March 22, 2009 3:12 a.m. Washington, D.C.
In a particular room of a particular house there slept soundly a couple, protected from observing eyes by a silk curtain drawn around their four-post bed. Those same eyes would instead take in the rest of the particulars of the room. It was decorated in almost a colonial style. There was no carpet, only hardwood. The walls were adorned by a few sparse portraits of men and women dressed in a way that the modern eye would describe as antiquated. Indeed there were none of the luxuries of the modern world, not even electric lights. If there were to be any light in this room it would have to be produced by the myriad candles to be found on every appropriate flat surface.
There were two distortions to the antiquity of this room. One was hidden to all eyes. It was a security camera fitted into the ceiling that gave a panoramic view to a number of monitors located in the subbasement of the house. Even now those same monitors were being watched by three men and one woman who were relieved that nothing was out of the ordinary. The other distortion was a bright red phone sitting on the nightstand on the left side of the bed. As unobtrusive as its gaudy color would allow, this phone might be ignored on most occasions. Tonight however, it plays an important part. It is from this phone that our story begins.
The red phone perched snuggly on the nightstand let out a dreadful ring. Before it could till a second time, a white hand with long, hook-like fingers snatched it up and took the receiver to the earless, noseless head.
"What situation disturbs my slumber?" said the man, in a dark, venomous tone. The caller made an audible gulp. The man ran his slim tongue along the edge of his teeth and felt the anxiety of the man on the other end of the line.
"Mr. President, er, excuse me sir, Lord President. The Russians have moved forces into Kosovo. It seems they might be attempting to return the territory to Serbian control."
There was a long pause from the president, followed by a low hiss. Beads of sweat appeared on the caller's forehead. This was the first time the caller had addressed the president, and he was fearful that all the rumors he had heard of the terrible things that had befallen messengers bearing bad news were true. The pause lingered a moment more and then the president spoke.
"Three weeks after their diplomat assured me of peace. But such treachery was foretold. I could feel the betrayal oozing from behind his eyes. I should have plucked them from his skull then," hissed the president. "Prepare the Chamber of War. I will arrive there in five minutes."
"Yes, sir," came the stammered reply.
The president replaced the phone with an elegant flourish and then fixed his lidless eyes on the lithe form of his wife, Bellatrix LeStrange. She squirmed under his gaze and then sat up, her black teddy leaving little to the imagination. "My lord?" she asked in a sleepy tone, a tumble of black hair obscuring part of her face.
A thin smile crept across the president's face. He stared at her for a long moment, taking in her form, watching the tremble in the veins on her neck as blood pumped through them. The pheromones coming off of her were nearly distracting. "The Russians have betrayed me. They will face dread retribution. I would Cruccio their Prime Minister myself if the accursed UN wouldn't complain." He rose from the bed and moved through the silk curtains.
Bellatrix sniffed, but kept her Occlumency shields strong. There was a time when Lord Voldemort would have Cruccio'd the UN as well for sport. She pulled the divan made of Egyptian silk tighter around her body. With a flick of her magic she kept the curtain open so she could watch him make his away across the room. His form was skeletally thin and pale as bleached bone. He was clothed only in red boxers, and she found the sight of his emaciated form to be overwhelming.
He turned from her and floated across the room to his closet. He seldom walked anymore, except at public events, mostly to flex his magic, but also because it unnerved his staff and he enjoyed the taste of their fear. The dark lord picked out his favorite suit – a black pinstripe perfectly tailored to his form, even without magic. Against his nature he found himself impressed by the Muggle tailors at his disposal. The palace chefs were also quite talented, although they could not produce butterbeer or pumpkin juice. His displeasure, and its consequences, had been subdued when they introduced him to brandy. The dark president picked a silk tie, black of course, and with his dexterous fingers wrapped it around his neck. It was held in place by a tie tack in the shape of the dark mark. It was the one place he was allowed to have it. His handlers had said that the symbol of a snake bursting from the mouth of a skull did not poll well with the elderly, independents, and Hispanics. Bikers were much impressed, but they were hardly a key voting bloc.
Dressed, the dark lord counted the final moments and when it was exactly five minutes he apparated to the Chamber of War located three stories underground.
The generals and advisors were already on their feet when he appeared. They were a quick study and knew their president was impeccably punctual.
The president lit up in a sinister gin at their display of loyalty. No Imperius was necessary for them to obey his every command. "At ease," he said in his naturally icy voice, and then proceeded to glide to the head of the table.
"I wish a status report and quickly, minions."