During October, days became shorter and the hint of chilliness grew to a presence. Jumpers were needed when walking to lessons and coats when venturing out. Early November brought a severe cold snap, with condensation of the breath, fingers retracted into sleeves and crunching earth below. It was 7.30am on a Friday morning — the day before Bonfire Night — and the cold was ear-numbing. It dulled sounds from the forests; from rattling horse chains at the felling station and from birds calling to their missing partners.

Tom rose, dressed and rather than take an early breakfast, headed outside. He chose the Dark Tower as an unlikely spot to run into any staff or pupils and took the staircase upwards at a steady pace. The door at the top was locked, so Tom withdrew his wand.

'Alohomora.' Still locked.

He could break through the door, but that was hardly the point if you were trying to keep a low profile. Tom turned the wand on himself.

'Gracilis.' With emphasis on the lis syllable at the end of the word.

He stowed his wand and prepared himself for what would happen next. Tom's head wove from side-to-side, before stretching into a strand of smoke: the kind an extinguished candle produces. He rose upwards, his body rippling to a filament and threaded through the loose-fitting planks; then he wafted to the floor on the other side and reformed from the shoes upwards. It was a graceful display, but unobserved on this frosty morning.

Tom looked over the edge of the tower to the Transfiguration Courtyard below: nothing more than a distant handkerchief of silvery green. It was little wonder the door was locked so firmly. No one would survive a fall, without a professor's wand to arrest their descent. He levelled his eyes at the horizon and fixed them there. Tiny snow crystals — reluctant to fall — blurred the distant hills: winter had arrived early.

Today was Slughorn's potions test and his reason for visiting the tower. Tom needed somewhere inspirational, to remind himself of what was at stake; something Hogwarts and the surrounding scenery, never failed to do. Today was an important day; probably the most important of his life so far.

Their first assessed assignment as Hogwarts pupils, had been set two months earlier: the potions practical. During the half-term break, local pupils were able to return home. Those that lived too far had activities and study periods to attend, including the Halloween social. Tom used the time to study, but was careful to take part in events too; he knew from his time at Wool's, that being on your own eventually created problems. Being seen to join in, was almost as good as actually joining in. Now lessons had resumed, everyone's attention refocussed on their assignment. Most of his classmates were afraid it would draw attention to particular weaknesses, since standards at Hogwarts were so high. During the early part of their education — at smaller, local schools — they may have excelled; here the competition was stiffer and no one wanted to be singled out for special attention.

Slughorn asked them to demonstrate a potion of choice: providing it's simple. Which would give the teaching staff an idea of their individual strengths. They could then introduce streams according to ability and so on. What most students already knew, was that Slughorn loved to nurture promising talent. This wasn't encouraged, so much as tolerated by the headmaster and governors. Excelling was — after all — nothing to be ashamed of at Hogwarts. However, in Tom's case it presented a dilemma.

He could dazzle staff if he wished and become the most talked-about pupil in the history of Hogwarts. Tom had no doubts concerning his abilities and the potion he'd practised, although inspired by others, was his own, unique creation. It was unusually complex and that was the problem. He and it would attract the attention of everyone: pupils and staff. What he needed to weigh up, was whether this price was too high? Tom cared little for praise and fame, having experienced none so far in life and believed himself above such low tributes. No, the threat came from two other camps: jealous students and meddlesome teachers. Some pupils would dislike him for his abilities and some teachers would undoubtedly pay him close attention from this point. He had a lifetime of living in an institution to call upon, so was well aware of the consequences. Currently, Tom was anonymous and able to use magic freely. He enjoyed no attention whatsoever.

Present my complex potion and impress everyone, or select something simple and remain anonymous?

He'd climbed the tower to decide, but already knew what to do when he awoke that morning; of course he'd present his potion. The one he'd worked solidly on for two months. It was worth the risk. Besides, there were several other advantages: Slughorn would take him under his wing, few would doubt that. Some pupils might show him more respect, smoothing his passage through school. Access to better books and materials was a long-term possibility. Also, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to see their surprised faces.

Tom threaded through the door's keyhole and headed back down the stairs: taking several at a time. All doubt vanished as he crossed the Transfiguration Courtyard. Its pearly grass tainted by dark green footprints, as he hurried over to the Great Hall for a late breakfast.

* * * * *

It began at 10am and the practicals would run till 11.30am. The half hour up to noon, would include demonstrations from those lucky enough to be selected. Lessons were usually an hour, so two solid hours of potions was an ominous prospect. You were either unlucky enough to perform poorly and receive special attention, or worse, what if you did well? Then you'd present to the entire year, after ninety, soul-crushing minutes. Some reward!

The potions classroom was host to all first form pupils for the test. Some were housemates and familiar, but many were faces only seen at feasts, quidditch matches, or aboard the Hogwarts Express. If students hadn't woken feeling anxious, then an atmosphere of mild hysteria greeted them outside the potions classroom.

The chatter died away as Slughorn breezed up the corridor. Robes billowing behind him and utterly convinced that he had the best job in the world.

'Quiet please.'

He rapped his wand on the door to get everyones' attention, then gave the end a crisp flick. The door unlocked, swung open and he took his place at the front of the class. The room had an unusual, organic odour, like decomposing grass; combined with the worry of a practicals test, it produced nausea in the pit of your stomach. The three classes found their seats and remained strictly partisan, dividing themselves into their respective forms: this was no time to be exploring new friendships. Tom was less bothered whether his friends were nearby. He wanted easy access to the store cupboards and if possible, to be near the least distracting students. There was a suitable location at the back and Gary gave him a wave.

'Cut it out, Mr Box. We've more important things to worry about, than where your friend's sitting.'

Although Slughorn had his back turned, little got past him. He wrote on the board in copperplate text, with the tiniest piece of chalk imaginable; it was beautiful to look at, but impossible to read.

What he wrote was a summary of times: Start 10.15, End 11.30 sharp! It was precise in a way the first form were unused to, but that was the point. Slughorn cut some slack to youngsters, but one day in the future, they would become adults, so drip feeding them responsibility was essential. As far as he was concerned, it was never too early to start planning the rest of your life.

Tom was among the most nervous, but no one would have guessed it. He unpacked his notes and arranged them on the bench in a cool and precise manner; there was much to gain from today's exercise, but more to lose if his plan came unstuck. Tom's mouth was tacky, but his will was fixed on the task in hand.

Slughorn smiled.

'You have five minutes to collect what you need from the store cupboards and I do mean five, Miss Rubinstein! We start at ten-fifteen precisely! I'm here should you need extra equipment, though I can't imagine why. Remember the watchword: simple. I want a simple potion. Done well.'

Tom bypassed the scrum forming around the cupboards. One of the house-elves, Ruby — usually cleaning the dormitories at this time — was on hand to dispense potion ingredients. Although Slughorn gave the impression that the entire burden of the task fell on him; it was Ruby who span left and right, as vials, jars and flasks, flew into the hands of eager students. Tom approached Slughorn, who was examining his piece of chalk with wonder.

'Sir, can I borrow a Falstaff tap, Reed condenser and copper alembic?'

Slughorn's eyebrows raised. Surely he had those items, but puppy dog tails! It must be more than five years since he'd seen the alembic. Which part of simple was unclear?

Piling them into Tom's arms and smothering him in cobwebs and mummified spiders, Slughorn returned to the blackboard, 'That's time! You have one hour and one quarter precisely!' He whispered to Tom.

'Hurry up and get what you need lad, the house-elf's wanted back in Slytherin. It's a monumental tip down there.'

Most were too busy to notice the number of times Tom returned to the stores cupboard; Slughorn was about to say something, when it became clear Tom had finished collecting his ingredients. The foolish boy's only wasted ten whole minutes!

A film of sweat covered Tom's brow; the hardest part was over. On another day he might have failed to secure the right equipment, or stores may have run short, but not today. He'd practised the potion from scratch, twice; his fastest time was seventy minutes to completion and now he had sixty-five. It was still possible, but everything would need to be a stroke or two faster. Meanwhile, Slughorn scanned the room, patrolling, pointing at a burner overheating the mixture, or shaking his head at a potion spewing toxins. Errors of judgement were greeted with a tut or raised eyebrow.

Tom's speed of operation and confidence around the equipment, aroused Slughorn's interest. What on Earth is he up to? Slughorn happily admitted that he hadn't the faintest. Tom's setup looked like he was reanimating a corpse. There was a scroll on his desk to work from and he unrolled sections as required.

Slughorn was thinking how he hadn't liked Tom at all; a cocky, arrogant young man, who hardly knew he was born! At least that was his initial assessment, based not on fact, but the gut-instinct teachers were blessed with. His gut had been wrong; the lad obviously knew a thing or two. Slughorn's professional side was certain the potion would amount to nothing of substance; however, Tom's intrepid conduct was nothing short of spectacular. What if Riddle's creation actually does something useful? What if he was a bona fide genius and Slughorn was the necessary key to unlocking that potential.

Slughorn imagined himself with steepled hands, being interviewed by the Daily Prophet. 'Nurturing talent is an educator's bread and butter,' he adopted a serious, but sincere face. 'It's an unwritten rule of the profession. Mentoring fresh minds and guiding them along the path to excellence.' The smile returned and he waved one hand in a circular motion, indicating no further explanation was necessary. The same smile was plastered across his face when he slipped from the daydream; back to the lacklustre reality of a first-form, potions practical.

Slughorn felt a flush of blood in his cheeks. He was excited about the prospect of Tom's potion and the boy's potential could not be ignored. Finally, a new project!

* * * * *

'Ten more minutes!' Slughorn yelled, despite being in such a confined space.

He was nervous. Throughout the practical, he'd tried to share his attention equally among the group, but it was clear he only had eyes for Tom's experiment. In the first fifteen minutes Slughorn was confident of Tom's approach. He was heading on a familiar course, towards a form of ingested potion; obvious to those with potions know-how. Then he veered dramatically off course, refining some unguent, or perhaps an oil to be poured? Slughorn's smile was a marriage of surprise and repulsion, so he shook his head periodically to dismiss it, should anyone notice. He was looking forward to the end of the practical, more than the students taking part.

Slughorn continued to patrol the desks. Some had worryingly trivial set ups: a heat source; a flask; the odd rat tail; sparse ingredients and a bare-bones diagram. 'Can we all finish up now!'

That will amount to precisely nothing, Slughorn thought, appraising Don Stephens' pitiful effort. Tom sped up; he was close, but wanted no sympathy extensions.

For the final two minutes Slughorn stood at the front of the class; shifting his weight from side to side, like a man impatient for his tankard of butterbeer. Most had downed tools and were sneaking a peek at their classmates' work. Assessing whether they'd done enough to escape humiliation. Or not. As the second hand passed six on the clock, Tom opened the receiver tap at the base of his condenser and a thread of oily liquid filled the miniature pot. He laid the pot carefully on the bench, looked up and swept back the hair covering his face.

Slughorn was watching Tom from the corner of one eye. With relief he shouted.

'That's time! All over I'm afraid. Put your equipment down please. No exceptions, Benjamin Trubshawe.'

Slughorn noticed two other promising potions while he was making circuits of the room; Mouna Rooke had produced a nifty draught and Eve Wendell's was above average too. He called Eve to the front of the class for a demonstration; while the remaining students gathered around Slughorn's desk. Excited and holding the flask in both hands, she demonstrated how her potion could remove the colour from other liquids. Most of the classroom nodded approval, it was well executed, but you had to wonder what practical uses the potion might have.

'Yes, well done, er... Evelyn.' Slughorn tested a name he might never have cause to use again.

'It's just Eve.'

'Is it.' Slughorn was unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

'Return to your seat please, Miss Wendell. Miss Rooke! Come up and show us what you've concocted.'

Mouna carried several jars in her arms, with the lids firmly screwed shut. Shy and quietly spoken, she explained that each contained an unpleasant odour. Everyone moved in for a closer look. The first jar contained decomposing newts and as she unscrewed the lid a fraction, an unholy stench wafted into the crowd. It was heart-stoppingly foul, causing several spectators to back away. The next jar contained dragon urine, from an on-heat male and although it may not have physically happened, the front row's hair stood on end. The last jar held a vaporous, pygmy-bat gland. A native of the Belgian Congo and often used in local medicines, it was reputed to be the most, rancid-smelling odour in the potions catalogue. If the previous smell made your hair stand on end; this made it fall out. The row nearest the desk, turned pale and gagged. Language was simply not rich enough, to express its nose-related horror.

Mouna poured a small draught of her potion into the three jars and quickly replaced the lids. She shook each like a cocktail and allowed the mixture to settle.

'My potion will remove any odour from the liquid it's mixed with.'

She opened the jars in turn and passed them round; they had a vaguely floral smell and nothing more. In addition to being a potion that worked, this one also did something useful. The class clapped unprompted — except for Eve Wendell — who wondered what had happened to her applause.

'Yes, overall quite surprising, Miss Rooke, fifteen points to Hufflepuff. A competent imagination at work.' Mouna's Hufflepuff housemates gave her an honour guard of well dones, when she returned the jars to her desk.

'Well, there's one more to see, but I think we may need to decamp to his desk. What do you say, Mr. Riddle?'

'That would be easiest, sir.'

The class gathered round Tom's desk in the corner; which took several minutes, as only two sides were available. There was much jostling for space and a nearby bench was pushed away to make room. Gary Box appeared at the front, probably from crawling between everyone's legs. Slughorn considered reprimanding him, but that only tended to prolong his performances.

'When you're ready, Tom.' It escaped no one's attention that Slughorn had absent-mindedly referred to a first form boy, by his first name. A common practice with girls, it was never extended to boys. Slughorn had a new favourite in his sights.

Everyone followed the imagined progress of ingredients through Tom's potion equipment. Heat was applied here, water boiled there, steam rose and the mixture condensed. It was skimmed at this point, boiled again, then filtered once more for good measure. His ingredients were exotic: alligator gizzard stones, troll ankle-skin (dried), dead heart of hemlock (an especially-lethal poison extract). Yes, this potion belonged in another league. Slughorn was enjoying the theatre of it all, now he was certain the potion wouldn't work; this is not how things are done, it's that simple! He felt relief, sandwiched between layers of disappointment. Both of which faded over the next fifteen minutes, as he was forced to acknowledge a piece of work, unparalleled in all his years of teaching. Remarkable, he repeated to himself; with a thousand-yard stare fixed on the twin peaks above Strathmore Glen.

* * * * *

'Off you go,' Slughorn prompted with an encouraging nod and the demonstration began. Tom's voice was confident and matter-of-fact as he described how Professor Slughorn had mentioned the potion facultas. He was unashamedly buttering up Slughorn, for providing him with inspiration during a classroom ramble. Slughorn's thumbs returned to his lapels and he rocked back and forth on his heels.

Tom continued.

'I knew a potion of this complexity would be too difficult to create in one experiment, so decided to build a first stage; a foundation I would be able to improve on, over many months. A potion in its own right, but also a cord. This, combined with many other potion cords, would produce a rope such as the potion facultas. I found what I needed in Sense and Desensitising the Spirit, by Judith Khan.