No Competition

Chapter 1

The bowing and scraping was pleasing. It was a feudal sign of homage given to the Lord. Here, in this modern age, it was combined with soft murmurs of awe arising from the dark-robed crowd as they stayed on their knees, a murmur their Master indulged this one time, as he enjoyed their impressed awareness of his immense power. That he was the greatest and strongest magical being in their lives. And he was, truly, the most powerful alive. After all, from the cold fingers of death, he had escaped. HE had returned to flesh, and stood before them ready to reclaim his throne.

No other could show such glorious power! After all, HE, alone had triumphed over the cold fingers of Death! Well, if you subscribed to fables, the brothers Peverell had too defeated the Grim Reaper, but Voldemort was quite content to discount the myth. Especially when he considered where were the family Peverells were now? Extinct! HA!

Thusly, bow and scrape the Death Eaters rightly should. He was their Lord. He was their Master. And they were the slaves to his very being. Clustered around him on their knees, in a half moon, they were the beginnings of his legion. This was merely the start. Soon, all magical beings would bow their head to him.

Soon, the Wizarding World would feel his might.

But first, before Dumbledore and his crowd could do aught to stop him, they would lay low, and he would bring together all his mighty forces of Darkness. 'And the time was now to begin such', Voldemort thought as he looked over his Death Eaters with something akin to pleasure. "MacNair – what news of Greyback – will the werewolves align themselves to my regime?"

Silence reigned for a long tangible moment, and in the gloomy environment of Riddle House, a sepulchral feel stretched through the aged house, with the mould, mildew and other signs of abandonment staining the former ebullient lavishness his muggle father had enjoyed in life. The murder of that bastard and his family had tainted the house forevermore.

It was an environment that the Dark Lord enjoyed. Proof his darkness could destroy any site of joy and happiness forevermore.

"MACNAIR! SPEAK!" The Dark Lord roared, eyes roaming the sea of dark robes, looking for his servant.

"Ah, Master..." The hesitant voice of Theodore Nott Senior spoke up, muffled somewhat as the man's head still faced the floor.. "MacNair is no longer with us."

"WHAT?" Voldemort spun a half circle to glare in the direction of the voice. With them all scuttling their faces at the ground, one back looked much the same as the other - except in the case of Bulstrode. There was no mistaking that hunched back. Fortunately, serpents had excellent senses for sound vibrations - that and his hearing was good, he hadn't quite figured out how to do away with the necessity of EARS, per se. "Has he betrayed our cause, Nott? Strayed from your ranks during my absence? Fear not, my faithful, for such treachery has a price. He will feel my wrath..."

"Ah, no milord." Nott interrupted him. "Begging your pardon, Master. I meant, MacNair is no longer alive to be with us. He... well... he went off on the wrong werewolf, and is.. well." Nott stuttered, but since the Dark Lord was looking in the right direction, he narrowed in on the cowering robe that had spoken.

"Soulless." Malfoy muttered.

"You speak out of turn, Malfoy." The baleful serpentine glare shifted to the bowed head of the blond. "Bearing only fortune that Nott did as well spares you from punishment. Mind your tongue lest I remove it."

"Apologies, my lord." Malfoy murmured.

The Dark Lord's mind swum, processing Notts news. Soulless? What did Malfoy mean? What had happened that MacNair would fall prey to the Dementors kiss as punishment, for it must have been Dementors for the Executioner to lose his soul. Had he foolishly attacked the wrong wizard at some inopportune moment, and been caught? He frowned, turning swiftly, and his robes fanned behind him in the same fashion of a great Emperor.