When Angels Lose Their Wings

Men, at some time, are masters of their fates;
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
— The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, Act I

When Angels Lose Their Wings

Snape sat stiffly on one of the Express' seats while looking intently into the fierce gray eyes of Draco Malfoy, who sat on the seat across him. It was only just a few moments ago that he stumbled upon Draco and his two companions during his patrolling. It did not take him very long to realize what had happened, the same occasion having occurred the year before.

Now Snape still had a large amount of Slytherin pride and Potter hatred that he had the same look of contempt that the three boys wore after being un-cursed. But Snape, being the older and more mature of the four, had long since lost the look upon stepping into a private compartment to converse with the leader of the three. And while the look was gradually wearing off of the younger boy, the cold look in his eyes remained just as intense.

"You know why you are in here," spoke Snape, seeing the heat from his student's cheeks slowly but surely disappear. He nodded once, but said nothing. So Snape continued, "You're quite lucky none of the other Professors caught you. What you did out there was careless and foolish, not to mention dangerous. I would think that you'd have learned better by now." The tone in his voice was challenging upon instinct, and he saw the flame in his student's eyes flare. Snape lifted his chin a smidge, his dark eyes looming dangerously over Draco's.

Draco scowled, yet said, "I don't mean to lose myself so much with Potter." He angrily cast his eyes downward to look at his open palms. "He just makes me so mad."

"Potter can do that to you," agreed Snape, almost whimsically. "But you must learn to control such emotions. You're only digging your own grave, every time you let yourself fall to your anger."

Slowly, Draco lifted his head to look at Snape. "What am I supposed to do, if I can't fight back?"

"I never said you couldn't," said Snape. "Only that you should know better than to behave so recklessly."

"He put my father in Azkaban," came Draco's blunt reply.

At this, Snape sighed. He would have liked nothing better than to be someone else right then, so he can avoid the talk he had avoided so many times before. "Your father," he said, "made a mistake."

An uncomfortable silence passed between them in what seemed like hours before it was finally broken. "Pardon?" said the young Malfoy, a hint of a warning in his tone.

Snape frowned. It would all go incredibly wrong if Draco were put into a defensive position, and that was the last thing Snape wanted.

"We all do," he said, and Draco visibly relaxed. Snape knew that he could no longer talk about Lucius Malfoy without putting his son into the defensive. And why not? The boy had worshipped his father. And while Draco still held Snape highly, he could never compare to the affections the boy had for his father. So he decided to go another way.

"You are only fifteen, correct?" he asked.

"Sixteen this April," Draco said indignantly, and Snape almost smiled. He knew well enough that, despite his actions, Draco was far from being a child, nor did he appreciate being treated like one.

"So close to manhood, yet," Snape treaded carefully, "not quite." The Malfoy child frowned, but said nothing. So Snape continued, "It is within this time in your life that your most important decisions are made. Decisions that could very well set the course of your life — or if you'll have one at all." If Professor McGonagall had been there, she would have scolded him for speaking so harshly with a student, but Slytherins, he knew, were not like any other student who'd lived in their rose-colored world. "Do you understand what I'm getting at?"

"I'm not sure," Draco answered slowly.

Snape nodded, knowing it wouldn't be that easy. "You're young, Mister Malfoy. You've many choices ahead of you. And you'll be expected to make them soon, considering the times. You must be smart in your decisions because, most of the time, there is no coming back from them. Believe me," he said, with a subtle yet remorseful glance at his left arm.

"My point," he continued, upon seeing the crease between the boy's brows deepen, "is that you'll have to make a choice, sooner more likely than later, about where you want your life to be headed."

Snape finished with his student gaping at him, head tilted to the side a millimeter. Slowly, a disbelieving grin broke into his features. "Didn't we have this career talk already?" he asked.

Snape frowned. Yes, they did. He remembered it all too well. "My father's the most successful man I know," said the boy. "It's only wise to do what he wishes and follow in his footsteps." Snape was not sure which was more frightening — his actual answer, or how quickly he had made it. As if it was rehearsed. Often.

"I am not talking about choosing a career," said Snape. "I'm talking about choosing a life."

Draco's head tilted another millimeter. "I'm not quite sure I follow…"

Snape sighed heavily. How ironic it was to know exactly what to say, yet not have the words to actually say them. Perhaps a different approach…

"Have you ever played chess, Mister Malfoy?"

Draco slowly nodded. "Once," he said, then looked thoughtful, "but I'm pretty sure it was rigged."

Snape frowned even more. "Alright — Quidditch," he said, and saw the boy's interest perk. "As a Seeker, it's all on you in the end, to win the game or not. You can't let yourself be distracted by outside influences, nor should the opponent's Seeker keep you from doing your job, correct?"

Draco nodded, his struggle at trying to peace together Snape's point visible in his features.

"And no matter what happens in the game, you'll always have to get that Snitch. But," Snape said, "suppose one of your teammate's broom goes bonkers at exactly the same moment you spot the Snitch." He paused to study the features of his student. It was a long shot, Snape knew, to try and incorporate his message with sports — especially considering how dirty the Slytherin team usually played.

"You're whole life," Snape continued, "you've been told to do nothing else but get that Snitch. To disregard absolutely everything else as insignificant and rubbish. But your mate's in trouble — fatal trouble. So you're caught now between doing what you've been bred to do, and saving your teammate's life. On one hand, you get the Snitch — you're a Slytherin hero. But with someone's life in your hands. On the other hand, you save your pal — you're a hero. But you've let your entire House down. Both options are right in their own way. But the question is," said Snape, eyes alert for any kind of reaction in the boy's face, "what do you think is right?"

The Malfoy child blinked once, then twice, and for a second, Snape thought he had actually fallen into some sort of stupor. Then suddenly his lips moved, forming the words in his mouth.

"Why are you telling me this?" was all the boy asked, gray eyes staring blankly at his mentor.

"Because time is running out," he answered truthfully. "And for some, it already has."

Draco said nothing. He just continued to stare at Snape like he was not quite sure what to make of him. Snape mentally sighed. He did not know just how much Lucius shared with his son about his ties with Voldemort, if he did at all. But time was as fickle as fate, and the better half of him refused to let another with so much potential be pushed into his father's path - or worse, his own.

"Do you know why your father is in Azkaban?"

At this, Draco's puzzlement faded, and he straightened himself in his seat. "Yes," was all he said, though Snape knew he had stricken more than a nerve. He'd touched on the Malfoy pride, and years of experience warned him not to push any further.

Sod it.

"Your father made a decision a long time ago," said Snape, "and he's paying for it now."

"But hadn't you made the same decision?" came the boy's harsh reply, and Snape knew he was far from defensive. But there was no turning back now.

"I had," he admitted. "And witness what it has done to those of us that did."

Draco's chin jerked up an inch. He seemed to be getting it now, and a part of Snape actually cheered that he had gotten his message across, and yet, now it all seemed to be not such a good thing.

"What are you trying to say?" asked Draco sharply. "That I should go on over and join Potter? Fight against my father?" His tone was accusing and amused, but Snape was in too deep then to let it affect him.

"I am not telling you to join Potter, nor am I telling you to betray your loyalty to your father. I am not doing anything, but warn you. Be aware, young Malfoy. You alone can make your decisions for you. Do not make them with blind eyes. Nor should you make them with someone else's."

And then the train shuddered, having reached the Platform. With only a meaningful look, Snape rose from his seat and walked towards the exit. He was at the door, when he stopped suddenly. Without looking back at Draco, he lowered his head and said, "Good luck." With a slight hiss of the sliding door, he was gone.

* * *

From his place in his seat, Draco Malfoy released the armrest he had not known he'd been gripping. His angry stare turned to thoughtful as he felt his anger leave him, Snape's words echoing endlessly inside his head.

* * *

Snape stood in the corners of the Express' hallways as group-by-group the students filed out of their rooms and unto the Platform. His gaze was steady, scowl in place, yet inside, his mind swirled in a whirlpool of thoughts. He did not regret his conversation with the boy, nor did he regret initiating it. He had known that he may as well have signed his own grave, coming so close to revealing his true side in this War, yet he felt oddly relieved. If in the event that his cover is blown, he felt content enough to give up his life knowing he had saved another, more promising one.

That is to say if Draco makes the right choice.

Snape watched the boy's figure walk through the crowd of schoolmates, his fair head making him easy to spot. He continued to weave through the sea of black robes, before finally reaching the end of the station, where his family's butler was waiting for him. He did not catch the boy's eye as he allowed himself to be led away by the butler carrying his things, but from the way the boy walked, with his usual arrogant trot no longer visible and his head held low in deep thought, Snape knew that he had gotten to him on some level.

Without realizing it, Snape clutched his left arm, the words once again escaping from his lips.

"Good luck."