Tom awoke early and considered what lay ahead. Today he was leaving the orphanage, the only home he'd ever known. Tom was aware his abilities were rare; in fact, before the man with the beard came to visit him earlier that year, he believed he was unique. Dumblemore? He checked his joining instructions: Albus Dumbledore. He was a transfiguration professor, who'd recommended him to the school board. Tom had tried to read Dumbledore's mind at the time, usually a straightforward task, but the magical professor was a locked box.

Tom rolled out of bed, dressed, then packed his suitcase. Battered, but functional, he added the few possessions from his bedside locker and locked the clasps. Recently he'd bought a second-hand suit, which he planned to wear this morning; it was grey tweed, in a style favoured by aging academics. He'd never worn a tie before, so tucked in the uneven lengths, then clipped a pocket watch to his buttonhole. He was finally moving on; while Wool's would remain where it was.

Tom waited for the building to stir and stared up at the slit of sky, watching it turn from navy to silver; it was dull outside and after a dry summer, they were in for a wet autumn. He could smell tea stewing and bread toasting for the eighty-eight boys. A job he'd done many times, but not today; then his good fortune finally sank in. He would soon be free of this place; the first Wool's boy to leave London for school. Of course, no one knew it specialised in the magical arts. That detail, both he and Parnaby planned never to mention.

Breakfast passed without incident. He half-expected Parnaby to say something, but it was just like the many others he'd endured. Tom returned to his room and found Kit waiting with Judith. They planned to see him off and it was one of the rare occasions where Tom's feelings toward Wool's, softened.

'Here he is, our man of the moment. The brains behind this half-baked outfit!' Kit, slapped and held one shoulder, like an elder brother. Tom was less comfortable with smiling than Kit, but his enthusiasm was infectious.

Judith drew him to her. 'I'm gonna miss you Tom, say you'll write?' She held him to her chest and he heard her heart beating fast. Someone other than Tom would interpret this as affection, but he knew it was a front.

'I'll write.' He promised, but he'd only said he'd write; just as she'd asked. Tom would already have plenty to keep him busy at school.

Judith released him and they took the wooden staircase to the visitor's entrance, with Kit carrying Tom's suitcase. Parnaby was waiting at the foot of the stairs, an awkward encounter for both parties. He handed Tom a consent form, allowing him pockets of freedom at his new school. Parnaby smiled as he handed the paper over. There were patters of rain on the glass above the front door and the smell of pipe tobacco drifted down from his study. Parnaby shook Tom's hand, then opened the door. Not wanting to prolong everyones' discomfort, Tom set off for the tram stop in Deptford Market, ignoring the drizzle. At the end of Wharf Street he looked back and saw Kit waving, but the other two had gone.

He waved and turned right, picking his way between the eaves and leaping over gutters. Ten minutes later, Tom was upstairs in a tram; its windows were fogged with condensation and the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He rubbed a porthole into the glass with his sleeve and followed their progress. Through Surrey Quays and Bermondsey, then past Tower Bridge and into Southwark. No one paid him the least attention, despite the fact that today, his life was about to begin. The painted advertisements for cigarettes and soap were rusted at the corners and there was a melancholic atmosphere aboard the tram: traces of the long-forgotten dreams it transported back and forth across London. Waterloo East couldn't come soon enough.

Tom crossed The Thames via Hungerford Bridge and climbed Villiers Street. His pace slowed as the street grew steeper, but there was something else too; a critical part of his joining instructions was approaching. He believed in his abilities, but all this talk of magic and wizarding irritated him. After years of concealment, he was now expected to share all his secrets and wasn't sure how he felt about that yet. On the other hand, he had much to gain from Hogwarts. Tom skipped around cars and buses on The Strand; the traffic lights were out and a wet policeman in oilskins was directing traffic. A picture of misery, as rain rolled from his drooping moustache.

Under the awning of a bookshop opposite Leicester Square Tube, Tom checked his instructions again. The place in question was between a shop selling gramophones and a book emporium, but there were so many to choose from. He was looking for an inn called The Leaky Cauldron. One street further up, he saw it. A nondescript front, with windows behind privacy screens; nothing about it interested the stream of pedestrians hurrying by.

Although it was tempting to linger outside and delay his entrance, Tom decided not to window-shop. The door was heavy and his eyes took a moment adjusting to the gloom; inside were twenty or more customers spread around the room, none of whom looked in his direction. Projecting confidence, Tom approached the bar, where a bald man with no eyebrows was busy polishing a tankard. He continued polishing, until doing so any longer was likely to cause offence; then the man made eye contact, suggesting Tom should state his business.

'I'm booked to stay here. My name's Tom Riddle. I'll be leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow.' It sounded grown-up, as if he had somewhere important to be. The barman's eyes flashed.

'Silas, Tom Riddle's arrived. Says he's off to Hogwarts tomorrow!'

Silas, a man in a stovepipe hat at the end of the bar, turned towards them.

'That's a relief, we can stop worrying where he's got to, now.' He took a sip of ale and turned away.

Tom now realised that they were mocking him.

'What's your name?' He asked.

The barman spread his arms. 'I'm Tom too and this here's my place.'

Yes. Tom remembered now; the landlord was also called Tom.

Landlord Tom came from behind the bar and took Tom's suitcase. 'Follow me. This way.'

A door, one side of the bar counter, had steps leading down to the cellar and upwards to the accommodation. Narrow and smelling of dusty wood, they climbed two levels; then the landlord unclipped a brass key, opened room six and handed the key to Tom.

'Come and go as you please till eleven at night, then the door below gets locked. Breakfast's between seven and nine downstairs, no exceptions. I've ordered your transport for eight-thirty in the morning; nice and early as you requested. Hansom cab, best there is. He'll get you over to King's Cross in two shakes.'

'My books and...' Tom left the sentence unfinished. He was still unhappy about discussing magic with strangers.

The landlord put his suitcase on the bed. 'You'll be needing Diagon Alley for all that.'

'Yes,' Tom replied. The joining instructions had said so.

They returned to the bar and crossed to a door in the corner; outside was a simple, paved garden with a high brick wall. Tom checked the instructions were still in his pocket, while the landlord pulled out a thin stick. Tom thought he was going to point at something, then realised it was a wand. Landlord Tom tapped lightly in an anticlockwise direction. Two bricks above Tom's head, swivelled and slid forward; which triggered a cascade of turning bricks, grinding against one another. When all movement had ceased, the brick dust hung like a cloud.

The rectangular entrance revealed a busy street ahead, which curved downhill to the right. Shops fought for attention on both sides, some wooden framed with plaster and others brick-fronted, with slate roofs. Iron guttering in need of fresh paint, supported two owls perched at one end; they surveyed the hubbub below, feathers shivering in the rooftop breeze. Most impressive was the sheer volume of people spilling from doorways and threading along the street. Talking; laughing; pointing; eating; drinking and excusing each other as they squeezed by. Many wore unusual clothing, but something else struck Tom; he could feel it radiating from each person he passed, like a persistent scent. Magic. He couldn't bring himself to say it back there, in The Leaky Cauldron, but here? A hair-raising aura of magic, surrounded everyone and everything.

'Return before eleven. Just tap your wand the other direction and before you know it. You're back in The Cauldron.'

'I don't have a wand yet.'

'Best get one then,' the landlord grinned. 'Ollivanders'll see you right on that score. Not far to go.' He tapped the wall and the entrance closed.

* * * * *

Tom checked behind him as he walked away, looking for markers. There was an iron cauldron, swinging above the wall where the landlord had stood.

For the next hour Tom wandered among the crowds, taking in the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley. The conversations he heard, only made sense once you knew they were spoken by magical folk. Some wore fashions not seen on London's streets for centuries: doublet and hose; ruffs; piccadillies; hennin draped in lace and traditional academic robes. At the bottom of Diagon Alley was a grand building, with columns surrounding the entrance and dragon bas-relief decorating the frieze above. Gringotts Wizarding Bank, was cast in gold lettering over the double-door entrance. Tom opened his letter from Hogwarts, which mentioned a stipend available to him; Parnaby had told him this was a payment to cover his basic needs at school.

Inside Gringotts, clerks sat at carrels lining the main floor of the bank: carrels were private booths, where financial matters could be discussed. Tom waited till one was free. The staff were definitely not human, which was unsettling, but he resisted the temptation to stare. A position became available and the goblin ushered him over.

'Name and account number, in that order.' The goblin made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice.

'I don't have an account yet,' Tom replied, handing over the letter which detailed his stipend.

'Tom Marvolo Rittle?'

'Riddle,' Tom corrected.

'Which, unless I'm mistaken, is what I just said!' The goblin snapped back. He speed-read the letter, muttering.

'One galleon, six sickles per term, available within three days of term starting,' the goblin placed his spectacles on the desk.

'Do you exchange money?' Tom asked, 'Money from out there?'

'Muggle money, why wouldn't we? New round here are you?'

Tom pulled a wad of neatly folded five pound notes from his pocket. The goblin was surprised, then annoyed at being surprised. Tom was attempting to change £100 of muggle money; an enormous sum for anyone to be carrying around, let alone a boy. However, commission interested the goblin far more than whys and wherefores. His abacus clicked several times while he completed the transaction.

'Twenty-eight galleons and two sickles, including commission.'

Tom pushed his money across the desk and a drawer opened on the goblin's side. He transferred the gold galleons using a small shovel and deposited several into a leather pouch.

'Best you keep some at Gringotts; not everyone's friendly out there.' The goblin didn't look up.

'Half,' Tom replied.

The goblin pushed the leather pouch across the desk when he'd finished.

'Fifteen galleons and seven sickles. Next!' The goblin waved another customer over, as if Tom were suddenly invisible.

He gripped the neck of the pouch and tried to lift it from the leather surface; it was surprisingly heavy and likely to stretch his suit pocket on one side.

The goblin looked at the pouch, then the boy. He guessed this was a junior wizard, with no practical grasp of feather-light charms. The goblin made a fist, then flicked his hand towards the pouch; it now weighed less than a slice of bread. Gringotts had been a humiliating experience for Tom and he didn't imagine buying a wand would be any easier.

He meandered back up Diagon Alley, towards the Leaky Cauldron. On the way down he'd seen Ollivanders and decided there was little point in looking for a wand, before he had the means to pay for it. The shop was exceptionally narrow, with a timber frame and mullioned windows and according to the sign they'd been selling wands since 382 BC; which sounded highly unlikely to Tom. He peered through the window, then pushed the door. There would be no more apologising for his muggle background; he was here on merit, so it would be simpler for all concerned, if he just got on with it. Tom was a quick learner and Diagon Alley was a far less hostile environment than Wool's.

Despite being narrow, the shop interior had dozens of interlocking shelves vanishing into the distance and it smelled like a recently-opened tomb. Each shelf was stacked with boxes, all of which, were smothered in dust and spider webs: strongly hinting at decades of inactivity.

Although a bell sounded above the door, it faded before anyone appeared. Tom waited, then decided to make his way around the shelves; he could hear distant sounds of activity coming from the back. There he discovered a man in a dusty, lilac suit, collecting boxes and piling them on the floor. The man was having an animated conversation with himself, so Tom cleared his throat.

'There...You... Are!' He addressed Tom as if they'd known each other for years. 'I guessed sometime this afternoon.' Ollivander flicked his hair back, worked his fingers through it several times to smarten his appearance, then thrust out a hand.

'Garrick Ollivander.'

'Tom Riddle.' They shook hands.

'I've something in mind Mr Riddle. Something special. Quite possibly, the easiest choice I've made in years. Now... Where is it lurking? It's been in its box for a while.'

Ollivander rushed between the shelves directly to Tom's left, pointing above him; then turning in the other direction, he ran along more shelves. This continued for several minutes, until Tom decided that Ollivander had no idea where he'd seen it. All part of an act, to sell him a more expensive wand he happened to have close by; an act often used by hawkers and conmen in Deptford Market. Ollivander stopped and his accompanying dust cloud, continued forward. Then he pointed to a box above his head, 'there it is.' He scrambled up the shelves, with no regard for his safety and when he returned, Ollivander looked like a doughnut rolled in sugar.

'Here we are. Yew, 13½", phoenix feather core.' He blew on the box: which was black, embossed with gold scrolls and satin lined. The wand tapered to a white, bone handle, with a pronounced hook. 'Try it for size. Give it a swish!' Ollivander encouraged.

Tom took the wand from its box. It fitted cleanly in his hand, especially when held with a claw grip. The wand quivered, probably relieved at finding an owner, or suddenly keen to escape? Time would tell.

'Oh, it becomes you.' Ollivander and Tom agreed on that point; it felt bespoke, crafted for his personality alone. He held himself more upright, when his hand wrapped around it.

After the paperwork was completed, Tom left the shop and thanked Ollivander. It was less painful than he'd expected; in fact, Ollivander had treated him with something approaching respect. Tom slipped the box into his inside pocket for safekeeping.

Ollivander watched Tom leave, smiling at his retreating back, until Tom rounded the bend; then the smile faded with the sound of his bell and a resigned expression replaced it. For the first time in more than fifty years, Garrick Ollivander had made a poor match. A potentially dangerous match. The boy had left with a most powerful wand and it displayed clear misgivings. The wand was supposed to choose the wizard, not the vendor.

Tom spent many hours collecting items on his list: textbooks, school robes, a cauldron, all of which were slung in a sack over his shoulder. The first shopkeeper was decent enough to lighten his burden with a charm, but it was still bulky. Tom stopped at a stand selling Scotch pies with rasping chips: part chip, part crisp and pumpkin based, they made a sound like sawing wood when chewed.

Tom checked his pocket watch again. The plan was to return to The Leaky Cauldron just before curfew as he had no desire to while away the evening in a bar full of strangers. Once more he trudged down Diagon Alley, but this time he spotted a dark passage branching from the main street. Tom felt a tremor inside his jacket — the box was quivering — as if his wand were now alive. He took it from the box and slipped it back into his inside pocket: within touching distance. He had to visit Knockturn Alley, because something there was awaiting his collection.

Knockturn Alley differed from Diagon Alley in several respects. There was the absence of crowds: just the odd person here and there; it was also quiet and had plenty of shadow, which people moved around in. Not peacefully quiet, more graveyard-in-the-dead-of-night quiet. Tom paused in front of a shop to his left: which had a meagre window display, behind a single pane of glass. In the half-light, it was difficult to guess what they were selling.

Tom's eyes adjusted and revealed that he was looking at two rows of shrunken, human heads. Their hair had not shrunk; however and still exploded like a geyser from the top of their tiny heads. Something shifted in his peripheral vision, but glancing around revealed nothing, so he returned to the heads. Some were expressionless, but others suggested the previous owner had probably suffered. Tom guessed one had been boiled alive, possibly in oil, prompting him to wonder who bought such objects? Were they intended as a form of decoration; something to spruce up your living room? The sign above the door was understated, with an inscription in Gothic text: Noggin & Bonce: purveyors of traditional shrunken heads & miscellany. There was a plaque beside the window display, which contained the following strapline: Quality noddles, in want of shoulders.

Tom pressed on. Night had fallen and he was keen to find out what his wand was so interested in. The alley narrowed further, until you might mistake it for someone's front path. To his right was a shop with slender windows, one of which contained an iron coffin. It was embedded with sprocket wheels and circled by chains; presumably to keep whatever was inside, from escaping. There was a wingback chair in maroon leather, which had twin cushions above: for customers with a second head. The sign over the window was expensive, with hand-carved scrolls announcing: Borgin & Burkes and above the brass knocker was the number 13b. Tom pushed the door open.

A short man with hair in limited supply and huge earlobes, stood on the other side. He smiled and Tom wondered whether he'd been standing there all day.

The man introduced himself.

'Ah. Good evening sir. I am Alwyne Nimble Forbes-timpani and it greatly pleases me to welcome you, most warmly to our establishment, Borgin & Burkes. I am and ever shall be, at your disposal.' He bowed a fraction of an inch.