That's the one problem with the product of our scheming, his intelligence is less than it could be. Oh he's not stupid, and academics aren't everything, still…

I drop my finger from petal to leaf, examining its waxy luster, trying to determine if I've done something wrong. Perhaps I've over watered the plant, spoiling the boy in the process. Or perhaps it's in need of more watering, the lack of nutrients slightly retarding what should be a lightning fast mind. 'I wonder…'

With a sigh, I drop my finger, stand and walk toward the door. If I don't hurry, I'll be late, and my place in my Master's favor is shaky enough. Still, I can't help but turn one last time to look at the plant we've created, standing, silver and green in the moonlight. It's grown tall, these past sixteen years. In my minds eye I can still see Draco kneeling next to it, reaching out to touch its shimmering flowers for the first time, and I wonder if he knows. According to his Herbology grades, it's probably the only plant he's ever paid any attention to!

I retrieve my cloak from the bedroom and my mask from its hiding place behind the mantle - a spot so hopelessly obvious the Ministry would never think to check there. Narcissa's waiting next to the door, face screwed into a scornful glare.

"So, another night by myself while you go out and plan to take over the world?" Her lips curl over the words, pulling her lips all out of shape. When she smiles, she's lovely. When she's like this…

"Don't do that to your face, you're going to wind up looking like a Harpy."

Pale eyes flash angrily and she pulls away from the wall, moving directly into my path. "Watch your mouth, Lucius! I could run screaming to the Ministry about your involvement with the Death Eaters, and if you don't start paying attention to me once in awhile, I just mi -"

"I'm not the one who needs to watch my mouth." I hiss, my fingers tightening around her throat in warning. "If you had the nerve to take the Dark Mark, you wouldn't spend as many nights alone, now would you? But you're too much of a spineless fashion victim, afraid the Mark will clash with your latest robes, afraid that the Ministry will catch you and send you to prison, aren't you?" My own Mark is plainly visible where the sleeve of my robe has fallen back, stark black against the paleness of my skin. A couple more years and Draco's arm will look the same. "Some wife. I should have replaced you years ago, really. Lacking the spine to join me at the Master's side, lacking the ability to even provide me with an heir without help!" She opens her mouth to protest, but I continue right over the top of her. "And don't point to our son. If it weren't for Severus Snape, Draco wouldn't exist."

Her eyes bulge slightly in shock and I can feel my lips slide into their natural smirk. "I suppose that surprises you? I figured it would, that's part of why I never told you that it was a spell that gave us our son, a potion that rendered you fertile." I lean forward, my lips grazing the outer shell of her ear and I can feel her shiver involuntarily. "Well, now you know, and you can haul out your old maternity robes, because now that the Master's back, I think we could use another child, just in case something happens to the one we have."

Normally I walk outside before Apparating. It's just so much nicer to have the sky above you, the wind blowing through your hair, especially since most of our meetings are outdoors, and it's always something of a shock to Apparate from one setting to a drastically different one. The distraction, while slight if you're ready for it, could still be enough to get you killed. Now, however, I don't even bother removing my fingers from my wife's neck, simply pull the power to me and vanish.

The temperature difference between my Manor and the field in which we're meeting is enough to make me gasp slightly, but the shock is quickly replaced by anger when I look up and see the others - all of them - already gathered. I'm late.

'Damn stupid woman!' My wife will hear about this when I get home, at length.

The Master doesn't even look at me as I take my place in the circle, and that hurts, far worse that Pettigrew smirking at me. I mentally snarl back. 'Doesn't the idiot even have the common sense to wear his mask?'

I can't really pay attention to what's being said, although I try my best! My mind insists on jumping ahead to what's to come later, or not come if the Master is displeased enough with my tardiness. I spend a good half of the meeting mentally cursing my wife to the furthest reaches of Hell, the other praying that the Master will forgive me. I'm not even really aware that the meeting has ended until his voice calls my name, pulling my eyes up from the hem of his robe where they've rested the whole time.

"Lucius, my friend, you were late."

"Forgive me, Master," I bow, as low as I can eyes falling again, this time to the dirt a few inches from my face. The field was once used for farming, abandoned when over planting leeched the soil of its nutrients. Now it's growing wild, little patches of vegetation seeking out the few remaining pockets of good soil, slowly replenishing the rest so that now even the bare patch I'm looking at is covered with tiny green sprouts. It reminds me of my plant back home, lending me a sort of desperate courage. "My wife decided that right when I needed to be leaving was a good time for a domestic dispute. She should have bruises on her neck for at least a week."

I can hear him move closer, stopping in front of me. Skeletally thin fingers close around my chin, pulling my face up to meet his blood red gaze. "Be that as it may," He smiles, grimly, and I can feel my heart settling in my stomach, "You were late."

My eyes close briefly, but only for a heartbeat and only out of shame, never fear. I know what's coming next, I know what he wants to hear, and I know that my place in his favor depends not only on my answer, but on its delivery. I meet his eyes, breath even, calming my pulse's urge to race. "Punish me as you will."

"Crucio."

The word hangs calmly in the night air, echoing as pain rips through my body. People like that bloody git Weasley think we Death Eaters don't know what pain is, that we don't know what it is our victims feel in the hours of torture before they die, but we know, all too well. This isn't the first time I've felt my Master's will rip my nerves from my body and play a violin melody on them with a hack saw, not the first time I've watched the world reduced to spots of red, black and gold or heard my screams bouncing wildly through my skull. In all honesty, it probably won't be the last. However, it is one of the few, and, as a sign of my favored status, it's mercifully short. Within the span of a few minutes - which seems like several hours - the pain leaves abruptly and I'm sprawled across the cool ground, leaves and twigs pressing into the side of my face, my Master's robe brushing the hair on the top of my head. Breathing is difficult, to say the least and I estimate a rough five minutes before I have the energy to move again.

My Master will wait, though. He always has before, even after my longest punishment of fifteen minutes. By the end of that it had felt as if a colony of termites had set up shop in my bones, scuttling around and cheerfully eating the marrow out with delicate little bites. It took me an hour and a half to fully recover. But my Master is patient, and he waited.

Eventually, I manage to roll over and push myself back into a kneeling position, albeit a very shaky one. Those thin, chilled fingers twist their way into my hair, half petting, half pulling me forward to rest my head gratefully against the frail solidity of my Master's leg. "Severus," the Master's voice slides through the air, high and rustling like snake scales over stone. Twisting my head slightly, I can see the other man, standing a few feet off. His hood is pulled far enough over his face that all you can really see of him is his mask, and a dim glimmer of moonlight in the dark of his eyes. The Master extends one hand, fingers folding against his palm, drawing him closer with the power of gesture.

My earlier thoughts come back to me, almost make me laugh, as Severus draws aside the Master and I, reaching into his robes to produce a small grain of wheat. With the three of us here, we have all of the intelligence of the Wizarding World gathered together in one place. What's more, it's all represented in that one, small piece of plant matter. Only I have a library extensive enough to hold the spell that created it, or the patience and persistence to find it. Only Severus has the skill to create the potion needed to enchant the wheat grain, the crucial first ingredient that kept use of this spell to a minimum even before the Ministry banned it. (And I still really don't see why they bothered. It's only a fertility spell, after all.) And then there's the Master, the glue holding us together simply by existing, by being the only wizard brave enough to seek the sheer amount of power he's managed to amass, leading us all to our greatest potential through his example. That a half-breed could achieve so much, evolving past the point of Wizard and Muggle alike into the serpentine creature before me is beyond imagining.

It's this power that holds me on my knees at the Master's feet as he takes the wheat grain from Severus and reaches down, between my parted lips to place it beneath my tongue. I lick slightly at his fingertips, tasting their dry mustiness, closing my lips over them as they pull back to undo the clasps of his robe. Soon the robe is hanging open before me, leaving the front of him completely bare, pale and shimmering dully in the moonlight. Normally he wears more under his robe, but tonight he wears only the pair of ornamental wrist braces that protrude from his sleeves to cover the backs of his hands and his heavy, hooded cloak, still held closed at his throat.

Leaning forward I reverently press my lips to the inside of one, thin, thigh. The dusty, faintly caustic scent that is purely the Master fills my nostrils, making me dizzy, almost drunk. I work my mouth up between his legs, sucking softly, mindful of the grain held precariously beneath my tongue, all but purring as the Master's fingers in my hair pull me closer.

There's a slight noise of disgust from the right, and I know without looking that Severus has firmly rooted his eyes elsewhere. He won't leave until the Master dismisses him, but he won't watch unless ordered. I've never figured out if it's because he's homophobic, embarrassed, or simply too jealous (of me? Of the Master? No, it would have to be of me…) to watch. I can still hear him after the first time.

"I think you were meant to bathe the grain in your own seed, Lucius."

"Perhaps," I had smiled, eyeing him slyly, still drunk off the taste of the Master, "But this works just as well. Better, really. Think of it, Severus - this child of mine will have ties to the Master from conception."

Even now the thought makes me shiver hungrily, sucking that much harder. This is the closest I can come to joining my blood with that of my Master. Even if I were to divorce Narcissa and remarry someone who could have children, I'd still use this old spell, still kneel between my Master's legs rather than conceive a child the normal way. Every child of mine shall be touched by the Master from the very beginning!

His fingers tighten painfully on my hair, accompanied by a low hiss of breath and the sharp, saline flavor that's as purely the Master as his scent. I swallow greedily, difficult without swallowing the wheat with it. I'd actually spent several weeks learning the trick of holding sides of my tongue down while swallowing before we performed the ritual the first time. 'Best not to swallow the seed with the seed.'

The thought pulls my lips into a contented smirk as I pull back, licking my lips clean and tilting my head so I can meet my Master’s still sharp gaze. I know that my own eyes are heavily hazed over with a strange combination of fulfillment and need. I’m hard as a rock, and likely to remain so until I get home, unless the Master is feeling particularly benevolent. Still, I’m willing to settle for sucking lightly at his fingers as they push their way past my lips to retrieve the grain.

“Stand.”

Shakily I push to my feet. He holds out the grain and I take it from him, fingers brushing fingers, and place it in a secret pocket sewn into my robe. Once it’s safely hidden, I turn my eyes back to the Master, awaiting my dismissal.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the Master’s hand stretches out once more to cradle my face, thumb running slowly over my lower lip. His voice, barely audible, whispers past my ears. “It seems hardly fair, my friend, that you be the only one to suffer for your tardiness, when it was your wife that kept you. Perhaps I shall punish her by keeping you here awhile longer.”

“As you will Master.” I make no effort to keep the thick desire from my voice, letting him know under no uncertain terms that I want to be kept. His hand slides from my cheek down my neck to the fastenings of my robes, causing me to shiver. Involuntarily, I glance over the Master’s shoulder.

Severus is stargazing.

The Master’s hands press against my shoulders, guiding me backward over the uneven ground until eventually, my knees collide with the decaying stone of the low wall running through the field’s center. They keep pressing, pushing me down until I’m bent backwards, spread out across the wall’s surface. It’s a vulnerable pose, one of submission, and one only my Master will ever see me in – unless, of course, Severus actually gets over whatever qualms he has and looks, but that’s not overly likely.

I shiver as the Master unfastens my robes, pushing them off my shoulders and down my arms, allowing the cold night air in against my warm skin. I pull away from the wall just long enough to let the robes fall to the ground, leaving me completely naked. There’s a pause, a brief space of time where the Master stops moving and I can’t be certain if he’s really looking at me or not. I almost hold my breath, waiting for the next movement.

When the Master’s hand finally does skim over my chest, feather light and teasing, I gasp, involuntarily arching into the movement. 'Ah, missed this! Didn’t realize how badly…Master…' Every brush of his skin against mine causes me to squirm, my temperature rising incrementally until the cold stone beneath my back feels hot, and I think, perhaps, the night breeze is the only thing keeping me from bursting into flames. The breeze, and the permanent chill of the Master’s blood, not quite as cold as a snake’s but nowhere near the warmth of a normal human. The slightly rough, scaly feel of his skin excites me and I push helplessly against the hand that slides between my legs, demanding a reaction. Whimpers and moans escape from the back of my throat, readily, accompanied by half a dozen noises I can’t even put names to.

“So pretty, my friend…” he purrs, leaning down to trace one nipple with the tip of his tongue. “So pretty, so eager.”

I can’t even form a coherent response to his praise. The stars above me are blurring, the chirping of crickets lost in the ragged sobs of my breath. I’m barely even aware that my legs are being pushed, up and apart, nearly to my chest until the Master pushes forward, into me, tearing me apart with slow deliberation.

There’s a Shielding spell on the field, hiding us from Muggle eyes, keeping my screams from Muggle ears. It hurts, there is no denying, but I need it, like air and water. And the pain doesn’t last, dissipating like mist as the Master hits something inside me that turns my blood to liquid gold. My eyes flutter closed, but there’s no darkness behind them – instead there’s a bright, red light, similar to the Master’s eyes, pulsating in time with the pleasure in my veins. I’m no longer even aware of the wall beneath me as I rock helplessly against the Master’s slim figure, racing toward the inevitable.

He lets me finish first, continuing to slam into me as my muscles convulse around him. My ears are ringing with the intensity of sensation and for a moment I feel I’ll black out. But the world slowly solidifies as he fills me, the stars separating from the surrounding sky, the crickets replacing the strange hum, and my Master smiling down at me with his cold, calculating smile.

“Perfect, always.” He brushes the hair from my forehead gently before pulling back and letting me slide in a nearly boneless heap from the wall.

“Thank you, Master.” I’m trembling, both with exhaustion and the sudden cold, yet I manage to kneel, pressing my lips to the hem of his robe, before collapsing on the ground and weakly pulling my own robe around me to ward off the chill. I don’t really want to pull it all the way on, as saying I’m a sticky mess would be a gross understatement, but if I tried to Apparate right now, I’d probably splich myself.

The Master leaves me there, turning to speak with Severus, who’s still staring intently at the night sky. As I lean up against the wall to watch them, my hand comes up and my fingers fold possessively around the secret pocket in. A slow, secret smile steals across my lips as my eyes slip closed, imagining this child that will be and the one that already is and what those Ministry fools would do if they found out. More to the point, what those Ministry fools would try to do…because they can’t really do anything, can they? As long as there is a seed, of darkness, of intelligence, of faith in the Master, there will be the Death Eaters.

End.