Fall From Grace

The air was damp and frigid in the Malfoy's dungeon. Cold seeped through the insubstantial barrier of Snape's cloak, then through his skin. It was more than bone-deep; it chilled him to the soul. He hunched his shoulders slightly, pressing himself back farther into the shadows. He was unnoticed, for the time being.

It was truly a pity that things had come to this.

Draco Malfoy stood in the centre of the room, a captured muggle at his feet. Igor Karkaroff and Frederick Parkinson flanked him, while Lucius Malfoy stood back farther, watching as silently as Snape.

"They don't *think* like we do, Draco," said Parkinson earnestly, pushing his glasses farther up his wide nose.

"No, they don't," Karkaroff chimed in, his nasal voice straining the higher registers. "They can't even comprehend *magic*, for Merlin's sake. Look at the way they act when they're shown proof that magic exists. Like Stupefied cows, the lot of them. They don't have the faculties to comprehend it. It's sad, really."

Parkinson nodded in agreement. "It *is* sad, yes, but what's worse is the way they behave! They're aggressive, dangerous -- just look at the crime rates in so-called "civilised" muggle London. It's appalling."

"Absolutely appalling," said Karkaroff, a disgusted frown on his face. "If you ask me, the only good muggle is a dead muggle."

"Yes, yes," said Parkinson, nodding again. The man was beginning to look like his head was on a spring; he hadn't stopped nodding since the conversation began. "They kill each other at an alarming rate! Hundreds of muggles were murdered last year in England alone. I say if they want to kill each other, let them. We'll help them along, if need be. We don't want their kind--"

The two fell silent when Lucius Malfoy stepped forward. "The salient point, Draco, which my esteemed colleagues have failed to mention, is that they are a danger to our world," he said, frowning imperiously. "They multiply like vermin, with no thought to what they might destroy with their rampant numbers. They have already spread to the far corners of the earth. Next they will be in *our* cities -- we'll hardly be able to keep them out -- and with them they will bring drugs, weapons, their degenerate morals.... I don't think you want that any more than we do, Draco."

Snape watched the discourse silently, thankful for the natural impassivity that kept him from flinching at each falsehood, each innocent grain of truth that fell out of context. Gabriel, knocked from his lofty perch by the twisted tongue of Voldemort. The manipulation sickened him. The ignorance sickened him. For years he had listened to and participated in this sort of hateful diatribe, but he was a different man now. The price of that paradigm shift had been steep indeed, and had made it precious.

His hands slowly curled into fists, nails imprinting little half-moons of frustration into his palms. There wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop this. To speak would mean his own death. He could only nod and pretend he wasn't sickened by the hate that spread through these people like a disease. Would he ever save enough lives to justify the corruption of this one innocent man?

Draco stood in the centre of the room, poised to step over the edge of a cliff. Lucius stood behind him, ready to push if that step -- that fall -- wasn't voluntary. Beauty and blond hair, beneath which lurked the deepest vein of hatred Snape had ever encountered. It came to the surface at times, spoiling the pristine facade like ripples in a still pond, visible in the haughty lift of an eyebrow, the flare of a perfectly sculpted nostril -- the willingness to *push*, if the fall from grace wasn't voluntary. Theirs was a sinful, hateful beauty.

Lucius put a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Go ahead, son," he said quietly. "No more hesitation. You needn't feel bad; it's not like killing another *wizard*, after all."

Something small and vital inside Snape twisted and died as he witnessed the perpetuation of ignorance. His conscience pricked, then flared into full-blown pain as Draco stepped forward, brandished his wand, and spoke the two forbidden words that made him a murderer.

Snape watched Draco's last breath as an innocent man.

First kill.

First breath as his father's son.

***

Snape slipped from the room; unnoticed, the way he preferred. Alone in the hallway, he allowed himself a momentary weakness. He leaned against the wall, trying desperately to realign the paths of logic in his mind. Was there hope for the wizarding world? Was there hope for *him*?

He straightened after a time, and pushed back his hair. One step at a time, he walked the seemingly infinite distance to the door.

Outside, the sun was shining, and everything he had witnessed seemed so small.... Humanity and its innate iniquity were so small in the grand scheme of the universe. Snape turned his face to the sun, soaking in the purity of something stronger and brighter than himself. People were such insignificant creatures, yet so destructive. He did not understand people: they defied logic; they never made sense like potions. Still, there was something inside him that would not give up. There was still hope, he decided.

*There was always hope.*