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It's summer, but that doesn't mean the life of an auror gets any easier. No, for one thing, Moscow turns into a gigantic sauna, and, as per usual, my nice quiet day blowing up bad guys is interrupted by the love of my life as he goes rollerblading past my cubicle. Or ‘inline skating’, as he calls it. Aurors on skates were a thing before he was birthed into the world, and he's the head of the skating branch in Moscow, so it's not that which has me running towards the Department Head's office. But first, Olga appears out of the kitchen, old lady cup of tea in hand.
“Yuri Igorevich is suffering a midlife crisis.” I blurt, before she can ask me what I'm up to.
“He's twenty-four!” she gasps, after being forced to spit out her hot tea after inhaling it up her nose.
“His life expectancy is thirty-one.”
Olga does the maths, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling, then she shrugs, popping a tea-flavoured lollipop between her lips. “Your courtship style is very unique, Katya, but don't blame me when he apparates into your flat and murders you.”
What a strange thing to say. I am waiting till the new school term begins to post my Flying Dutchman reel so that very event has a lower likelihood of occurring, because the person being murdered will be him, by my mother. Also, I am definitely not wasting my time and health attempting to court a man with veneers. Anyway, time to see the boss.
“Yuri Igorevich needs to return to therapy,” I say, when I slop into the well used therapy chair in front of the boss's granite desk. “Gold skates, Boris Romanovich,” I say. When he says nothing, I reiterate, more forcefully. “GOLD-”
Boris Romanovich shakes himself free from his stupor. “I heard, Yekaterina Igorevna! I'm simply in a state of intense shock and disbelief.”
“So am I. That's why I'm here, telling on him to you. Come see.”
But I forgot that the boss only leaves his desk once a year, so I have to lure my squad leader over to him, and get him to skate past the transparent office walls. How do I do this? Not money, not hair care products, not carbohydrates, not make up, not dark artefacts or genealogical trees, no, I require an utterly foolproof lure…
“What are you doing with those files, Katya? I'll have you know that I just finished organising them. It's not my job. I am an auror, from an ancient lineage of aurors, but someone has to do it, and since you youngsters-” Mikhail Mikhailovich attempts to get in the way of my beloved's mental health by obstructing justice and my collection of files from the bank of office storage units, his greying hair flying around in the air conditioning. Now, friendly fire is not an uncommon event amongst law enforcement personnel, and I must just decide what sort of friendly fire to perpetuate on one of the oldest members of the team.
However, before I can stun, petrify, or turn Mikhail into a bunny, Yuri himself skates over, drawn by the sweet, sweet smell of files. Barging between us without a word, he yanks open a drawer and begins walking his fingers down the letter ‘B’, which means he's going to be in my presence for the next fifteen minutes at least, slowly leaching my life force, just as if I suddenly found myself mere inches away from the sun.
Mikhail Mikhailovich turns his attention to him. “Ah, Yuri Igorevich, just the man I wanted to see-”
“Nice job you've done with these files. I thought all might be lost after Yekaterina Igorevna threw them all over Red Square.” Yuri interrupts, causing Mikhail to beam and puff himself up.
“I am also here.” I say.
They look upon me. That was a bad idea, because now I am staring directly into the face of the sun.
“You didn't help, you hindered.” Yuri says, turning back to his precious, precious files. Oh, he's still pissed off, is he? I see.
“Nice skates. I'm surprised you can even move. How much does that much gold weigh?”
Yuri looks down at his feet, clad in massive boots made of gold, with many gold wheels attached to the soles and gold spikes attached to the ankles, toes, and heels. “They only weigh fifty kilogrammes together. That's nothing.”
“Must be nice to be rich.”
“Must be nice not to be a frail female. Oh wait, I am not a frail female. I'm a delicate male.” And with that he skates off, without the file he came to retrieve. Well, that's something at least. There's nothing like obstructing the workflow of one's crush.
While I'm watching him go, gold flashes blinding me whenever the skates show themselves beneath the hem of his uniform, Mikhail Mikhailovich is staring at me and shaking his head with oldish man disdain. “Ask him out already. You two are irritating. When I was your age I’d been married and widowered five times already.”
“It is not for women to ask men out, Mikhail Mikhailovich. I'm not some Western liberal. Also, I’d rather not have my heart broken again, my spirit crushed and my soul obliterated.”
The man shakes his head some more. “True, but everytime Yuri Igorevich begins the complicated and arduous manoeuvres preparatory to suggesting a date, you get him sent to therapy, blown up, or otherwise expelled from your presence. I'm beginning to think you're afraid of loving and losing, Yekaterina Igorevna.”
…Excuse ME?!