The afternoon of Saturday the 26th of November, brought an astonishing display of nature at its most dramatic. Imperious, charcoal clouds scraped along the highland peaks, as they hurried overhead. Most students now wore gloves or scarves to classes and the first five minutes were spent getting the circulation going. Today's quidditch match was called off, because the Reykjavik Ravens were a no-show. Food poisoning had somehow infected every member of their team, according to a message received by Headmaster Dippet. The Raven's absence, as everyone knew, was due to their miserable performance this season.

So the school had a Saturday afternoon with nothing to focus on. Most were wandering the corridors in search of entertainment, or practising spells in remote classrooms. Tom and Gary decided on a circuit of the school, to blow away the cobwebs: starting from the Great Hall, they would pass Merlin's Gate, then return through the Clock Courtyard. When they rounded the most easterly point and faced the wind for the first time, both had to lean forward to make any progress. Their twenty-minute circuit, turned into an hour of staggering and shouted conversation.

The plan was to practice spells afterwards, but the walk had been exhausting, so they found comfy chairs instead. Gary produced a loaf of bread from somewhere and he and Tom attached slices to a pair of brass prongs. The bread was toasted, along with their numb toes, in front of the common room fire.

'You up for tonight?' Gary squashed half a slice into his mouth.

'Not really.' Tom's ambition had been stoked the previous evening, just before bed. However, in the early morning light, he had serious doubts whether going was the best course of action. The Slug Club was full of sixth formers. They weren't people you spoke to; mainly because they didn't want to speak to you.

Several nights earlier, Tom dreamed that he'd walked into the supper party and everyone had stopped talking. Slughorn encouraged him to introduce himself, but his voice had been squeaky and ridiculous. The older students then laughed without sparing his feelings; this youngster was no genius, just a comic sideshow for their entertainment. When he awoke, Tom realised that the event which had been safely relegated to the future for weeks, was now only days away.

'You're lucky,' Gary said, 'most would give anything to experience all that hoopla.' He wagged a corner of toast at Tom. 'You're an exceptionally-lucky young man.'

'Go in my place then,' Tom flipped his toast round.

'Don't tempt me, Thomas,' Gary opened his mouth and compressed the remaining toast into it. 'Polyjuice potion is right up your street, I shouldn't wonder,' but all Tom heard was a churning cement mixer.

Seven-fifteen that evening, Tom checked his reflection for the tenth time. He was wearing his best tweed suit — his only tweed suit — which felt inappropriate for evening wear; Gary offered to lend him another, but it was far too loud. The rest of the school would be watching a play about telekinetic spiders, written and staged by the fifth form.

'Oh, he's so dashing!' Gary pushed Tom towards the exit. 'Now knock 'em dead, Tiger.'

Tom crossed the Cobblestone Courtyard to the Grand Staircase, then down to the Great Hall. Most students were already there: waiting patiently to see the play and several turned as Tom approached the Upper Great Hall Tower, fiddling with his top button. This was nothing new: whispering and pointing followed him everywhere these days. He straightened his tie self-consciously, puffed his cheeks several times and opened the tower door. Behind it was a bookcase, stretching from floor to ceiling. He reached for the middle shelf and pushed the third book from the left; then the bookcase rumbled to his right, receding into the wall. A spiral staircase was revealed and Tom started his climb. There was a hessian-rope handrail to hold, whose smell dominated the stairwell. At every rotation, he passed a thin window on both the north and south sides, stretching two floors a piece.

At the top was another door, where he hesitated and mentally prepared himself. Tom adjusted his tie again, shut his eyes, then knocked four times.

'Enter!' Slughorn yelled cheerfully and Tom opened the door into a vast room. What a room! One of Hogwarts' most elegant, though rarely used these days. A cavernous glass dome with iron latticework, immediately grabbed the visitor's attention. Dozens of tropical plants, including many indoor trees, probed upwards into the glass cupola. Floating candles descended in tiered clusters, from the dome down to floor level. An immense stone fireplace — taller than a person — with a roughly-hewn mantel, dominated the room to Tom's left: a necessary source of heat for the tropical plants in the arboretum. Standing casually beside the fireplace and in his element, was Slughorn, nursing a glass of mead. Four or five, loose knots of students mingled nearby, grinning at their good fortune; so far, this closely resembled his anxiety dream.

Slughorn, sensing Tom's discomfort, broke away and swept him forward with a protective arm across one shoulder. 'Oh-ho, everyone. This is Tom Riddle. Dazzled us all with his potions practical; more than earning his invite. Hmm? Now we can all put a face to the name.'

Slughorn walked Tom around the reception, introducing other attendees, who were all sipping mead from glasses the size of an egg cup. Tom was handed a miniature butterbeer. Most nodded vaguely, unwilling to admit they'd heard of a first former. Those present at The Slug Club, to all intents and purposes, ran the school: quidditch captain; head boy; head girl; famous parent; rich family; brilliant student; well-connected exchange student and so on. They represented Hogwarts' cream and as a set, would greatly enhance any collection.

Although taller than the others, one of the boys also appeared to be younger. He was introduced as William Howard; substantially taller than Tom, he also had twice the bulk. Tom was already aware of William, since he was a first team quidditch blocker, despite being in the fourth form. He was known as Wild Bill to other pupils and someone you stayed the right side of. Slughorn thought that since neither were in the sixth form, they should keep each other company, but Tom immediately saw the flaw in his simple logic.

Slughorn couldn't resist sharing, that William Howard's family were bordering on magical royalty; not perhaps as lavish in terms of galleon wealth these days, but they still enjoyed significant influence at the Ministry. Historically, the Howards provided early funding for Hogwarts and a member of their family had sat on the governing board ever since. Slughorn's eyes were wild.

Tom and Bill shook hands, then Slughorn left them to it; he had other jewels to polish and admire. Fifteen minutes of networking remained before dinner and there were still enquiries to be made. Tom gazed at the oak table between the trees, with its twin ranks of dining chairs facing one another. He should say something to Bill, otherwise his inexperience at mingling might become obvious.

'Been to one of these before?' Tom asked, taking a sip of butterbeer.

Bill had a way of looking down his nose at you, whether intentionally or not. He had brown hair, slicked at the sides, but less formal up front, thick,arched eyebrows and sleepy eyes. He looked like the kind of brute you'd find holding junior pupils up by their ankles, but his voice and manner were refined.

'Several,' Bill replied. Cutting the conversation dead and establishing this was nothing new to him. Then he changed his approach and opened up.

'You're a potions man, Slughorn says?'

'Not really,' Tom took another sip, 'I thought if I did well in potions, I'd have an easier time with Slughorn.' Tom smoothed his way through Wool's with similar honesty and Bill warmed to the explanation.

'Sensible. With all this talent on display, how are we supposed to make any kind of impression?' He was gently mocking the other students and keeping Tom onside.

They discussed the cancelled quidditch match, before Slughorn interrupted them.

'Right, enough of this flimflam you Slytherin men! Time to eat and don't tell me you're not hungry.' He clapped his hands, making those with their backs turned, jump. When they seated themselves along the table, there appeared to be an unwritten pecking order, so Tom and Bill hung back. They were expected to take the two end positions, with Slughorn at the head and his particular favourites close by. The other head of the table, facing away from the entrance, was always left vacant, so if the headmaster dropped by, he could join them for dessert or coffee. That had never happened in eight years and probably never would, but Slughorn's hope sprang eternal.

As the first course materialised, Tom noticed the parade of cutlery on either side of his plate. Bill nudged him.

'You work from the outside, in. Those two forks are for the fish and that contraption on the end is for snails.' It looked like a surgical instrument for extracting eyeballs.

The food was superb, the fish course especially: lemon sole meunière. Tom had eaten fish and chips from the chippie in Deptford, on two occasions; which was the tastiest meal he'd had up to that point. However, the sole was nothing short of spectacular and edged fish and chips off the top spot.

He and Bill were physically on the fringes and socially too; the conversation always petered out before reaching them. Tom discovered that Bill had already picked his final options for O.W.L.s, but things don't get serious till the fifth form, next year. Then it was solid work till the end of sixth form.

'Enjoy school while you still can,' was his advice.

Bill was visiting Ankara at Christmas, to attend an international symposium on Turkish charms.

'Much misunderstood throughout the magical world, with some top-notch speakers,' he repeated in a mechanical imitation of his father. Bill pretended to nod off. Tom suppressed a snigger, he was all right Bill Howard and not so threatening as he looked. When Bill laughed, his sleepy eyelids met, which was infectious. Their amusement caught Sluggy's attention.

'A good joke, Bill? Do share.' Slughorn was always terrified of missing out.

Bill recovered and waved the request away. 'Nothing Professor, just ah... Trifling matter.' Tom smiled into the luscious raspberry trifle they were enjoying.

The pun went over Slughorn's head, so he returned to his nearest and dearest. The coffee appeared before them, in thimble-sized demitasses and Tom settled back in his chair to look up. The branches spread to the far reaches of the circular dome, with stars dotted between on this moon-free night. He'd been dreading Slughorn's supper, but it was enjoyable and the food had been sensational. Usually food held no interest for him: hard brown bread, waxy cheese, factory processed meats and rotting fruit. He was beginning to see what all the fuss was about.

Not familiar with etiquette, dinner was over with little warning and the guests began to leave. Tom and Bill joined Slughorn, who was standing by the door, personally seeing everyone off.

'Thanks for coming Bill, a pleasure as always.'

'Tom! Mind giving me a hand for a minute?' Slughorn put his arm on Tom's shoulder again. It didn't feel like a request.

Bill turned briefly.

'See you around, Riddle.' His hands deep in his pockets, he took the stairs two at a time.

When they were alone, Slughorn directed all his attention at Tom, in case he felt neglected; like some fickle partner on a first date. Tom hadn't cared less, in fact he was relieved at not being involved in Slughorn's conversations. He'd enjoyed himself, instead of fumbling through the evening. Slughorn asked Tom to carry some scrolls: memoirs from former dinners and light suppers he'd thrown over the years. He always kept them on hand, to prevent the conversation drying up. Luckily tonight, the scrolls had remained untouched on a stool.

Tom followed Slughorn back to Slytherin House; he talked the whole way, but Tom was barely listening. He was reviewing how far he'd come in a single term. In the first few weeks he'd been invisible and now the head of house was fawning over him. In his past life, magic didn't exist; it was a parlour trick you saw in the West End: visiting the Palladium or Hippodrome. It was make-believe and usually looked down upon. These muggles — as magical families referred to their non-magical peers — would have died and gone to heaven; if only they'd known that right under their noses, was a world overflowing with magic. Tom was good at it too; a fact he should try to remember more often. One of the best and quite possibly the best, Hogwarts had seen in centuries.

'So tomorrow's fine with you?' Slughorn was droning on, but Tom had long since drifted away. He considered his response carefully.

'What time and where, Professor?'

'Eleven o'clock on the quidditch pitch!' Slughorn's expression was exasperated as he repeated the bullet points.

'Greetje de Vries from the Utrecht Academy of the Ancient Arts — a former Hogwarts pupil — wants to harden up her dragon orphan, before releasing it into the wild. As I explained at length, not several minutes ago. We have a few spots in the Forbidden Forest suitable for a dragon whelp and I need one or two select students present, glad-handing. You know, part of the welcoming committee? Mum's the word though Tom, we have to keep this sort of thing under wraps. There's a buffet in the Great Hall after...'

'Of course I'll be there and goodnight sir.' After eleven years at Wool's without a decent meal, he was about to enjoy his third in a few months. Dragons were strictly fifth formers and above, even to view from a distance; Tom had seen pictures and illustrations, but now he was going to experience one in the flesh.

Gary was peeved to be missing out, but only briefly.

'Maybe I could come along for moral support. You know, hang about in the background?'

Tom didn't see why not, so at quarter to eleven on a dazzling, but bitterly-cold morning, they set off for the school quidditch pitch. Low sun picked its way through the evergreen trees, projecting tall shadows across Hogwarts. Some distance from the stadium they encountered a waist-high rope, cordoning off the entrance; occasional snorts and puffs of smoke appeared above the seating area, before they dissolved into the chilly air. As they got closer, there were noises preceding the smoke. Violent, strangulated roars.

Several prefects were standing behind the rope and Slughorn was chatting to one. His face brightened when he saw Tom.

'Glad you could make it, Tom. And... I see you've brought your friend.'

'I'll not get in the way, Professor, promise.' Gary rarely looked so eager to please.

'All right, all right. Just keep back and I'm sure we'll get along fine.'

They passed below the canvas surround. Usually only visible during matches, today it was needed to hide the contents of the stadium.

Slughorn had kept a tight lid on the event and no rumours were circulating around the breakfast tables. Even Gary resisted the temptation to mention where they were going. He would be part of an exclusive band of witnesses and the privilege had excited him into silence.

Emerging the other side of the canvas, they were met by a hive of activity. A Hebridean Black was bound to two stone blocks, using chains as thick as a wizard's thigh; the beast was around twenty feet in length, but still adolescent and only able to fly short distances. The plan was for it to acclimatise in the Forbidden Forest, which was similar to the breed's natural habitat in Lewis. Then the dragon would be passed on to the McFusty Clan.

The handler — a giant — towered over the dragon, but handled it with care: soothing and stroking. Tom had never seen a giant either, then he smelled it moments later. Concealing your involuntary retching was advisable, since bringing up personal hygiene with a giant was likely to cause offence. They lived in caves and occasionally if they fell into a river, well... That took care of any bathing needs. Someone foolish enough to hurt a giant's feelings, shouldn't be too surprised if their head and shoulders swiftly parted company.

The dragon — Tina — was fitted with a temporary muzzle, to prevent her spewing fire over the assembled guests. The iron muzzle glowed orange and white, where fumes escaped through the sides of her mouth. This was normal behaviour rather than distress and although the dragon was keen to move things along, the Scottish Highlands felt like home. The jet scales on her head and haunches, gleamed in the morning sun and when she breathed out, it sounded like giant bellows, huffing over hot coal. The paperwork had been signed and Greetje de Vries was making her excuses to leave, but Slughorn still wanted to show Tom off.

'Madame de Vries, I'd like to present one of our star pupils. Mr Tom Riddle.'

Greetje was a tall witch, over six feet and stick thin. She glanced her palm at Tom's outstretched hand, managing only a shrug of a smile, before there was a blood-curdling shriek. The dragon had snapped the chain attached to her right ankle; Biggs the giant, was trying to grasp the dragon's leg and prevent Tina from sweeping her powerful tail back and forth. An unrestricted tail, would be quite capable of swatting the assembled dignitaries across the pitch and into the stands. Tom saw Greetje's face hang, then fall.

Tina ripped herself free of Biggs' grip, pulling the giant forward onto his knees, then she delivered a savage blow to the side of his head. Her tail was heavily armoured and Biggs moaned before rolling over: not fully unconscious, but groggy and out of action. Tina wrenched the other anchor chain with all her might and jets of blue flame escaped from the dragon's closed teeth. Greetje shrieked, 'Professor Slughorn, for the love of Woden, do something!'

Slughorn blanched at the gravity of their situation, but failed to do anything useful; this was all his idea and now it was about to self-destruct. He whispered to himself, desperate for any kind of plan, then his mind screamed in alarm. Tom Riddle had put himself within striking distance of the dragon.

Tina reared onto her back legs, sinking several inches into the hard pitch; then she steadied herself and prepared to lunge at Tom. The plan was to knock him down with her anvil-shaped head and follow up with a savage mauling. That never happened. The beast settled herself and shuffled forwards, panting and snatching at Tom's scent: part placid, part curious. With each snort her temper faded a little further. Biggs recovered and placed an arm around Tina's neck, but she was already calm.

Tom stood with his hand raised, understanding the dragon's behaviour and consoling her, but not by any visible means.

Slughorn's expression was transfixed and unable to process what he'd just witnessed.