It was still dark when Tom left Wool's in the second week of January and this time there was no farewell party to see him off. Air temperature had dropped dramatically overnight and the pavement slabs beneath his feet, glistened with hoar frost. He waited for the tram near Deptford Market and watched other Londoners hurrying to work. A woman wearing an old, red shawl, exhaled clouds of condensation. An unshaven man, eating a meat pie for breakfast, held it upright to prevent the filling escaping. There were several roasted chestnuts in his other hand, which he swivelled to keep warm. The early sun cast amber beams over the market stalls, forcing workers to shield their eyes. An elderly man, wearing a dented bowler hat, stood in the blue shade; arranging hand shovels on his cart. The pipe between his teeth released puffs of smoke, which failed to rise in the freezing air. Tom needed to witness this lack of ambition from time to time; it reminded him what Deptford had in store, for those who abandoned their dreams. London meanwhile, was gradually warming to its operating temperature.

Tom arrived at King's Cross, put his suitcase in left luggage and took the trolleybus south to Piccadilly. He leapt from the rear platform letting his legs adjust, before backpedalling to walking speed in Coventry Street. He was looking for someone.

''Ey up!'

Tom shook Gary's outstretched hand and they stood for a moment; Gary with his hands on his hips, nodding as Tom filled him in on the holidays.

'Right, what's the plan?' Gary was all ears.

'Breakfast? There's something I need to tell you. Cafe Royal all right?'

'Bit rich for my blood, by the sounds of it. I'm a little low on funds this month.'

'My treat.'

'Lead the way, Thomas.' Gary presented a path towards Regent Street.

Tom kept one hand in his jacket pocket, so he could stay within touching distance of his wand. Over the holidays he'd altered both of his jackets; each one now had a hidden flap in the lining, secured by snap fasteners. If his wand was needed, he could be poised for defence in seconds. Tom was the only first former at Hogwarts, who would consider this a precaution worth taking.

As they neared the entrance, a liveried porter wearing a top hat and maroon greatcoat stood in their way. Gary felt rising discomfort. The porter discounted them as customers and made no attempt to move as they approached. The Cafe Royal on Regent Street was a haunt of the rich and famous and had been for fifty years; it was the kind of place Gary knew nothing about. The roughest, dingiest public house in Cheetham Hill wouldn't worry him, but the Cafe Royal was a daunting prospect. He attempted to straighten a tie he wasn't wearing and fumbled with his jacket buttons. Tom raised his eyebrows as they neared the entrance.

The porter rolled forwards to block their path, but instead, swept his arm back to open the door. He'd seen the half-crown in Tom's hand, which slipped into his own as they passed. Tom thanked the porter.

'Thank you, gentlemen.' He replied, touching the brim of his hat.

It was a moment Gary would often replay in his mind, if he was feeling down. Just uttering the word gentlemen, magically brought his smile back.

They were seated towards the back of the restaurant, which was around half-full, but thinning fast. The papered walls had luxurious, Fleur-de-Lys motifs in pale blue, which were echoed in the heavy, damask curtains and pelmets. Ornate, Belle-Epoque mirrors hung from the walls and the number of waiters matched the number of diners. They were dressed grill-style, in black suits with immaculate white aprons reaching the floor. Gary picked up his silver knife and hefted it in his hand. The electric lights were concealed behind Art-Deco coving and pointed upwards, giving an even light. Light that was especially gentle on morning eyes.

A waiter appeared at Tom's side and handed them both green, leather menus. Gary opened his and ran a finger down the text; it was all in French and told him nothing about the food on offer. Tom didn't speak French either. He looked at the menu for a second or two, then handed it back to the waiter.

'Two full-English breakfasts, with toast and tea. Thank you.'

The French waiter ever-so-slightly snorted in irritation, for making no attempt to speak his mother tongue

Their food arrived before it was expected and as they began to eat, Tom told Gary about his plans and situation. It was what he'd decided over Christmas, once Kit had announced that he was joining up. The reptilian skin, the finality of death, the drowning sensations he'd experienced. He could not exist alone for a second time, so by sharing some of what he was going through with Gary, it might ease the burden. Enlightened thinking for a twelve-year-old.

Tom explained in more detail than he'd planned, about the Charms of Death and Life. A branch of magic he'd been aware of since his earliest memories, despite limited access to books and education. Usefully, the library at Hogwarts had supplied some of the missing detail. Everything alive possessed a destructive, death element, which was invisible to the naked eye. Occasionally it dominated, which resulted in death, but usually it was overshadowed and life continued. Death and life were bonded to one another and neither could dissolve the marriage. Tom paused. Gary was chewing more slowly and paying attention, but his eyes were vacant; he had no idea what Tom was talking about.

'People don't want to remember the bad parts of anything. Their mind and their memories, filter out the bad, forgetting it and holding onto the good. The parts where they've done well, or experienced pleasure. That's really what life is. However, as you age and death approaches, the opposite is true.' Tom drank some tea and Gary leaned in, guessing they were now getting to the heart of what Tom was attempting to explain.

'Magic performed using the Charms of Death and Life is undetectable, because it only exists as part of a whole within that person. When we forget something we don't want to remember, witches, wizards or anyone else; then it only continues to exist if someone remembers it.'

Gary was aware Tom was clever — everyone knew it — but sometimes it was difficult to comprehend the sheer scale of his thinking. He was busy wrestling with the fabric of their existence, while Gary was wondering whether Tom might give him his other sausage. Gary hoped to be like Tom one day, but knew he would never in several lifetimes, get near his intellect.

'So,' Gary chose his words carefully, 'what you're saying is: the magic in question, is the kind no one knows about?'

'Well... Yes.' Tom resisted the temptation to go into more detail.

Gary chewed some more, but not enough to swallow. Tom was treated to the sight of a rotating, full-English breakfast, before Gary said, 'what are we waiting for? Give us a demo.'

Tom asked for the bill when they'd finished eating; which was neatly typed with no corrections and presented inside a smaller leather wallet. Gary was in a state of shock. Their breakfast had come to nine shillings and fourpence. A fortune. Tom slipped a ten-shilling note into the wallet holding their bill, then left a crown beside it on the tablecloth. He stood up and straightened his jacket, looking to all the world like a youthful bank manager. The waiter collected their bill and slipped the crown into his pocket; then he beat a path through the restaurant and opened the door for them. Gary's mind was reeling. Tom had matter-of-factly left the waiter a tip, that was more than half of their total bill. And he lives in an orphanage!

* * * * *

They decided to take a stroll up Piccadilly. Tom demonstrated how it was possible to confound people, without arousing suspicion. The person would then come to a halt, plumbing the depths of their memory. Why were they in Piccadilly? Where were they going? Come to think of it, where had they been? Gentlemen rubbed their chin, or smoothed their moustache with a thumb and forefinger. Women removed their powder compact and applied a dab or two, certain they were just experiencing a temporary glitch. The confundus charm — fun as it appeared to Gary — was a dangerous spell in the hands of underage wizards. Difficult to cast and near impossible for the inexperienced, Tom's delivery was accompanied by a flash of his green eyes.

'What about the trace?' Gary knew underage magic carried stiff penalties.

'What about it?' Tom was wondering whether Gary had understood anything he'd said over breakfast. 'Besides, they're not tracing me. They're tracing another boy at the orphanage. A boy who never does anything wrong and knows nothing at all about magic. So I don't worry about it.'

Outside The Ritz, Gary asked what time it was.

'Ten o'clock. We should probably go,' Tom re-pocketed his watch.

Gary frowned. 'But it were nine-thirty when we left the restaurant. Ages ago.'

Tom took out his pocket watch again, held it to his ear and shook. A bus conductor waiting for a driver nearby, checked his watch for Gary.

'Coming up to ten-forty-five, son.'

The Hogwarts Express left at 11am. On the dot.

'Thanks.' Gary grabbed Tom by the shoulder and bundled him forwards.

They sprinted down Piccadilly's pavements, dancing around pedestrians. If they got beyond the traffic at Piccadilly Circus and ran across to Shaftesbury Avenue; they could hail a cab. If they gave him extra to put his foot down; there was also a slim chance the train could be delayed? No time to think about it, just get to the station. Gary ran, looking behind him as he tore across Regent Street. The traffic was crawling, but they still had to dodge bikes weaving between the cars. Once they reached Shaftesbury Avenue, Tom flagged down a cab and asked for King's Cross.

'And don't spare the horses.' Gary wheezed between breaths.

The blue Austin had an open driver's section and the rear canopy was drawn back, so the sun continued to beat down on their flushed faces .

Both sitting forward in their seats and praying for clear roads, they were snarled in traffic again on the Euston Road. They jumped out, leaving another tip, then staggered past St. Pancras Station, covering the final stretch on wooden legs. Snatching their left luggage, they sprinted through the wall to Platform 9¾, paying no attention to any nearby muggles. Gary leaned on Tom, who was resting one hand on a nearby wall.

The platform was empty.

They tracked down the stationmaster, who heard all about the appalling traffic and missing their train by an outstretched fingertip. He said nothing while his eyes moved back and forth from Tom to Gary, like a tennis umpire. The stationmaster had been working Platform 9¾ for forty years and had heard it all before, many times. He also knew how fluid time could be, back when he was a young man.

'What you might do. Though in no way did you hear this from me, but what you might do in this kind of situation. Is catch the afternoon post train to John O'Groats. It's platform six in the regular station. Officially, they don't stop at Hogsmeade (the village appeared abandoned to muggles), but it has a tower where they take on water. I'm sure a couple of stealthy lads might get off without being seen.'

He raised his eyebrows and was on his way, but not before reminding them.

'Providing they didn't hear it from me.'

The train left platform six on time and for a few hours they talked, until the adrenaline wore off. Gary fell asleep and tipped his head back, snoring for five, solid hours while they steamed through northern England and into Scotland. The post train rarely stopped and its two passenger carriages contained only a handful of off-peak travellers. They pulled out of Edinburgh at seven in the evening.

Their second wind arrived, once the school was less than an hour away. Both discussed how they might sneak in undetected, now the carriage was empty.

Tom turned to the seat beside Gary.

'Listening to other peoples' conversation, is not considered polite. Show yourself.'

Gary turned towards the empty seat. Perhaps the stress had caught up with his friend?

Tom pointed his wand.

'I won't ask a second time.'

The seat fabric rippled, then swelled, before subsiding into the shape of a man. He was in his late thirties and wore a patched jacket, no tie and black gloves. Although he was smiling, it had a challenging quality, as if Tom's threat amused him. His Adam's apple marked time as he spoke and his head tilted to one side, evaluating whoever he was speaking to.

'Evening lads.' He had the patter of a snake-oil salesman; someone who enjoyed spreading false information.

'Who are you?'Tom continued pointing his wand.

'Flavius Sheldrick. Businessman. Locator of items, what are difficult to locate. You detected my presence, so well done to you. It tells me there's some skill there and you're not afraid to use it. I'm presently open to business negotiations: goods, creatures, ingredients and potions. All having one thing in common.'

Sheldrick raised his eyebrows at Tom.

'They're difficult to locate.'

'You catch on fast. Which impresses me.' Sheldrick lowered his eyebrows. 'I'm the one who knows them that wants to buy and them that wants to sell. Businessman, see?'

Gary disliked Sheldrick already. He talked with superiority and butterscotch-smooth flattery; all designed to throw you off your guard. So he was surprised to see Tom putting his wand away.

'Which ingredients?' Tom was interested to know what this petty criminal could get his hands on.

'The kind that ain't available in shops or market stalls. The kind you don't want generating interest or attention.'

'Like a dragon talon from a living beast?' Tom fixed on Sheldrick's eyes, looking for telltale lies.

Tom knew the difficulty of removing talons from a live dragon. It was a potion ingredient he'd come across last term; a temporary invisibility draught, which excited him initially, until he glanced through the list of ingredients. Who in their right mind would remove a live dragon talon? It was reasonable to assume the dragon would suffer unimaginable pain and discomfort; however, if Sheldrick could secure items like that, it might work to his advantage. Tom had ability and intellect, but being twelve years old was a definite hindrance: especially when it came to buying ingredients.

Sheldrick was taken aback, but most would have missed it. He smacked his lips together several times.

'A dragon's talon is certainly locatable. But not cheap. No less than twenty-five galleons.' He flared his nostrils, meeting Tom's impertinence, with a price fifty times beyond his pocket.

'Done.' Tom reached into his jacket. 'Ten now and fifteen on delivery.'

If Sheldrick had been surprised, that was now forgotten. Money excited him like little else and his eyes bulged at the pouch Tom was siphoning his down payment from; this relationship could prove lucrative. Gary meanwhile, was dumbstruck by the ease with which Tom produced cash, then spent it. Dumbstruck, but impressed

Sheldrick needlessly counted the ten gold coins for a third time, then relayed his instructions.

'An owl will arrive once the item's been located. I'm off elsewhere now, 'cause we don't know each other, see? Buyer collects, drop in at 14 Eden Grove, Hogsmeade. Remember it, check a map, but don't be asking directions or writing nothing down. One big knock, a pause, four small knocks. Enjoy your evening.'

Sheldrick left for the next carriage without looking back.

* * * * *

Tom was vaguely aware of the temperature dropping, but it was dark and he'd not looked out of the window since late afternoon. They jumped from the carriage door at Hogsmeade and landed in near silence. Several inches of snow had fallen.

'Ooh, it's like the bloody Arctic out here!' Gary kicked a small drift in irritation.

'Quiet!' Tom hissed. The whole idea was not to draw attention to themselves.

Tom pulled his friend into the shadows beside the platform wall. Further down, the engine driver and mate were feeding a water crane into the locomotive tanks, so for the time being, their attention was focussed elsewhere. They both stashed their bags under a sheet of tarpaulin and planned to come and collect them the next afternoon. Then Tom hauled himself over the wall, flattening the snow on top. The drop on the other side was much steeper than either had expected; Tom managed to stay on his feet by spreading his arms, but Gary bounced forward off the bank and crashed into the undergrowth below. Fortunately the snow broke his fall and after a quick dust-down, he was ready to soldier on. There was a quarter moon and its light reflected off the snow, making it easier to see. Leaving their tree cover, Tom pointed to the faint glow of castle lights above the spur: which divided Hogwarts from Hogsmeade.

'Let's run to keep warm,' Tom suggested.

Gary would normally argue, but his fingers were clamped beneath his arms. A numb face and throbbing ears added to his misery.

An owl passed overhead, navigating the wild and lonely landscape; a landscape devoid of movement, except for two schoolboys trudging through the snow. They caught their breath, then entered the deserted school through Merlin's Gate. Tom checked his pocket watch; it was after eleven-thirty, so most students and teachers would be in bed by now. They should get to Slytherin quickly, taking risks if necessary; getting caught was now less important than the embers of Slytherin's, common-room fire. They sneaked through the Fountain Courtyard cloisters and passed the stairs leading to Dippet's chambers. Then they bounded lightly towards the shadows, which should provide them with cover to the stone bridge crossing. Safety was within touching distance.

'Gentlemen, a word please.' It was the second time that day they'd been referred to as gentlemen.

Dippet stood at the bottom of the stairs, with both hands clasped behind his back. The tip of his wand swished and the staircase leading upwards was flooded in candlelight. Gary was thinking about the warning he'd been given by a group of third formers. Don't get on the wrong side of Dippet; he might appear mild-mannered, but there's plenty of bark in there.