After a poor night's sleep, Tom stood on the broomstick practice lawns at 7.30am. His ribs were too raw to touch and the scales had been catching on his shirt; grimacing, he buckled the leather chest protector tightly. Despite an early bath, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that he was coming down with something; he had a clammy forehead and the skin below his eyes was the colour of clay. Tom was outside to get some air in his lungs and hoped that what he was suffering from, would pass.

School exams were over. Three weeks of broken sleep, minds crammed to capacity and snatched meals. The Great Hall had been silent by day, except for the sweep of an enormous pendulum. Rarely-seen teachers, huddled and conferred in whispers and time? Nothing but measures of time. Hours at the beginning as questions were read and reread; with pocket watches propped on desks and pointed at their owners. Then, like the conclusion of an anxiety dream: a half-hour left and quills slipping through cramped fingers. Desperately holding your breath, hoping to hammer out the fullest answer possible. And always without you noticing, the clock running down.

Exams finished the day before — on Friday — but a relaxed atmosphere was still some way off, especially for the traumatised first formers. The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800 was a way of regrounding everyone after exams. Shifting focus onto lighter matters, with the end of term only three weeks away.

Except for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s students, who got their results during August; all other pupils would receive theirs during term time. Pinned to the main noticeboards in the Great Hall foyer, they were placed behind glass. So once they were up, that's where they stayed. Tom hadn't even considered his results yet; he was certain he'd done well, but wouldn't dream of saying so to his friends. The last thing you needed when dealing with tough exams, was a success story offering post-mortems on every paper.

Tom had more immediate problems to tackle. Not least, his poor health and now the Hogwarts 800 was just hours away. A further development last night, was sinking in too. He was only a reserve, but one team member had twisted her knee during a broom dismount and the other reserve was prescribed immediate rest after exams. The Slytherin team captain had asked Tom and Roland Garrett — the replacement reserve — to race circuits around the quidditch stadium last night. Tom was far faster and suspected Roland of not trying. Now their squad was fixed, there was no possibility of him pulling out; even if he was at death's door.

The start line for the Hogwarts 800 was inside the quidditch stadium and the finish line, just outside. A circuit was 200 miles and the race would include four laps: each completed by a different rider per team. The broomsticks were cross-country long brooms and twice the length of a standard ride. Elbow rests and a T-bar at the front, made it easier for riders to stretch along the shaft; keeping their wind resistance as low as possible. There were markers every ten miles and missing one, or travelling inside, meant tracking back. Changeovers were within a half-mile lane, which ended at the finish line; the two riders had to slap palms within the box, or risk disqualification. These were the rules worth remembering.

The goal was simple: complete the four circuits, using four riders of the appropriate age, in the quickest possible time. Goggles were essential, especially during downpours; as were full mouthguards, to prevent insect intrusion. It was possible to reach in excess of 370 miles an hour over flat ground, so each rider wore protective padding. Leather, reinforced with ribs of dragon bone and for safety's sake, an ankle strap to secure riders to their brooms. However, accidents still occurred, resulting in lengthy stays at the school sanatorium. The strategy lay in deciding the order of riders: one junior, one middle and two seniors. It was possible — but uncommon — to put two seniors first, then build up a strong lead and try to hang on; usually teams finished with the two eldest riders. The current Hogwarts record for the 800, was three hours, forty-seven minutes, set in 1914 by Hufflepuff House.

In droves, the school packed the stadium stands. Those interested in a more adventurous vantage point, had left earlier and were now dotted around the 200 mile course. House supporters naturally gravitated towards one another, resulting in broad pockets of colour among the crowds. The riders wore warmer clothing than the spectators, in preparation for several hours of severe buffeting and house strips were pinned to their bodies, thanks to the leather, protective shells. Slytherin, in green and silver, were waiting for Slughorn to join them, but he was currently enjoying a light-hearted conversation with Headmaster Dippet. Tom meanwhile, was surveying the crowds with a hand raised to block out the sun. So many in the crowd were watching him, or did everyone think that when they were confronted by huge gatherings? Wild Bill Howard appeared beside Tom.

'Nervous?'

'Yes.' Feeling ill was actually uppermost in his mind.

'Don't worry about it. What's the worst that could happen?' Bill was enjoying the pressure.

'I could fall and break my neck. Then we lose and it's all my fault.'

Bill nodded. 'Or we could win it. By this evening someone will have won, so why not us?'

Slughorn joined them.

'Just a few announcements. Are we all here? Tom, yes, William, yes, Patricia, yes and Richard, of course. Perhaps a few words from you, Dickie?'

Richard Dickie Forrester; team captain; quidditch star; scholar; heart-throb and off-limits, unapproachable student to first formers, stepped forward and dropped a bombshell.

'As you know, each house selects their racing order according to tradition. Gryffindor by ballot; Hufflepuff by house points over the year; Ravenclaw by fastest trial time, but this is all academic. Miraculously, they always start with the youngest rider and finish with the eldest. The traditional method in Slytherin is: luck of the draw and we always stick to it. It's won us titles in the past and never fails to upset the opposition.'

Tom felt the pit of his stomach rise up. This was the kind of unexpected turn he'd been dreading.

'Professor Slughorn has already drawn and the order is as follows: I'll be starting, then handing over to Patricia, she'll pass on to Tom Riddle.' Forrester was pointing at each team member in turn. 'You might not know Riddle, our junior rider. He's there. Finally we're finishing with William Howard, Bill. The youngest student to make the senior quidditch team. As if any of you needed reminding.'

The others slapped Bill's back, reassuringly. The anchor leg was everything in a closely fought contest and despite his age, Bill was an exceptional flyer.

Richard continued.

'I'm expecting myself and Patricia to build up a substantial lead, so the handover to Tom will be crucial.' He tested Tom's name on his tongue, but didn't like the taste. Everyone now turned towards Tom.

'You focus on staying upright and holding on to that lead. Hand over to Bill in touching distance of the front and this one's ours.' Everyone took the opportunity to pat Bill again.

Not much pressure, Tom thought. Just wait nervously for several hours, risk ridicule, injury or both, then set up Bill to bring home the glory. If Tom could turn back time and fall off his broom to avoid selection, he would have snatched at the opportunity. Even if it meant breaking several bones.

'Come on Slytherins!' Slughorn looked like a maniac who'd been thrashed with a happy stick. 'The start line beckons.'

A freshly-painted chalk line crossed the centre of the quidditch pitch. More than twenty teachers were nearby and tasked with officiating the race; two per house team, plus numerous others receiving and collating reports from around the course. Several would apparate between key points, making spot checks on riders and relaying progress to the Hogwarts crowd. The spectators would start the race in the stadium, then decamp to the handover lanes in front. A break in the trees was the exit point for competitors and white lines extended a half-mile across the lawns to the finish. Grandstands had been erected along the outside lane of the finishing straight.

With the headmaster alongside, Slughorn unsheathed his wand and placing the tip against his neck, he addressed the crowd. His amplified voice echoed from the far tree-line and a hush settled over the spectators.

'Welcome students, staff and honoured guests, to The Brush Sweepstakes: Hogwarts 800. The eleventh occasion this race has been contested at our school. Four riders from each of the four houses, will race one lap each, covering 800 miles of the surrounding highlands. The fastest team, with accredited changeovers, completing the course in its entirety: will win the title. May I ask first-leg riders, to take their positions on the start line.'

Headmaster Dippet stepped forward, holding his wand aloft.

The riders jockeyed for position, but Richard Forrester had already taken the inside spot. Lanes led from the stadium, bearing right before they joined and faded into a single line; the route then encircled the school, before dropping down to the loch and beyond. Forrester had the initial advantage and planned to establish a spirit-crushing lead from the start. The opposition were half his size, since the other houses opted to send their youngest first and keep the stronger riders for later legs.

'On your marks...'

Forrester was the only rider in a crouch position, with his left leg forward and head down.

'Get set.'

'Go!'

Dippet released a torrent of green sparks into the sky. Random wand sparks also bloomed in the crowd, despite stern warnings not to.

Forrester sprang forward like a scalded cat, his broom low to the ground and travelling twice the speed of his junior counterparts. Lowering himself forward, fully prone, he gripped his front T-bar and banked through the stadium exit. Instead of slowing on the bend he continued accelerating towards the castle, hair flapping behind his goggles; Forrester's shadow kept pace below, before it dropped into the gorge as he passed overhead.

Slughorn almost screamed with excitement, before remembering that as an official, he was expected to remain impartial. Besides, the race would last for four hours, so no need to expend all one's energy in the first few minutes.

Forrester emerged from the other side of Hogwarts and dropped down to the loch before his competition made it over the gorge. It escaped no one's notice that Slytherin could build up an unassailable lead and may have won the race in the first five minutes. The crowd settled back to enjoy the fine weather and rummage through their packed lunches. Cheese and cucumber morning rolls; Scotch eggs; iced pumpkin juice or blackberry cordial. A segment of Gala Pie or Broccoli flan; a slice of Battenberg or Dundee cake and an apple; bartering was widespread among the students, in pursuit of the ultimate, bespoke lunch. Second former, Anthony Paget, had five slices of Battenberg and no drink, while the roasting sun climbed overhead.

Halfway through the first leg, Professor Ruth Farmer — head of international magical tradition at Hogwarts — apparated beside Slughorn. He relayed the breaking news using his wand tip.

'At the halfway point of this first lap, Slytherin lead by four minutes and thirty-four seconds from Ravenclaw. Then Hufflepuff hot on their heels, only eight seconds further back. Gryffindor, fifteen seconds adrift, are gallantly bringing up the rear.'

The Slytherin section of the crowd applauded and began chanting: who'll win?Sly-ther-in. However, it was certainly not the whitewash Slytherin's start had promised. Team members were selected for exceptional flying ability and after their shaky start, the younger riders had rallied. Ravenclaw's competitor, also began trimming Slytherin's lead around the bends.

There was a canvas marquee beside the stadium, open sided with a Hogwarts pennant attempting to flap above it. Inside, several benches were arranged around competitor kit bags. The marquee was somewhere for team members to congregate and find inner peace before their turn; a vintage, silver urn rested on a stand nearby, but so far it remained untouched. Tom sat alone, feverish from the heat and silently wishing to be anywhere else.

Changeovers provided the most excitement, so students relocated to the grandstands outside, just before the first-leg riders arrived. There were no incidents of note during the changeover and despite a rousing cheer greeting the riders, many shrugged at one another. Was that it? The medieval madrigal society, continued singing tunelessly about lovelorn trolls, despite being invisible to the crowd. Slytherin were four minutes ahead, give or take a second, with only forty seconds separating the three riders behind. Meanwhile, everyone basked in the sunshine: welcome relief after being stuck inside for two months.

Twenty minutes before his leg was due to start, Tom was escorted to the changeover line with the other riders. All three were seniors and despite not intending to be underhand, they sent him withering looks all the same. Tom was tall for his age, but still more than six inches shorter than the riders from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Carol Cooke from Gryffindor was similar in height, but a far more experienced flyer. As they waited inside the changeover lanes beside the Haunted Wood, Tom fixed his attention on a barely-moving blot of cloud. Only now did it occur to him with a surge of nerves, that he would set off first and the mob would start behind; making him the hare to their hounds. Forrester had drilled him in the holding area. 'You can't keep them back, Riddle, they'll chip into your lead whatever you do. All I'm asking, is that you hand over to Bill with at least a minute in hand. Two minutes: even better.'

Slytherin would be three minutes ahead at most; there were reports that their lead was dwindling. Tom swallowed. His throat felt bruised, but his heart surged with adrenaline; he could not fail: the idea was too horrific to contemplate.

Looking behind every so often, he finally saw the Slytherin rider's profile, flitting through the trees toward him. Before leaving the Haunted Wood, Patricia signalled Tom to get going. They reached changeover speed with the finish line fast approaching, but the changeover was just a blur for Tom. His broomcraft was cold and mechanical, so when he yanked the front to steer right, the crowd's cheers died away. Long brooms were teased by shifting weight and expressing warm confidence in your manoeuvres. Tom lurched around the bend and fought to remember his training: smooth action; steer from the rear; focus far ahead; spot your turns and corner with radiant confidence.

He steadied himself and executed a precise turn around the castle, banking at close to ninety degrees. Just his luck to look amateur in front of the crowd; perhaps fate was already conspiring against him? He dropped down to the surface of the loch and fixed his concentration on the next marker. The turbulence of his hair crackling in the wind, increased as he extended along the broom shaft. Finally Tom's hands gripped the front T-bar and his boot heels rested in the rear stirrups. He kept himself as low to the water as possible, avoiding the higher headwinds, then teased the broom up to its maximum speed.

Competing was better than sitting and waiting. While enjoying the race would be an exaggeration, it was easier to focus now and forget about his poor health. At the halfway stage — near the west coast sea stacks — Tom passed a marker on the brae: representing the most northerly and westerly point on the course. There were several intrepid supporters nearby, spinning wooden rattles and shouting as he flashed by in a wide arc. Tom was now aware of a dot in the distance, perhaps thirty seconds behind; it had to be another rider, whose presence spurred him to push harder. Forrester was clear about Tom's strategy: hand over with a substantial lead. Even at this early stage, his race tactics were falling apart.

For the next fifty miles the course headed south-east through the West Coast Highlands, before turning back towards the Grampians: rocky and remote terrain, peppered with Grahams, Corbetts and Munros. Across these peaks a choice of route was offered, giving the riders tactical options. Course markers: tall blue pillars of flame every ten miles, could be seen from twenty, so concealing them from curious, muggle eyes, was essential. Taking the inside line appeared to be the obvious choice, since it represented the shortest route; however, as the course included substantial peaks, outer valleys were offered as an alternative. Further to travel in distance, the valleys avoided the obstacles and stronger winds found near the summits. Tom, with no experience of hill running, took the obvious route and scaled the peaks.

Daniel Pullen — a senior from Ravenclaw — had a father who was obsessed with long brooms; the race mattered far more to him, than to his son. He'd sent regular owls discussing tactics in the run-up to the competition and Danny frequently complained that his father was navigating the course with quill and parchment at weekends. Scouring for sections where his son might pinch an advantage. His father's advice — despite Danny's protests — had proved correct. He'd planned a route which made use of long stretches of water, while still remaining close to the markers. Water, being the flattest surface, also allowed the highest speeds, especially when riders kept their profile low. Wind resistance was greatly reduced, but it came at a price. If Danny was thrown at high speed, he could bounce across the water's surface and strike the ground hard. No one had been killed during the race's history, but serious injury was common.

Tom was approaching Ben Lomond: a tricky climb, where dropping his speed was essential. He'd been regularly checking behind since the turn south and the dot had slowly gained. However, when he began to scale the peak, the dot vanished. The more desperate part of his personality hoped the rider had fallen, but that was unlikely; Tom knew he was in for a surprise, despite focussing all his attention on avoiding obstacles. He crested the peak, snow-covered in the winter months, but currently just bare rock and tufted grass; then raced down the slope on the other side, with a spiny ridge to his left and the loch below. A course correction inland was needed at the foot of the Munro, which would lead him on to the next marker. Only the topmost tip of blue flame was visible above the ridge.