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In Russia it is a well known fact that drinking too much vodka can send people into other dimensions. So much so is this known that it's built into sick leave allocations…I may or may not have precipitated the wasting of some of my squad leader's precious sick leave one week in July.
“It is your birthday, Yuri Igorevich. We must celebrate. Most aurors do not live to turn twenty-four.” Placing a trio of shot glasses down on his desk, I finish off the arrangement with a two litre bottle of the best vodka I can afford, which is a hundredth of the price of the best he can afford. Anyway, one glass for me, one for him, and one to make it seem like I'm not desperately in love with him.
Very slowly he looks away from a photo so gory it's pitch black, to glare at me dully, his lips set in a snarky pout. I need to find out what lip exfoliator he uses, because his are always so pink and perfect. Meanwhile, I look like a tuberculosis sufferer. “I'm working, Yekatrina Igorevena. As you should be.” He mutters, so softly I have to lean in very close to hear.
“Crime can wait. You're only young once.” I feel, ever since wandering around Victorian London together, that we have become slightly closer. Still not close enough to do away with the formality, but these things take time. Me dating his best friend, and Krum immediately proclaiming from the rooftops (literally) that he has a girlfriend finally, may also be contributing to my new ability to bust up into the man's cubicle with spirits.
“I'll be young for the next one hundred years. At least.” He says, turning to whip out his (literally) silver pocket mirror so as to check for the encroachment of fine lines or threads of grey hair, his body temperature rising rapidly due to stress…Why is this my fate? Why do I like this effeminate creature? I ask this into my own mirror everyday.
Meanwhile, our colleagues, having heard the all-hallowed clink of glass, are surrounding us, their steps loud in the recycled quiet of the office.
“Vodka? Vodka? Vodka?” They chirp, beaten up and scarred visages popping up over the cubicle walls like especially ragged sunflowers.
Oh well, I'm not ashamed to resort to peer pressure, tapping my wand on my bottle so that it pours the wonderful clear liquid into my glasses. Vasily Sergeyevich multiplies them so there's enough for everyone and two for him. Proper Russian drinking commences, which Yuri makes no more bones about, all of us standing or sitting around in or near his cubicle, tossing back our ‘water’. Laughter happens, and toasts.
“To Yuri Igorevich! The best squad leader this department has ever had!”
“To Yuri Igorevich, who's not nearly as evil as his papa and uncle!”
“To Yuri Igorevich, who makes me want to die!”
Many such toasts go up, and not all of them are led by me. The latent effects of possession must still be afflicting the man, because, red cheeked and bleary eyed, he makes his own toast, more or less gazing my way where I sit opposite him in the cramped square of plywood he calls home. His glass goes up, along with one side of his mouth, forming a smirk or possibly a lop sided smile. “To Yekaterina Igorevna, who has never seen a challenge she didn't like.”
I don't know if that's an insult or not but I will cherish it for the rest of my life. Ten minutes later, when another bottle of vodka is finished, all of us travel to another dimension.
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“The British Ministry requires an entire special department in order to dimension hop. Needs all sorts of funny little devices in order to go back in time. All we need is a shot glass and some potatoes.” Nikolai Alexandrovich, still with some vodka to his name, gazes around the pristine New Zealand wilderness we find ourselves dumped into upon waking up from our alcoholic stupor. It is very nice. Very British, but via Russia, being much more extreme and liable to kill.
“Don't disparage the British Ministry. They do some good things.” Says Viktor Krum, tipping some Bulgarian bullshit down his throat from a crystal glass stolen from some Sultan or other.
We all gaze upon the superstar in our midst as birds sing and clouds travel overhead, including Yuri Igorevich, who is hanging out in a tree for some reason.
“Why are you here?” Olga asks, her cow eyes batting their eyelashes at the professional ball fancier.
“Um, excuse me? Champion.” Krum plucks at his commemorative Triwizard Tournament t-shirt. It's been a couple years, but he and Yuri never shut the hell up about it. About all the girls, like shooting fish in a barrel, for the latter at least. Yes, well, not all of us can attend Durmstrang.
“Where Vitya goes, I go. And vice versa. Think of him as my daemon.” Yuri answers, accioing a glass from one of the Medvedev Twins. They growl, but otherwise do nothing but stare.
“Excuse me?! You're my daemon. You exist because of me, not the other way around. You didn't even have a name till I blessed you with one, Yurochka.” For some reason, Krum is also very drunk, weaving back and forth on his huge feet, threatening to fall off the gnarled rock plateau we find ourselves occupying. Threatening to make the insurance companies cry. He and his bestie banter some more, without facing each other in the slightest.
Five minutes into his presence being inflicted upon us, I realise that I'm dating him. Shit.
Anna shrugs. “I'm fairly certain you are too young to be Yura’s father, Viktor Ivanovich. But then again, you are a wizard, so who knows.”…Oh God, Anna!
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Some time later, we make our way to this place called Rivendouche, Realgooddeal, Rivendale - one of those - where a grand meeting is occurring, which we were, all of us, apparently invited to.
“I find it interesting how quickly we inure ourselves to celebrities when they deign to live amongst us, no matter how famous or obnoxious they may be." Says Mikhail Mikhailovich, upon taking a seat next to Krum in a circle of awesome out amongst aesthetically falling autumn leaves.
“Even they are related to people, who must think they're the same old prats they've always been.”
“Imagine being Krum's mother.”
“Imagine being Krum.”
“Look, an elf!”
The elf in question (very stately) delivers a very quizzical look back at us, probably because we're all nattering away in Russian.
He opens his mouth once we've shut the hell up. “The One Ring-”
“Oh no…” mutters Yuri Igorevich, local nerd. “...Anyway. Vitya’s Legolas. I'm calling it now.”
“That makes you Gimli.” Mitya sniggers.
“Who the hell is the wizard?”
Our fearless leader shakes his head. “We're all wizards. But in particular me, since I'm by far the wisest and most powerful, as well as the most likely to get angry and do something insane. The dwarf is Yekaterina Igorevna. Boromir is Vasily. The hobbits are Mitya and the girls and everyone else.”
Oh no.
“That makes me Aragorn. Sweeet.” Nikolai Alexandrovich leans back in his stone chair with his legs crossed, and lights a cigar.