A/N: I don't own anything having to do with harry potter except this plotline that has been running around in my head for the last few days…

It was nearing dawn as a dim figure slipped through the musty streets of Knockturn Alley. The only visible feature was a flash of platinum hair in the moonlight. He was on very important business, and nothing could detain him from the sudden task at hand. Things had certainly not turned out as he had originally intended. None of it made any sense, his plans had been foolproof. The closet had been an unbelievably lucky stroke of genius, and everything had gone ideal up until 'he' had spoken, Dumbledore that is. The things he said had stayed Draco's hand, and even now he pondered over the old man's motives. What could he have gained by stalling him other than a few additional moments of doomed life? There was no chance that Dumbledore would have survived that night. He had needed a miracle, and he wasn't God. Draco growled in frustration. Even after his death the old man still haunted him like his own nagging mother.

His heart burned with shame at the thought of his mother. There was no way he could face her now, not after he had failed so miserably. Tears threatened to spill forth from his already red eyes as he thought of her. She had been the one person who treated him like her son instead of the heir to her fortunes. He remembered her soft, gentle voice lulling him to sleep after he had received a rather vicious reprimanding from his father about upholding the family honor. The Malfoys were a dignified and respected pureblood family, and Lucius Malfoy would be damned if his son was friends with a muggle-loving blood traitor like Potter.

Potter and he ended up disliking each other anyways, but it was the fact that he couldn't befriend him even if he had wished to that had angered Draco so much. Just because Lucius was his father did that give him the right to control everything he did? He didn't think so, but that never caused him to stand up to his sire. It made him feel like an absolute coward. The word rang through his head just as soon as he had thought it. Coward, Potter had called their potions master that before they had fled. That was another mystery to Draco all in itself. There was something going on between the two, some sort of cause for a steely grudge, that Draco had no inklings of.

Potter obviously knew something about their professor that he did not, and he would make sure to discover the what, why, and who before the war was over. The professor was as much a mystery to him as he was to anyone else. What he had done for him still didn't register clearly in his mind, and was yet another thing that he didn't understand. Snape and his father had been friends, but and unbreakable vow? What had possessed him to agree to it, and who said that Draco had wanted his help anyways? He knew that he should be thankful, but he didn't like tha fact that Snape had known that he wouldn't be able to do it. It was almost as if he could read his mind.

He was abruptly snapped out of his musings when he spotted the creaky, wooden shop sign that marked the entryway to his destination. The moment of impending truth was upon him, and he wondered if he'd really be able to go through with it all. His deep breaths created puffs of smoke in the chilly morning air as he contemplated whether he should go in, or run while he still had the chance. He shook his head no, he couldn't run, it was too late for that now. As he pushed the heavy wooden door open, he spotted his escort waiting for him at the end of the dark hallway in the back of the shop. Who knew that Borgin and Burkes had so many secrets? When his escort saw him, he was greeted with a nod before being beckoned over.

The necessities were placed in his hands, and he couldn't hold back the involuntary shiver that came when he touched the cool porcelain. The face of the mask seemed to mock him with the corners of the mouth turned up into a smile. One wouldn't normally consider the position he was in any laughing matter, but then again Voldemort wasn't very normal. The trip down the dark hallway was silent, the only sounds being the pounding of his heavy footfalls. There was tension in the air, and he was sure that if he possessed one, he could cut it with a knife. He looked into the face of his escort only to stare into familiar dark eyes. They had reached the end of the passage when realization dawned on him as he continued to stare blankly into those eyes.

No words were exchanged, but when he turned to walk through the tall, black door a reassuring hand was placed on his shoulder. At this sudden intimate gesture, he felt the breath that he'd been holding release itself, and the tenseness in his shoulders melted away. It abruptly returned, however, when the hand pushed him through the door. No sooner had he walked into the room when he wanted to turn tail and flee. There was a massive group of robed figures leering at him from behind stark white masks. The comforting hand on his shoulder left rapidly, and its owner moved to stand to the right of the giant throne that sat against the back wall. It was a huge thing, made of bone died black with the blood of its master's victims. The throne wasn't the part that made him queasy; it was the man that sat upon it. Two eerie red eyes boored into his own as he stared into the face of his new master.

A small smirk began to crawl across the man's face before it broke out into a sinister smile. "Ah young Malfoy, I've waited for this day for quite some time now."

He nodded and before Draco knew what was going on, someone grabbed his hair and forced him to his knees in front of the throne. "It is high time I took that which rightfully belongs to me. Do you know what I speak of, boy?" His only answer was silence and he hissed in anger. "Answer me, boy!"

Draco only shook his head weakly and shut his ears to the cold laughter reverberating throughout the room.

"I speak of your loyalty boy, but if this is all you have to offer I must admit that I'm rather disappointed. Your father was much more enthusiastic."

He cringed at the memory of his bloodthirsty father and the continuation of the mocking laughter.

With another nod from the master, someone grasped his left arm and ripped open the sleeve. "How do you feel knowing that I play the master now, and you the role of the subservient? I hope you take orders well you spoiled child."

There wasn't time for a breath before the excruciating pain began in his arm. It was searing, and he couldn't help but cry out before his gaze fell again on those emotionless black eyes. As he stared into them, in all of his anguish, they seemed to flicker with an emotion familiar to him, pity. He yelled in a mixture of frustration and humiliation before crumpling to the floor with one last glare in the direction of his empathetic companion. It felt like an eternity before the pain began to dull and his vision blurred with exhaustion. The last thing he remembered before his vision blacked out was hearing the maniacal cackling ringing around him, and seeing the ugly, black mark etched into his pale skin.

FIN

Ok…so this is supposed to be a one-shot that I wrote for the book seven opening challenge on mugglenet, but I might be persuaded to write some more since it was too long to enter in the contest…please review whether it be constructive criticism or not..i enjoy your opinions!

Ciao!

SLW

Subservient