They called it The Hollow.
Not in jest, not whispered by bored third-years with too much time and not enough supervision. No—The Hollow was spoken of like a secret best not spoken at all. In tones of reverence. With a hush reserved for ancient spells, near-forbidden rites, and the sort of stories passed down in locked parlors and blood-stained lineages.
Sirius Black had assumed it was just another Slytherin myth. A house that reveled in myth-making, after all. There were plenty of them—enchanted labyrinths under the lake, ghostly snakes in the pipes, a lost locket with a whispering curse, and of course, the vague but ominous legend of "the thing that still swims below."
But as the floor beneath the Slytherin common room began to rumble—stone grating against stone, furniture shuddering—he realized something.
Some myths bite back.
He looked up sharply from where he was seated near the fire. Across the room, Laviana Greengrass stood with an unreadable expression on her face, one hand calmly brushing a wrinkle from her robes. Cloyd was already on his feet, practically vibrating with glee.
"It's happening," he hissed. "The Hollow's opening!"
Burton, not to be outdone, grabbed Sirius by the arm. "Come on, come on! You're not going to want to miss the entrance."
Sirius barely had time to grab his wand before the far side of the common room split open—literally. A panel in the wall behind the cold portrait of a nameless, hollow-eyed Slytherin ancestor began to groan open. The portrait moved not with hinges, but with silent, sentient awareness, bowing forward like it was granting passage. Beyond it, a spiraling staircase of slick, dark stone wound downward into darkness.
The air changed.
Older students, some of them already in their formal House robes, had begun gathering. Fourth-years nudged third-years aside. Second-years stood with stretched necks, whispering in awe.
The stairwell spiraled tighter than he expected—so narrow they had to walk single file. Green torches lit the descent, flickering like they were being breathed on by some unseen beast. Every few steps, a new carving appeared on the walls: snakes entwining names, serpents curled around mottos, Latin scripts that shimmered and shifted when looked at directly.
Sirius paused by one and felt a chill run down his spine. It didn't say anything ominous—just three names, and beneath them: "Failed. Forgotten. Forever."
He stepped away quickly.
"Cheerful little tradition," he muttered.
There was a weight to the way they descended. The first-years, at least, walked with bated breath and wide eyes. Cloyd Prewett looked like he'd eaten a box of fireworks and was waiting for the first spark. Burton Flint kept craning his neck to see around each curve, muttering, "Merlin's bones, this place is massive…"
The second-years, trailing behind them, wore mild smirks. The third-years exchanged lazy bets on the candidates. The fourth-years and above didn't speak at all. They walked like nobles returning to their court.
Etched along the walls of the winding stair were names—thousands of them. Names of past representatives, both elected and disgraced. In between, Latin mottoes and coiled serpents gleamed with ancient enchantments. Some names shimmered with emerald luster. Others were scorched black.
"Are those… burn marks?" Henry Pilch whispered.
"Those are the names of candidates who disgraced the House," Burton whispered back reverently. "Like running crying to a professor, or—" he lowered his voice dramatically, "—trying to appeal a vote."
"Appeal?" Fawley repeated. "There are rules?"
Cloyd snorted. "This is Slytherin. There are traditions, not rules."
The Hollow opened like a heartbeat.
They emerged into a cavern so vast it felt impossible. The air was damp with lakewater and magic. It was not a hall—it was an arena. A sunken, circular pit surrounded by steep rows of stone benches rising up like a great amphitheatre. The lowest level was the "floor"—smooth, ink-dark stone with a great etched serpent that spanned the diameter, its eyes glowing faintly green.
At full capacity, it could house a thousand.
Tonight, it held just under four hundred—all of Slytherin House.
But the way the torches blazed, the way the banners unfurled themselves overhead, the way the wind whispered through the carved stone seats—it felt as if the eyes of every Slytherin who had ever lived were watching.
Sirius swallowed. "Did they really build this just for school elections?"
"Politics and power," Laviana corrected him. "The founders knew it was the same thing."
"They're not wrong," Sirius admitted. "Still dramatic."
Burton was practically glowing. "Dramatic is good. Dramatic is memorable."
The murmurs died down as a tall figure stepped forward into the center of The Hollow.
He was lean, sharp-featured, and moved like someone who'd walked this space a hundred times before. His emerald-trimmed robes swished with practiced elegance. When he stopped at the center of the obsidian floor, the green flames behind him flared—possibly by design.
"I am Markus Flintstone, seventh-year prefect, and reigning leader of Slytherin," he announced in a deep, polished voice, loud enough to echo through the seats.
Sirius leaned over to Burton. "That's a real name?"
"Sounds like a noble boulder, but they are just an offshoot of the main flint line" Burton muttered.
"With me," Flintstone continued, sweeping his hand down the stone dais behind him, "are your House Prefects and student leadership. The pillars of our House. Those who keep the flame lit."
One by one, the named students stepped forward in crisp synchrony, lining the edge of the stage like a row of living portraits.
"Gemina Markeley, seventh-year. Duelist champion, potions scholar, and our very own negotiator with Professors when we need… flexibility."
Gemina inclined her head slightly. The look she gave the crowd could have frozen fire.
"Louis Rowle and Alie Littcott, sixth-year prefects. Alie handles discipline. Louis handles… discipline with fewer witnesses."
Louis grinned and gave a little wave. He got a scattered chuckle from the older students.
"Samuel Ericstone and Christabell Yaxley, fifth-years. Samuel leads our book network—if you don't know what that means yet, don't ask in public. Christabell is… Christabell."
Christabell Yaxley stared at the first-years like she was selecting which ones she could out-duel with her left hand. Someone from the second row visibly scooted back.
Flintstone continued: "Walter Orpington, Humfrey Ogden, Elseth Crabbe, and Allison Harriswool, fourth-year representatives. All of them facing reelection tonight. Do wish them luck… and maybe bribe their friends."
Walter gave a nervous cough. Humfrey was already sweating.
"From third-year: Gabriel Flame, Helen Scrimgeour, Joanne Chapman, and Sussane Bones. And representing second-year: Edwin Perris, Madilon Hopkirk, Barnebye Prince, and Beatrix Rosier."
Beatrix waved with a little too much energy. Madilon Hopkirk elbowed her with sibling-level subtlety.
"And finally…" Flintstone turned to face the rows of wide-eyed eleven-year-olds. "Four among you will join these ranks in a week's time. Two boys, two girls. First-year representatives, chosen by your peers."
His gaze narrowed, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.
"Don't worry. The arena hasn't devoured a first-year since 1732."
Burton Flint snorted. "I knew it had teeth!"
As the prefects took their places, the green fire dimmed slightly, casting long shadows over the polished serpent on the floor. Markus Flintstone raised his hand. A soft silence fell—no enchantment, just tradition. Every Slytherin listened.
"When Salazar Slytherin founded this House," Flintstone began, "he did not seek students who followed orders. He sought those who shaped them. He valued ambition, cunning, and greatness—not as given qualities, but earned ones."
He began to pace slowly, voice steady.
"This arena—The Hollow—was carved over centuries. Not by Headmasters, not by the Ministry, but by Slytherins. Stone by stone, this chamber was built by students who wished to mark their place in history."
His voice rose slightly.
"Every name etched in this stairwell, every title held here, every betrayal, victory, triumph and disgrace… it's all remembered. Because we remember our own. And tonight, that memory continues."
The flames flared again, and the serpent etched into the floor reared its head, tail curling into a glowing circle.
"Tonight, first-years speak their name into the Hollow. They show us not just who they are—but who they might become. And when they do, we shall judge. Quietly. Carefully. And without mercy."
He smiled faintly.
"Because this is not a performance. It's a declaration."
A long pause. Then:
"Let the elections begin."
The serpent hissed in answer, coiling tighter. The light glowed brighter around the circle in the center of the floor.
Cloyd muttered, "All this just for student council."
Sirius grinned. "I'm starting to love it."
The ceremony was ritualized, like everything else in Slytherin.
Gabriel Flame (third-year) and Allison Harriswool (fourth-year) reappeared in full robes, flanked by their year's prefects. There was a speech, naturally—lots of emphasis on lineage, merit, duty, and the pride of the green and silver banner.
Allison 's voice echoed perfectly through the magically enhanced space. "You will vote for two. One boy. One girl. No more, no less. Do not be foolish enough to spoil your ballot—Slytherin has no patience for clowns."
A second-year in the crowd visibly gulped.
Gabriel Flame smirked and rolled a gleaming silver coin over his knuckles. "Top two become Class Representatives. Next two are deputies. Everyone else learns humility."
Then, to scattered applause and several not-so-quiet mutterings, they called the six first year candidates forward.
Sirius stood between Darius Malfoy and Felix Nott. On the opposite end, Laviana Greengrass gave him a slight nod. Cierra Fawley smiled like a dagger, and Hilda Avery just looked supremely bored.
Each candidate had a moment to speak.
Felix Nott began with a speech that sounded like it had been written by his father's solicitor—crisp, ruthless, and terribly dull.
Malfoy followed with a cryptic, eight-word address: "I represent tradition. I do not need applause."
It worked. A few purebloods clapped anyway.
Cierra Fawley's pitch was far more animated—saccharine sweet with just enough venom behind the smile. "We are the most ambitious House in Hogwarts. We should lead like it. I'm not here to play—unless it's to win."
Laviana Greengrass went next. She didn't raise her voice. Didn't project power. Just clarity.
"We're new here. But not lost. Let's build something. Together."
It was... weirdly moving.
Then came Sirius.
He hadn't prepared anything, of course. That would've meant taking this seriously. He hadn't even glanced at the script prepared for him by greengrass.
He stepped forward, gave a brief bow that mocked Malfoy's elegance, and spoke without thinking.
"I was going to let the badges speak for me," he said, tapping the enchanted button on his chest, which whispered "Vote Black" with a faint asthmatic wheeze. "But since we're all here…"
He grinned.
"I think Hogwarts is mad. And brilliant. And enormous. And we're all just trying to find our feet. But I've spent the last few weeks reading everything I can, asking questions, poking around, and generally annoying everyone. And what I've learned is this—leadership isn't about being the loudest or the purest blood. It's about listening. It's about seeing. And if I get your vote, I'll make sure I see you.Always."
A pause.
"And also, I have the best campaigners."
From the stands, Cloyd Prewett threw a handful of spark-bursting confetti. Burton shouted, "Vote Black or regret it forever!"
Sirius winked and walked off. "Thank you for your ears and your pity."
The applause was scattered. Then it swelled. Then it became genuine.
The last spark of confetti from Cloyd's absurd spell drifted down like a lazy snowflake. Then silence settled, heavy and anticipatory.
Allison Harriswool raised both hands, her green-trimmed sleeves catching the light like banners. "The speeches have concluded. You will now cast your votes."
Gabriel Flame's silver coin vanished into his sleeve. He gave a bow that was 80% mockery, 20% menace. "Let the wandlight reveal what your words won't."
The ritual began.
Second-years were already herding first-years to the glowing platform, where a pedestal stood between two enchanted columns of smoke—one emerald, one silver. A Sixth-year prefect held up a gleaming obsidian bowl rimmed in runes.
"Each of you will step forward when your name is called," Allison said, her voice carrying through the enchanted acoustics of the Hollow. "Raise your wand. Speak the name of the boy and girl you vote for. The wand tip should glow with green or silver. The flame shall record your vote."
"It is not anonymous," Gabriel added cheerfully. "So if you vote for the wrong person and suddenly start finding flobberworms in your bed, you'll know why."
A wave of laughter rose from the older years.
Among the voters, quiet conversations broke out.
Cloyd was subtle in his way. Earlier that week, he'd quietly promised the five Muggle-borns in Slytherin a rotating study group—"just us, no drama, all the answers"—hosted in a private alcove of the common room with his older cousin overseeing. "No one falls behind," he'd said. "We move forward together."
It had landed well.
"I like Black," Wesley Moore whispered. "He doesn't act like we're beneath him."
Henry Pilch nodded. "Also, the badge is hilarious."
The half-bloods in 1C leaned Black too—Roper, Meade, Graves. Ezra Brown said, "He doesn't take himself seriously, which is the most serious thing of all."
The rest? The votes fell into place like chess pieces.
The names began.
It was slow, methodical, and full of tension. Each name called was followed by whispered speculations, tiny betrayals, and half-hidden glee.
Some students hesitated.
Some raised their wand with dramatic flair—Callum Fiske nearly did a full pirouette before voting "Felix Nott and Cierra Fawley," like he was casting a hex at a ballroom.
Others muttered their votes so softly the flames seemed to guess for them.
Burton Flint marched up like he owned the arena. "Sirius Black," he barked. The green tip on his wand flared extra brightly.
Then: "Laviana Greengrass."
Silver sparked like a falling star.
Cloyd Prewett skipped up whistling a tune, held his wand like a conductor's baton, and said, "The obvious choices: Black and Greengrass. You're welcome."
Even the seventh-years laughed.
Felix Nott's allies voted in tight, disciplined silence—Malfoy, Carrow, Rosier, Brewer. Their eyes stayed forward, jaws clenched like soldiers in formation. When Darius Malfoy raised his wand, he declared: "Felix Nott and Cierra Fawley." A pause, then he added: "Obviously, the best choice for deputy."
The crowd murmured.
Some of the votes brought gasps. When Tomas Meade—a supposed Nott ally—cast his vote for Sirius Black, a girl in the Nott section gasped. Nott didn't move, but his jaw twitched.
Mary Owens voted Greengrass and Malfoy. Wesley Moore went Black and Greengrass. Annabel Connolly voted for Sirius and Cierra Fawley, earning a raised eyebrow from her best friend.
Henry Pilch shouted his votes with reckless glee—"Sirius Black and Laviana Greengrass!"—and danced a little jig off the platform. Half the arena stared. He bowed. "I enjoy drama!"
"Camryn Brown," the sixth-year student called.
A girl in the third row straightened, clutching her wand like a sword. She marched up, hesitated a moment, then lifted her wand high.
"Sirius Black."
The tip flared green.
"Laviana Greengrass."
Silver flame bloomed.
Two wisps of light drifted into the obsidian bowl, where they shimmered briefly before vanishing. The Hollow had cast its first ballot.
Allison Harriswool stepped forward, raising her wand with crisp formality as the last ribbon of vote-light vanished into the obsidian bowl.
"Gabriel," she called.
Gabriel Flame emerged from the line of third-years, wand in hand and face as unreadable as stone. He touched the tip of his wand to the rim of the bowl and murmured a spell under his breath.
The bowl glowed. It hissed softly, as though exhaling after a long sleep, and then spat out a parchment scroll that unfurled midair with a dramatic snap. Lines of glowing ink began to form.
A collective gasp rippled across the Hollow as numbers appeared.
Gabriel read, his voice cool, clipped, and just faintly amused:
"First-year boys—
Sirius Black: 20 votes.
Felix Nott: 10 votes.
Darius Malfoy: 5 votes."
In the second row, a few of Nott's allies exchanged glances, their composure cracking just enough to betray disappointment. Darius Malfoy stood perfectly still, arms crossed, glaring into the stone floor like it had personally betrayed him.
"First-year girls—
Laviana Greengrass: 23 votes.
Cierra Fawley: 10 votes.
Morag Shafiq: 2 votes."
Hilda Avery leaned toward Morag and stage-whispered, "Well. That's one more than I expected."
Morag looked as though she'd just bitten into a rotten doxy.
Gabriel stepped aside as Markus Flintstone returned to center, voice amplified by the arena's charms:
"Slytherin First-Year Class Representatives are as follows—
Boys:
Sirius Black – Class Representative.
Felix Nott – Deputy Representative.
Girls:
Laviana Greengrass – Class Representative.
Cierra Fawley – Deputy Representative."
There was a smattering of applause—some sincere, some perfunctory, some suspiciously passive-aggressive. From the back rows came a hushed murmur:
"Power couple."
"Please, no."
Sirius turned to Laviana, extending a hand. "Well," he said, eyes still wide with triumph, "looks like we're in charge."
Laviana took it smoothly. "Try not to look so smug."
"Impossible," Sirius grinned. "I was born for this."
He gave a solemn little nod toward Cloyd and Burton, perched proudly up in the stands like manic gargoyles.
"You two are officially insane."
"We're visionaries," Burton replied with a bow.
"I just wanted the badge to work," Cloyd confessed. "But honestly, this is better."
Laviana joined them, flipping her blonde hair with theatrical flair. "Now that we've won, we must actually accomplish something. I propose we begin with tea."
Just then, Cierra Fawley glided past with a sugar-sweet smile and eyes like poisoned needles. "Don't get too comfortable, darling. The knives stay sharp in Slytherin."
"Comfort's for Hufflepuffs," Sirius called after her, not missing a beat. "We prefer drama."
Right on cue, Burton launched a celebratory green flare into the Hollow's ceiling. Confetti burst from his wand in a glittering spiral—this time enchanted to hover and spell out BLACK-GREEN in floating silver letters that shimmered ominously over the arena.
Someone groaned audibly. Someone else clapped. Most simply rolled their eyes.
Felix Nott gave a cool, unreadable smile.
Cierra Fawley didn't bother hiding her amusement. She arched her brow and said softly, "Let's see how long the crown fits."
Sirius didn't blink.
"Oh, I'm not wearing a crown," he said, flashing a grin. "I'm building one."
The last of the confetti from the first-year elections had barely settled when Gemina Markeley stepped forward, her long green-and-silver cloak billowing with every step. Her presence commanded immediate attention—sharp-eyed, composed, and unmistakably in charge.
"All right," she said coolly, her voice cutting clean through the buzz. "Fun's over."
The Hollow dimmed slightly as the torchlight adjusted, shadows lengthening across the stone seats. The giddy energy of the first-years gave way to a more serious hush as the older students straightened.
"Upper-year elections commence," Gemina declared. "Standard procedure: all current class representatives stand for reconfirmation unless formally challenged. Any challenge must be made before your year is called. If none arise, we move directly to vote."
She cast a glance at the prefects standing nearby, then nodded.
"Anchors, step down."
Gabriel Flame and Allison Harriswool—third and fourth-years respectively—stepped back from the obsidian bowl. Gabriel did so with practiced grace; Allison added a wink to a fourth-year friend that earned a stifled laugh.
Taking their place were Louis Rowle and Alie Littcott, both sixth-years and current candidates.
Rowle looked born to the task, his crisp uniform immaculate, voice smooth and commanding. Alie Littcott had a more sardonic air, flipping her parchment with the detachment of a bored executioner.
Louis cast Vocem Amplifico and addressed the house.
"Second-year elections begin. Your votes determine whether your current reps retain their roles. Vote clearly. Vote wisely."
Alie added, without looking up, "And if you mess up your spell, don't blame us when your vote catches fire. Again."
A few second-years exchanged panicked glances.
The process unfolded with familiar rhythm. Names were called, wands lit at the tip, and votes whispered and guided into the obsidian bowl. A glowing haze surrounded the basin as it collected the magic.
Each time the final vote was cast, Alie tapped the rim with her wand, and a parchment unfurled midair. Louis read the names, monotone and absolute.
Second-year: all incumbents retained.
Third-year: a little closer, but unchanged.
Fourth-year: smooth as a well-oiled broomstick.
Gemina Markeley stepped forward again, her voice rising like the closing argument of a trial.
"Results confirmed. No seats lost. No challenges raised. The House remains strong."
She paused, sweeping her gaze over the assembled students.
"Slytherin does not fear tradition," she said, her tone proud. "It perfects it."
With a flick of her wand, glowing green script hovered over the Hollow:
SECOND: Perris, Hopkirk, Prince, Rosier
THIRD: Flame, Scrimgeour, Chapman, Bones
FOURTH: Orpington, Ogden, Crabbe, Harriswool
The names shimmered for a moment, then vanished into mist.
Sirius leaned toward Laviana and muttered, "No wonder nobody challenged anyone. It was like watching statues reelect themselves."
"Statues with hexes," Laviana replied. "And long memories."
From behind, Cloyd whispered, "I'm just glad we only had to do it once tonight."
Burton added, "They're like ghosts, but with better hair."
Laviana turned, amused. "You realize you just insulted half our prefects?"
Cloyd shrugged. "It's fine.."
The older years began to file out—quiet, orderly, with the same solemn dignity one might expect from a royal court. There were no cheers, no chants. Just nods exchanged, hands clasped briefly on shoulders, silent approvals passed like currency.
The first-years lingered a bit longer, letting the weight of it settle in.
This was Slytherin.
You weren't just part of a House.
You were part of a society.
That night, Sirius lay in bed, the badge still whispering faintly on his nightstand.
Vote Black… vote Black…
He smirked to himself and reached for the enchanted twin-diary under his pillow.
Sirius:
"Well, Phinny. I'm a politician now. Accidentally, of course. Also, someone in the audience today fainted during my speech. Not because it was good—apparently she just forgot breakfast. So I am now, officially, the only candidate who made someone swoon."
He waited.
After a minute, the page shifted as words scratched themselves from far away.
Phineas:
"I will outdo you in every way. Wait and see."
Sirius grinned, tucked the book away, and whispered, "Good."
Let the games begin.