16th July, 1895 — Kons’ office, The Ministry of Magic

One perk of one’s brother being Minister is that no one dared to stop her if she went striding through the Ministry halls in the middle of the workday. Puzzled or irked looks, maybe, but Phyri hardly made a habit of it: as if she cared about the inner workings of the government.

(Of course, they were all in an uproar about werewolves now, so maybe the place was more interesting than she had previously supposed.)

But she wasn’t concerned about that. No, she had been mulling over something else – someone else, as it was. “Konstantin,” she declared – in a rare tone of approval – when she sailed into his office (which was in the Investigation department, apparently) on important business. “I came to thank you in person for your good work the other day.” She smiled, eager and sharp, as she dropped into a chair. He and she both knew what good work she was talking about, of course – Porphyria hadn’t seen Skeeter since, but if rumour had it right, he had been sporting a tremendous black eye, so Fisk had obviously gone above and beyond the call of duty.

So this was proof he was still good people, as far as she was concerned. And if Amelia’s taste in men had improved between beaus, perhaps Fisk could be of use to her now.

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Konstantin Fisk

  

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a sublime set by Lady! <3

It had been a dull morning thus far, something not improved by his restless, grumpy mood. Skeeter was in his bloody department and he, Konstantin, had been in no position to tell him where he could shove the job. And the worst of it was that he had no one to blame for his lowly-by-his-standards status other than himself. He had utterly fucked himself – understandably, he had thought at the time – and now he was reaping the downside of his self-imposed mourning. #

Why couldn’t he have just worn an armband and called it a day? Why had he let himself lose the chance to be head of the department he loved so much? The answer, of course, was because he had loved Amelia Evans and losing her had been a wrench to his soul.

Looking up at his surprise visitor, Konstantin smile to himself – at least he had not lost everything of Amelia. Somehow, he had inherited her eccentric, if charming, friend and the very last person to censure him for his sore knuckles.

“Ah, that,” he said, flexing his hand. “I doubt anyone could manage ten minutes with him without doing the same.” He added before: “Saying that he does work here now so don’t tell you brother.”