Fall From Grace

Note: There are a few minor changes from the first version, which is archived elsewhere. I'd like to thank Prodigy, Malfoy, and Not!Potter, without whom none of this would have happened. Thanks to Mariana for the beta that made me see this story in a different light. Thanks to Tully for being an absolute delight and a wonderful friend. And, last but not least, I'd like to thank the atrociousness of human nature for the subject matter. I couldn't have done it without you. :)

As this is my first archived story, I will welcome any feedback or constructive criticism (I have a thick hide; I can take it). Flames will be gleefully ridiculed.

***

Snape crouched against the rough stone wall of the Malfoy's dungeon. The air was damp and frigid; it seeped through the insubstantial barrier of Snape's cloak, then through his skin, chilling him to the bone. He hunched his shoulders slightly, pressing himself further 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 flat, pressed-in 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."

Parkinson nodded again, his head bobbing as if it were on a spring; he hadn't stopped nodding since the conversation began. "They kill each other at an alarming rate!" He stabbed a finger into the air like a gestural exclamation point. "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. Draco was the newest victim, though the seeds of his infection had been planted at an early age.

Snape watched, willing the tension from his body. 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. Snape had once admired Lucius's uncompromising, Machiavellian mien....

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 sputtered 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. Snape turned his face to it, soaking in the purity of something stronger and brighter than himself. The sun, it seemed, was happily oblivious to the recent events inside Malfoy Manor. Or, more likely, it was merely indifferent. The sun would still be there, regardless of Snape's moral dilemma du jour. The thought was bracing -- in a cold, pragmatic way. It brought to mind an emotion that felt almost like ... hope.