Barty listened mutely as Voldemort spoke, quoting a prophesy he’d never heard but knew a little about, telling of his… it was hardly a victory, against a baby, more like disposal. It stirred warring emotions, discomfort over the killing of a thing so helpless and joy that his master had been wise enough to attack before the child could mature into a true threat.<br/><br/>He glanced around the circle, not seeing anyone else show much reaction but savage jubilation.<br/><br/>His Master continued his speech, of how muggles would cower and show respect, as they should. The rush of excitement that promise brought erased the lingering regret over the death of a child – it had to be done. The images the Dark Lord described almost made him groan with desire, especially when he thought of tearing away everything his father so loved.<br/><br/>When Voldemort blasted a tombstone to pieces, Barty couldn’t contain a whoop of exhilaration, revelling in the power that his pure blood carried. This,<em>this</em>was what he had been seduced by, the promise that he might use the magic in him, show the world his power that the Ministry would have him hide.<br/><br/><em>Magic is might.</em><br/><br/>Death Eaters scattered into the night, ready to hunt. Bellatrix lingered, seeking their Master’s attention. More Death Eaters were arriving, those not so trusted. Barty was glad he hadn’t removed his mask.<br/><br/>He drew his wand and turned towards the village, his heart bounding in his chest. A child was distasteful prey, but muggles were filth, dangerous in their numbers. They must be culled, thinned, so their threat was laughable. Why not enjoy the task?<br/><br/>And he did so love how they screamed.<br/>