Moisture lingered on his skin, his breath thin with exhaustion. He still didn't have Snape's mastery of Dark spells, and still flinched whenever Snape called his wand technique 'mere musketry'. He glanced bitterly at his newly acquired amulet, blood-red against the white curve of his wrist. It was from Sumatra, a priceless detection ward that warned him of any danger within wand-casting distance--but it was pointless to have it when he was practicing with Snape, because it nearly burned into his skin with repeated activations.

He would have taken it off if Snape himself hadn't put it on Draco the other night, one hand warm on Draco's wrist, the other warm on Draco's cock. No. It wouldn't be wise to remove his Master's gift. In fact, Snape might even have given it to him as a further motivation--if Draco learned to shield himself more effectively, the amulet wouldn't burn a hole into his skin every time Snape used him for target practice. Or what Draco's father liked to call 'training'.

He sat among his messmates--a chattering mass of junior Death Eaters--and glanced back up at the staff table. Snape was discussing Muggles with Mulciber again--about how to correct the misfeatures in his last batch of poisons--and Draco wondered if, as Snape's pet, he would be told to administer them to the Muggles himself.

He didn't look forward to it.

McIntyre, the young Irish Death Eater who'd just been admitted, had a dangerous habit of discussing Muggle sociology--as if the Muggles had anything worth discussing apart from their uses!--and Draco knew better than to include himself in those discussions, choosing to keep a safe distance and listening in instead.

It didn't matter that he flinched when he heard the screaming from within Snape's laboratory--it didn't matter that bile rose in his throat when he was called in to help. It didn't matter that, when the Muggles' desperate eyes fixed on him, he had to look away. It didn't matter that the blood-pink froth of their mouths signalled the success of yet another potion--it didn't matter that Snape would fuck him harder and sweeter that night, and make Draco hate himself for enjoying it.

It didn't matter, because Draco knew how to keep his place--at his Master's feet, in his bed, in his classroom. He knew better than to associate with dangerous free-thinkers like McIntyre, who seemed to think that the elimination of Muggles wasn't so important a thing after all.

It didn't matter. So Draco got up from the dinner table at the pre-ordained time and headed for Snape's quarters--glancing at Snape as he left the Great Hall. Snape nodded at him distractedly, getting up himself and bidding goodnight to Mulciber--so Draco followed the familiar path down to the dungeons, past the Hogwarts crest with its twin serpents twining around a wand of silver and green--down the stairs again and left to the dungeons, where Snape's door swung open automatically at his approach.

His Master did not permit Draco to be anywhere else (with anyone else) after dinner, so stripping off as he entered Snape's quarters was no novelty. If he was lucky, Snape might just let him dose off after reading Dosimetry in Blood-Cleansing Potions--but when the door swung open to admit Snape a few minutes later, Draco saw the look in Snape's eyes and knew that he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

'It's almost done,' Snape said in an eager, impatient voice, shutting the door behind him and beginning to remove his own robes. 'Mulciber's acquired a few more test subjects for me. They'll be here tomorrow.'

Draco felt a sickening wrench in his stomach at the thought--another cartload of dirt-brown, sweat-stinking, bedraggled Muggles, feet bare and eyes terrified, cowering like animals.

No.

They were animals.

Draco heard the smooth slither of Snape's robes as they fell to the floor--Snape didn't like being undressed by his pet, which was unusual in a Master--but Draco didn't look up, because he was afraid his face might show too much--too much fear, too much lust, too much unwillingness. He kept his head down and his breath even, watching the rising and falling of his own pale chest.

When Snape's fingers came into view, he almost startled--but they were gentle, slipping along Draco's collarbone tenderly, a mere brush of warmth, until they found Draco's right nipple and circled it, slowly, slowly, until Draco felt heat gather in his groin and a quiet sigh escape his mouth.

'It's so difficult to find healthy subjects these days,' Snape was saying absently, lifting his other hand to slide down Draco's torso, caressing the smooth, white lines. 'When I perfect the formula, our Lord will be so pleased... We'll be able to do away with all of them, all of them, Draco, in one elegant,' the finger brushed his nipple again, 'beautiful,' another brush, 'fell little swoop.'

And then a hand was cupping Draco's chin and lifting his mouth to meet another, just as warm as his own, but bitter with the tang of an older man's sweat--and Draco opened his own mouth obediently, sighing again when Snape's other hand found and fondled his erection.

Snape was thorough that evening, sucking gently on Draco's neck, palms sliding around and around Draco's clenching buttocks, guiding Draco's hips closer to his own. The scent of almonds and poison that clung to Snape's skin was familiar to Draco, more familiar than the milkier scent of his own--and when Draco looked over Snape's gleaming shoulder, eyes open now that Snape couldn't see them, he saw the maps strewn across Snape's ebony desk.

His erection didn't wilt when he thought of tomorrow--the sights and the sounds were too familiar to him by now--and when Snape finally led him to the bedroom and tied his wrists to the posts, legs too spread wide across the bed, Draco didn't think of all the locations in those maps--the locations at which the final, pure poison would be released.

He didn't think of McIntyre's young face, his foolish ideas--he didn't think of Muggles dropping like flies, all across the countryside, in their hidden little holes where they thought they could hide from Draco's kind. He didn't think of the poisoned water, of the blackened soil--he didn't think of Voldemort's pleased hissing, the success of their 'deforestation', the clearing of all that land for their development. Draco didn't think of any of these things, because he couldn't afford to--Snape's hands were so sweet on his cock, so agonizingly slow, and Snape's mouth was hot-wet-open against his own.

When he turned his head aside, some interminable time later, to gasp--he saw the Sumatran amulet gleam on his wrist, crimson and smooth. Snape slid into him, inch after inch of familiar pain--and Draco arched, raising his legs to cradle Snape above him, as Snape bucked his hips forward and groaned.

The amulet shone blood-red in the firelight. Draco couldn't look away from it--there must be Muggle blood in it, Draco was sure of that, Muggle blood bound with Snape's own defensive spells--but he didn't think of this, of course he didn't, as Snape mouthed his throat and Snape's fingers wound tightly around his erection, and Draco only closed his eyes when he came.