuue. He does live and love right next for to the Ministry. Why did I never noticed the absolutely gigantic palace next door all this time. I know why, I was too caught up on Yuri Igorevich. Well, that changes now. I will aquire a better husband than a mere magical executioner, sorry, cop. I will acquire…a politician.
My friend, Olga, has something to say about this idea when we grab lunch at work on Monday. My work friend, Anna, also has things to say, unfortunately.
"But Katya, think about this logically…Putin's not a wizard." Olga says, around a massive bite of a massive Russian burger. Above her head, on the wall jutting forth over the lunch ladies and their long row of offerings, tiny five foot eleven Napoleon runs in terror from a personified figure of the Motherland.
Anna the hot Goth Weeb, plucks up a piece of sushi with black chopsticks. "Olya, you're jumping the wand. First she actually has to get his attention."
Olga and I glare at Anna disapprovingly. Why must she rain on my parade by bringing up the fact that I'm not the richest woman in the world?
"How do you know he's not a wizard? He's been on the throne for as long as anyone can remember, and he hasn't aged a day."
"Did he tell the Minister that he's a wizard?"
"No. Not as far as I know."
"Then he's not a wizard, is he? I've never even seen him wear robes."
True. A wizard will always wear robes, constantly tell you they're a wizard, and ruin whatever party they're at. They're like vegetarians and vegans, in that way.
"Okay, but that doesn't matter. I'm fine with marrying a muggle."
My friends, one of whom is muggleborn while the other is half-blood, look at me aghast.
"But what about Yuri Igorevich?" asks Olga.
I don't want to give away my anxiety by shifting in my seat, but I do so anyway. "What about him?"
"He's pureblood." giggles Anna.
"So? Good for him I guess. He got to get in touch with his feminine side at posh boarding school. Whoop de doo."
"No, we mean, you can't lower your standards from pure to mudblood." Olga takes another bite of her burger.
"Hey!" hisses Anna, looking very cute when angry, so cute that I know that shortly some of her many admirers will appear, drawn like mosquitoes to the scent of blood.
"He's not my ex husband, you know." How to wish he were my ex husband.
Olga leans across the table, her cow eyes sparkling. "But he could be. I know he's stubborn as a giant, and so are you, but all you need to do is date the muggle president. Yuri Igorevich will be jealous and come running…or at least he will stare at you evilly over the office samovar."
While I'm pondering the strange turn the conversation has taken, some of Anna's admirers appear beside our table. Fellow Ministry workers, all of them are completely average looking, average heighted males of the Slavic and Nordic types, and therefore of no interest to me.
Olga turns to her 'chips. "You could also date his friend. That might create a similar effect."
"Who? Krum?!"
"I'm pretty sure he only has the one friend, Katya."
"Krum is very…intense. I think I'll try the president first."
💔💝💔
Back when Russia was ruled by Francophilles, all the nobles had Frenchfied names, which is how you know you're dealing with a tosspot in the present. Just look at their last name. If it has 'off' instead of 'ov', they are probably related to the Tsars and or Tolstoy, and very proud of it. This is not at all relevant to me waltzing up into the Grand Kremlin Palace on my hunt for Putin.
Halfway across an immense gold and white ballroom, it occurs to me that I'm on a wild goose chase, as the president is married. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit! I-
"Hello." A tiny gnome in a blue business suit looks up at me, the little man standing very stiff and self consciously, like a boy lined up before a schoolmaster for inspection.
"Aaaah, aren't you adorable! Are you looking for shoes to fix, Mr Gnome?" I've never done it before, because I'm not a child whisperer, but I crouch to be on his eye level. He's quite handsome for a gnome, if you like the ultra Slavic type, which I don't. I like my men Mediterranean. Who doesn't, to be fair.
The gnome has plenty of shoes to be getting on with, as it turns out, so he gives me a tour of the palace. How I wish I lived there. No president makes his appearance. I imagine he's holidaying on the Black Sea, which I may have to do soon if an alternative to Krum doesn't appear in the next five minutes.
When five o clock swings round, I say goodbye to the gnome and head home, a long day of work requiring a long evening of rest and recuperation.
Only when I'm relaxing in the bath does it occurs to me that I've been palling around with the President of Russia all day.
'Krum,
I am answering your many begging letters. I will visit you in Bulgarland, where we can eat goat yoghurt, gratefully remember being rescued from the Turks, and yodel amongst fields of boulders, or whatever it is you guys do down there. See you sometime.
P.S Do NOT tell Yuri Igorevich that I am visiting. His suspicious mind will conceive the worst. Thank you.
Yekaterina Igorevna'