For the Hogwarts professors, collecting rare materials and specimens in the depths of the Forbidden Forest was hardly anything unusual or worthy of comment. It was simply part of their professional duties, an expected aspect of teaching at a school surrounded by one of Britain's last truly wild magical forests.
When Remus had served as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, he would regularly venture into the dangerous swampland deep in the Forbidden Forest to catch Hinky Punks and Kappas, the water demons from Japanese folklore that had somehow established colonies in Scotland.
The Boggart he'd used for teaching young wizards how to face their fears had also been captured from an abandoned, cobweb-filled old room in the castle's unused East Wing.
Professor Sprout would occasionally come to the Forbidden Forest's edges to dig up rare wild vegetables and exotic magical plants that couldn't be cultivated in greenhouses, or to collect dragon dung fertilizer from the forest floor where it accumulated in rich deposits.
As for Hagrid, practically every single one of the magical creatures he enthusiastically displayed to the young wizards in his Care of Magical Creatures classes from Flobberworms to Hippogriffs were all native species captured and domesticated from various regions of the vast Forbidden Forest.
Snape was no different in this regard. Some of the rarer and more potent materials used in advanced Potions class, ingredients that couldn't be purchased from apothecaries at any price were obtained by him personally from deep within the Forbidden Forest's dangerous regions, places where few dared to venture.
For the experienced professors, this was simply part of their daily work routine.
Following a secluded, barely visible path that twisted between ancient trees whose roots created natural obstacles, Snape led Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini through the dense forest in a difficult, exhausting trek.
They stumbled over hidden roots, pushed through clutching branches, and navigated around thorny undergrowth. The journey lasted about an hour of steady walking, though it felt longer in the oppressive darkness, finally arriving at the edge of a large, treacherous swamp located near the Black Lake's western shore.
Heavy miasma floated menacingly above irregular small pools of stagnant water, the vapors were twisting into bizarre, unsettling shapes with each passing breeze.
The rotting carcass of some large animal floated face-down in one of the larger pools. It filled the entire area with a strong, putrid stench of decay that made breathing through the nose almost unbearable. The smell was so overwhelming that Pansy immediately pressed her sleeve against her face.
Malfoy looked around warily through the gathering gloom and saw, through the hazy evening mist that clung to everything, a faintly visible orange-red glow flickering in the distance. That mysterious light pulsed like a living heartbeat, radiating an almost hypnotic sense of temptation and welcome, promising warmth and safety if one would just follow it deeper into the swamp.
After a brief moment of confusion, his mind was fogging slightly as he stared at the inviting glow, Malfoy shook his head sharply and immediately became alert. He realized that this was precisely the dangerous trap of the Hinky Punks—specifically designed to lure lost, confused travelers deeper into the deadly swamp where they would sink and drown.
"What should we do, Professor?" Malfoy raised his head to ask Snape, tearing his eyes away from the hypnotic light.
His sharp voice also successfully awakened Pansy, Theodore, and Blaise, who had all been standing motionless, momentarily entranced by the seductive glow.
Snape, seemingly unaffected by the Hinky Punk's lure or perhaps simply too experienced to fall for such crude tricks pulled several large glass bottles with cork stoppers from the deep pockets of his traveling robes.
He handed one to each student. "Don't venture deep into the swamp under any circumstances. Stay at the edge where the water is shallow. That's an order."
"Then how should we search for the leeches, Professor Snape?" Pansy Parkinson asked, her voice trembling slightly.
The howling wind sweeping across the open water made this isolated area even more sinister and terrifying than the forest. The dull, rhythmic sound of waves crashing heavily against the rocky lakeshore in the distance also tormented the hearts and nerves of the young wizards. Her already pale face had gone even whiter in the dim light.
"No need to search actively for them, Miss Parkinson," Snape's tone remained naturally languid and drawling, though notably not tinged with the faint mockery and amusement it usually carried when addressing students in the classroom.
"Just stand in the shallow water, remain still, and they'll come to you on their own initiative."
Snape's casual words, delivered so unemotionally, successfully made Pansy start retching violently, bending over as her stomach tossed. The three boys also felt a chill run through their bodies at the mental image of leeches crawling up their legs.
"Don't stand together in a group," Snape continued with his instructions, ignoring Pansy's distress.
"Each person should be some distance apart from the others—at least ten feet. Keep your wands lit at all times so I can see where you are and monitor your safety. Send up red sparks as a signal if you encounter any danger—any danger at all. Fill the glass bottles I gave you to the top, and then we'll head back to the castle. Not before."
Though reluctant in every possible way, though they wanted desperately to protest or refuse, the students could only comply with their professor's orders. They had no choice.
Forcing himself to endure the nauseating, overwhelming stench of rot and decay, trying not to gag, Malfoy removed his dragon-hide shoes and his socks with a grim, resigned expression.
He stepped barefoot into the cold, murky water, immediately feeling his feet sinking deep into the thick, sucking mud beneath. The sensation was disgusting—cold slime was oozing between his toes, things he couldn't identify were brushing against his ankles.
Snape didn't descend into the disgusting swamp himself, remaining on the relatively dry bank. After he went to give Pansy Parkinson some brief pointers and encouragement where she looked on the verge of tears—he returned to stand on the shore behind Malfoy's position, watching over his students with his arms crossed.
"What are you afraid of, Draco?" Snape suddenly asked after several minutes of silence, his calm gaze falling thoughtfully on Draco, who was bent over in the shallow water using his wand to petrify leech after leech as they attached themselves to his legs, then pulling them off with shaking fingers and dropping them into his bottle.
Draco, who wanted nothing more in the world than to fill his glass bottle as quickly as possible and return to the warm, safe castle, jerked violently at the unexpected question.
He slowly straightened up with difficulty, his back was stiff, and turned carefully in the unstable mud to face Snape with a complexion that had gone pale as moonlight.
"I'm not afraid of anything, Professor," Draco said with false boldness
"Don't lie to me, Draco," Snape said quietly, gazing steadily at Draco Malfoy with those fathomless black eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
He watched as the boy's face became almost paler than the silvery-white light emanating from his raised wand.
Under those dark, piercing eyes that had interrogated Death Eaters and students, Draco knew instinctively that his weak lie had nowhere to hide. He lowered his head in defeat and stared at the ink-black, almost oil-like surface of the water lapping at his calves.
"This is not what I want to see," Draco finally said after a long, uncomfortable silence. His tone was dejectedly, genuinely distressed.
"I know what the school is facing now. After that horrible Deputy Minister from the Ministry of Magic was driven out of Hogwarts in humiliation, my father wrote to me specifically to tell me what would happen next." Draco's words came faster now, tumbling out.
"He said that the Board of Governors plans to cut off all of Hogwarts' funding completely to force Professor Watson to submit to their demands. This isn't what I want to see."
Draco's voice grew more passionate, more desperate. "I wrote back to my father immediately, asking him not to do this. But he wrote back saying it wasn't something I could get involved in."
"This matter has nothing to do with you to begin with, Draco," Snape said with forced calmness, though something flickered in his eyes. "Do you foolishly believe you can actually intervene in the dispute between the Ministry of Magic and Bryan?"
Malfoy's pale lips moved, trembling slightly, but no sound came out.
The dispute between the Ministry of Magic and Professor Watson was, at its core, actually a dispute between Professor Watson and the Dark Lord.
Whether or not his father Lucius was truly a Death Eater who had followed the Dark Lord years ago and remained loyal even now was something that didn't need to be confirmed or told by others. Draco understood it perfectly well in his heart.
Previously, after the shocking news of the Dark Lord's resurrection had been made public at the end of the second task, when Hogwarts had announced it to the world, Dumbledore and Professor Watson had immediately and publicly made it crystal clear they would fight the Dark Lord to the bitter end.
At that pivotal time, Draco and some of his classmates driven by their own laughable ambitions and dreams of glory had privately decided among themselves to follow Professor Watson's example and make something meaningful of themselves. They'd wanted to be heroes, to fight for the 'right' side, to prove they were more than their parents' children.
Only to receive a swift, crushing "rejection" from Professor Watson himself when they'd tried to approach him about it.
It was from that precise moment, that Draco had truly realized the terrible cruelty of the situation he found himself in.
If the Dark Lord ultimately won this coming war, then his respected Professor Watson—the man Draco genuinely admired more than perhaps anyone except his father would certainly be finished.
But if Professor Watson won instead, if he and Dumbledore defeated the Dark Lord, the ending would be even more cruel for Draco. His father would certainly face severe reckoning this time.
Professor Watson never had tolerance for any grain of sand in his eye, never showed mercy to his enemies. He'd proven that many times.
The current troubles facing Hogwarts were merely an early signal that this struggle was becoming more intense and dangerous.
"There are rumors," Draco said hesitantly, his gray eyes flickering between Snape's face and the dark water. He spoke haltingly, carefully picking his words. "Rumors that you once followed the Dark Lord, years ago. Is that true, Professor?"
Regarding Snape's alleged past as a Death Eater, there had always been similar rumors circulating through Hogwarts' corridors and common rooms, except there was never any concrete evidence to prove it one way or another.
A slightly chilling breeze swept across the swamp, carrying the smell of decay.
Several clusters of shrubs in the distance swayed and rustled with the wind, their movement catching Snape's attention. He narrowed his eyes dangerously and looked over sharply, his wand hand was twitching. After a moment of tense observation, detecting nothing unusual, he turned his head back to focus on Draco.
"What exactly are you trying to say, Draco?" Snape's face appeared somewhat paler than usual in the dim light. He didn't answer Draco's direct question but instead asked sharply, "What's your real question?"
"Oh, I just..." Draco bit his lower lip hard enough to leave marks, his chest was rising and falling more rapidly as nervousness coursed through him.
He spoke hesitantly, the words were difficult to form. "I just wanted to know... wanted to know which side you think will ultimately win this war?"
Snape's dark eyebrows rose high on his pale forehead, creating deep furrows, and a trace of bitter mockery involuntarily appeared at the corner of his thin mouth. But after a moment of consideration, his expression returned to calmness.
"You want to know which side will win? Oh, Draco, why can't you be more honest with yourself and with me?" Snape's pitch-black gaze saw through to Draco's heart.
"You're wondering which side will win so you can make a decision in advance about which side to pledge your loyalty to, which camp to join. Isn't that right?"
"Isn't that the correct thing to do?" Draco mustered all his courage to raise his head and meet Snape's eyes, though shame and uncertainty showed clearly through his gray eyes despite his attempted defiance.
"Only by standing on the victor's side can one survive the aftermath, can one prosper. That's what my father has taught me since I was old enough to understand."
Gazing at Draco's conflicted, hesitant face, Snape's lips moved as if to speak, then pressed together. He found himself somewhat at a loss for how to properly counsel the boy.
Standing on the victor's side... Indeed, this was the traditional Malfoy family philosophy, and it also aligned with core Slytherin house values of cunning, self-preservation, and ambition.
Snape looked at Draco standing there in the filthy water, and in the depths of his pitch-black eyes, complex emotions rippled faintly like distant waves. It felt disturbingly like seeing himself and Lucius from twenty years ago, two young men faced with similarly impossible choices during the first war.
History seemed to be repeating itself in the worst possible way.
"Which side do you hope will win, Draco?" After a long, heavy silence filled only by the sound of water and wind, Snape asked softly, his voice gentler than usual. "Not which side you think will win. Which side do you want to win?"
"I—" Draco began, his mouth opening.
"You don't need to tell me the answer right now," Snape interrupted Draco's instinctive words, holding up one pale hand. "Don't give me a quick response. The answer is in your own heart, Draco. You understand it yourself, deep down, even if you're afraid to admit it. Listen to what I'm telling you carefully."
Snape's voice grew more intense. "It's not about standing on the victor's side. It's about something more important. Whichever side you hope will win, whichever side you believe deserves to win—that's the side you should join and help strive for victory. Fight for what you believe in, not just for what you think will benefit you."
A trace of bewilderment appeared in Draco's gray eyes, spreading across his face. This was not the advice he'd expected. This was not the Slytherin way he'd been taught.
"Hope which side will win... and join them..." Draco repeated slowly, testing the words.
The cold breeze wandering restlessly by the dark water carried away Draco's confused murmur, scattering his words into the night.
Which side did he actually hope would win?
The question echoed in his mind, demanding an answer he wasn't sure he had.
Without question, without any doubt whatsoever, if the Dark Lord achieved ultimate victory in the coming war, then the Malfoy family would certainly benefit more greatly than they ever had before.
To this day, certain aspects of the Dark Lord's philosophy and rhetoric still held an extraordinary attraction for Draco.
Moreover, once the Dark Lord dominated the British wizarding world completely, the Malfoy family, which had consistently supported him in the first war and remained loyal afterward, would undoubtedly be richly rewarded for their service and sacrifice.
The Malfoy family would be even more powerful, more glorious, wealthier than it was today.
But if Professor Watson ultimately defeated the Dark Lord instead, then under the inevitable post-war reckoning and trials, the Malfoy family would suffer enormous, potentially fatal losses. Their wealth would be confiscated, their status destroyed, their name dragged through the mud.
It would be fortunate, extraordinarily fortunate, if his father and mother could spend the rest of their lives merely imprisoned in Azkaban rather than receiving the Dementor's Kiss or execution.
That would be the best-case scenario.
So, should he join the same camp as his father, follow the family tradition, abandon those impractical, childish "hero" dreams that had occupied his thoughts lately, and return to focusing on tangible interests and practical power?
But... The image that suddenly floated before Draco's closed eyes was that memorable young face with gray-silver hair and piercing purple eyes—Professor Watson's face, always showing a gentle, almost kind smile to students who earned it, yet as mercilessly cold as the harshest winter toward all enemies.
Did he really want to become an enemy of such an extraordinary, powerful wizard? Could he live with himself if he chose that path?
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