wand_wavers: (Daily Prophet)
At some point, during a very brief lull in the steady stream of depressing, shocking and downright horrific reports from across the country...someone in the Minister's office realises that no one has contacted the Muggle Prime Minister yet.

Even the Minister looks a little ill at the thought of having to do so, but there's no getting round it.


........................


Nestled in the gently rolling Chiltern hills of the Buckinghamshire countryside is a grand country house known as Chequers. Built sometime in the late 16th century, given to the nation through an Act of Parliament in 1917, Chequers has served as the Prime Minister's official country residence since the 1920s.

The communication portrait, however, is only a recent installation. It was put in sometime in the late 1970s -- a time when both the Muggle and wizarding governments were having a very difficult time of it for vastly different reasons. In all the years since its installation, it has been used exactly twice: once to inform the Prime Minister that the Death Eaters were not responsible for the assassination of Lord Mountbatten, and once to bear the news of Voldemort's demise (and the Right Honourable Lady had not been as thrilled to hear the news as she might have been, since the then Minister for Magic had interrupted a very important dinner conversation with the Foreign Secretary concerning recent developments in the Falklands). After over a decade without use, the Chequers portrait has been called into service again -- and this time, the news to be relayed is anything but reassuring.

The Prime Minister looks understandably agitated when Scrimgeour steps out of the Floo fire. He fiddles with the top button of his shirt, tugging at the collar, but quickly clasps his hands behind his back as Scrimgeour dusts himself off.

'What's going on?' No greetings, no social niceties.

'Sit down,' Scrimgeour says, and he can't keep it from sounding like anything but a command. 'I have a lot to explain and very little time in which to explain it.'

The Prime Minister does sit, thankfully. He sits, and he listens to the Minister for Magic talk. By the time Scrimgeour finishes the colour has drained out of the Prime Minister's face, giving his summer tan an unhealthy chalk-like consistency.

'...so what happens now?' he finally manages to say.

'We have every available Ministry official working to minimise the damage.' That statement sounds false even to Scrimgeour's war-weary ears. 'Call it whatever you like -- something to do with those Irish Muggles or whoever has been giving you trouble recently, blame it on the hot weather, whatever you think will work. But at all costs, you must prevent a general panic.'

'"A general panic"!?' The Prime Minister all but launches himself to his feet, clenched fist pounding the palm of his open hand. 'There's no hope of explaining this away! Not to Parliament, not to the country, not even to my own staff! Word of this gets out, and I'll have half of the Cabinet calling for my resignation and the other half demanding my head on a plate! What am I supposed to do -- what do you want from me?'

Silence, for a long moment.

And then Scrimgeour smiles -- a twisted, unpleasant smile.

'I want you to keep the Muggles from making things worse, Prime Minister.' His voice is quiet and level, but the force behind it has the strength of an Imperius Curse. 'I have enough to deal with as it stands without a Muggle-led witch-hunt on my hands.'
wand_wavers: (voldemort)
Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Voldemort had waited a very long time for this. This day would be the true beginning of his march to victory. He'd allowed enough time for the populace of the Wizarding world to grow more complacent. Even with the neverending stream of minor attacks planned to unnerve them on a daily basis, his spies reported that many people thought they were safe, that the war would not impact them.
Do breed unnatural troubles
They were wrong. Oh, so wrong. He would strike quickly and fiercely. His army is ready.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute
There is a map of Britain on the wall of the borrowed ballroom. Little lights glow upon it, marking the houses to target. Teams have been assigned, and timelines and checkpoints established.
Blood will have blood
He faces his kneeling minions, his arms outstretched. "Now you shall know carnage, my loyal fighters. You will spare no one. The smallest child, the weakest grandmother, all must die. Their bodies shall be brought back to me, but leave blood. Leave the Dark Mark. Leave blood traitors as witnesses. Leave no doubt that we are ruthless and will do what we want when we want it!" His voice rises to a maniacal shriek and the Death Eaters kneeling before him are silent as the grave.
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?

"Arise, Death Eaters," the Dark Lord hisses. "Arise and show no mercy."
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
In clusters the Death Eaters disapparate in a series of pops.
The cry is still, "They come!"
Voldemort smiles and waits. This is a glorious day.

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July 2010

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