The Slytherin common room was at the bottom of the Black Lake. Windows looked out onto water — endless dark water, with curious creatures pressing against the glass as if watching the students in turn.
Hall had worried about dampness, about rheumatism settling into his bones. But the room was dry and cool, protected by enchantments he didn't recognise. Whoever had designed this chamber understood comfort.
The common room was all silver and green, elegant in a cold way. When Professor Snape entered, the conversation died. He gave brief instructions about house rules, watched them all with eyes like black ice, and left without a smile.
Hall thought that was the end of it. Then he noticed no one was moving.
The older students began to drift apart, forming loose circles. The first-years followed their lead, uncertain but obedient.
When everyone was in position, the prefects — fifth-year students wearing their badges — stepped forward.
A tall seventh-year with dark hair raised his hand for silence.
"I am Zamel Selwyn. For the glory of Slytherin, the First-Year Prefect Election begins now." His voice carried absolute authority. "Any method is acceptable, so long as you win. You may defeat opponents, but you cannot harm them. Wands only — and only for combat."
He gestured toward an open space in the common room.
"Sixth-years first."
Hall watched with genuine interest. The older students duelled with impressive spell-work, colours flashing through the common room like fireworks. He remembered reading that Prefect Elections were supposed to be formal and administrative. Slytherin had taken a very different approach.
Only Slytherins would turn an election into a brawl.
The younger students had fewer spells in their arsenal — their wand-work was clumsy, unrefined. But the principle was clear: come prepared, or don't come at all.
Someone bumped into him. Hall turned to find Malfoy looking genuinely anxious.
It made sense, actually. Before age eleven, young wizards weren't taught magic formally — it was dangerous. Malfoy had probably absorbed a few spells through osmosis, maybe practised on the sly, but he'd never had a real duel.
"If I don't become prefect, my father will be furious," Malfoy muttered to Blaise Zabini beside him, his voice tight.
Hall leaned in. "I can help you win."
"Trying to swindle me again?" Malfoy snapped, but he'd heard the offer. He straightened immediately, forcing arrogance back into his posture. "I don't need help. I'll win on my own."
"Your choice," Hall said, shrugging. "But the offer stands."
Malfoy looked Hall up and down — at the tattered robes, the shabby appearance of a boy with nothing — and sneered. He was a Malfoy. He had training, protective charms, family backing. This Henry William character, appearing from nowhere?
Impossible.
"First-year Prefect Election begins," Zamel announced.
The younger students who'd been sorted into Slytherin stepped into the open space. Most of them had barely held a wand before. Their spells were tentative, half-formed, barely more than gestures with a stick.
Hall had grown up with five older brothers. Fighting was as natural to him as breathing.
He watched the chaos unfold, the first-years flailing, and decided to wait. No point volunteering when everyone else was still struggling.
The upperclassmen watched with detached indifference — they'd all been through this same test once.
Malfoy's platinum-blond hair, so carefully combed that morning, was now a disaster. He was dodging and weaving, looking genuinely miserable. As the heir to the Malfoy name, he'd never been in an actual fight. It was undignified. Humiliating.
He ducked behind Hall, barely avoiding an elbow strike.
"William! Help me!" His voice was low, urgent, even as his face tried to maintain arrogance.
Hall withdrew slightly, letting Malfoy hide in his shadow. "That'll cost you."
Malfoy's jaw clenched.
"Two hundred Galleons," Malfoy said through gritted teeth. His weekly allowance.
"A prefect's badge for two hundred?" Hall threw a punch at an approaching opponent, keeping them back. "Seems cheap."
Someone had spotted Malfoy. Multiple students were moving in, sensing a weak target.
"One thousand Galleons!" Malfoy's voice cracked slightly. He'd finally realised he was being hunted.
"Deal."
Hall felt a surge of satisfaction. He hadn't expected Malfoy to panic-bid that high. One thousand Galleons — that was serious money.
He moved with sudden efficiency, knocking back the students converging on Malfoy, creating a pocket of space. "What spells do you actually know?"
"Lumos. Just Lumos," Malfoy admitted, naming the basic illumination charm.
"Good. After I knock everyone else out, cast it on me. Understand?"
Hall stepped back into the fray and eliminated the remaining first-years one by one. Not brutally — he kept his strength controlled, aware that injuries would be noted — but decisively. When only two students remained standing, Hall and Malfoy, the crowd fell silent.
Malfoy was panicking. Lumos wasn't an offensive spell. It created light. How was he supposed to use that in a duel? Blind Hall? The spell didn't work that way.
But Hall nodded at him, expression determined.
Malfoy raised his wand, pointed it directly at Hall, and shouted, "Lumos!"
Brilliant light erupted from the spell, blindingly bright in the enclosed common room.
"Malfoy wins!" Zamel stepped forward, clapping slowly.
Malfoy stood completely bewildered.
Hall shrugged from where he stood, still pretending to be blinded by the spell.
Zamel's smile was cold and knowing. "Do you see, first-years? Magic is the answer. Use your wands, and you will prevail. None of you had proper combat training before this year. Very few of you had learned any spells beyond Lumos and Incendio. But those who thought to use what little magic they possessed won the day."
He turned to Malfoy and pinned the silver prefect's badge to his chest.
"Remember the Slytherin Code perfectly, Prefect Malfoy. Everything is for Slytherin. Everything is for the house."
His eyes swept the common room. "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock. The older students will guide you through the castle, and you will memorise every route. There will be a test. Failure is not an option."
Only after he finished did the students move, dispersing toward their dormitories.
Hall lingered, thinking.
Snape was nominally in charge, but the real power clearly rested with the year prefects. Zamel Selwyn and the others controlled discipline, resource allocation, and social hierarchy. Snape provided authority; they provided structure.
It was a clever system.
Slytherin dormitories were spacious and luxurious — two students per room, far nicer than the standard Hogwarts accommodation. Only the prefects rated private rooms.
Malfoy was waiting at the dormitory door when Hall arrived, holding out a small leather coin purse.
"One thousand," Malfoy confirmed, his voice tight. "You earned it. I saw what you did out there."
Hall took the purse. Inside, heavy coins clinked softly. One thousand Galleons. A fortune by most standards. Enough to buy serious things.
Malfoy watched him with calculating eyes. "You could have won that election yourself."
"Yes," Hall agreed.
"But you didn't."
"No. I sold you the victory instead." Hall pocketed the coin purse. "A prefect's badge is temporary power. But a prefect who owes you his position is permanent leverage."
Malfoy went very still.
"You played me," he said quietly.
"I helped you win," Hall corrected. "What you do with that badge is your choice. But you'll remember that you got it because I chose to help you. And next time you need something that requires a prefect's authority — or his silence — you know exactly who to talk to."
Hall smiled.
"Welcome to Slytherin, Draco."