Chapter One

A Real Name

[AN: I'm not sure about this one. Should I continue it? If it's any good, please tell me.]

"Think you're tough, Scar-Head? Hiding behind your thugs?" The boy points his knife at me. He's alone against thirty, but the blade doesn't so much as shake in his hand.

That's the problem with idiots. They believe they're brave for going in without backup. Let me tell it true now, a bit of advice from me to you: that's not bravery. It's stupidity.

I tilt my head and give him my best smile—wide and toothy.

"Well, you do have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You know my name," I say, brushing my bangs away to show the lightning bolt scar on my forehead. "What do they call you?"

"Wide-Eyes," he says. It's true—they're wide enough, staring at me with determination. Here, on the streets, we have no names, leastways none we can remember. So the other rats give us titles based off looks or deeds. And Scar-Head is as good a name as any, once you're used to it.

"Pleased to meet you, Wide-Eyes," I say in an imitation of the "manners" you see in the lie-world, the world off the streets where people pretend kindness. Kindness? Ha. Kindness is what makes the lie-world a lie. Humans are not kind; they are primal and selfish and brutal. Our world—the world of the street rats—shows this. That's why it's the only real world there is. "Though, I can't say I agree with that name. Your eyes must be shut pretty tight. 'Haps if you opened them wide in truth, you'd see I'm not hiding behind my thugs. I'm standing beside them."

I take a step closer to him, and he raises his knife a bit, tense now, watching my every move.

"See," I continue, "there's a difference there. The first is cowardly. Sniveling in the back of the army while the soldiers do the fighting? Not for me." I step forward again. "The second, though? Well, it's not cowardly. But neither is it brave. Nothing I do is brave. Not even this." I jump forward and grab the blade of his knife with both hands. He struggles to pull it away, but I twist it, feeling the steel cutting into my flesh, and pull down. The knife clatters against the street. I grin wider at him. "Do you know why, Wide-Eyes? No? You sure, Wide-Eyes? Want to hazard a guess, Wide-Eyes?"

He stares at my bleeding hands, at my grinning face, and right then has a change of heart, as they say. But "they" are fools. Hearts don't change. Hearts pump blood, that's it. It's the brain that changes, and the brain is controlled by fear. He takes a step back, then two, then turns full and starts running down the alley. I often have that effect on people. But then I look at his shoelaces, and they tie themselves in a knot. He trips and slides along the ground.

"Bit rude, aren't we?" I say, picking up the knife, then moving so that I'm standing over him. "I was talking to you." I toss the blade in the air and catch its handle as it falls. I grip it tight; the cuts on my hands aren't too bad and getting better quick.

"Now, as I was saying." I kneel down so that I'm straddling him, putting my weight on his chest. "Do you know why I am not being brave, Wide-Eyes?"

Wide-Eyes' wide eyes are wet and dripping. Funny how the hot-headed ones'll turn to tears the fastest.

"Let me go, please," he says, "please, I'll do anything, I'll do anything, please—"

"Anything?" I say. "Anything I want?"

"Yes!" He's almost hysterical now.

I shrug. "Okay. Then guess. Go on, guess why I'm not brave."

His shaking gets worse. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, gulping.

I sigh and twirl the knife.

"If you're gonna be that way—"

"Wait, wait!" he says. "Is it because you knew you would beat me?"

I tilt my head, a bit taken aback.

"Wide-Eyes, you're smarter than you look. That's very close."

His breathing quickens, almost spilling into laughter. I laugh with him.

Then I gently lower the knife into his left eye.

As I pry his eyeball from its socket, as he screams and writhes beneath me, I explain further, so he'll understand.

"You see, true bravery is not being fearless. Quite the opposite, really. Bravery is feeling fear and going in anyway. Overcoming it. And that's why I wasn't being brave. Like you said, I knew I would beat you, so I was not afraid. I was not afraid, so I was not brave."

With a pop, his eye comes out. I cut the purple-red cords connecting it.

"Now, if you promise never to attack me again, I'll let you join my little group," I say. "A reward for a good guess. Elsewise, I kill you. How's that?"

He's clutching at his face, breathing fast and hard, but he still hears me. He nods, frantic, desperate.

"Good," I say, standing and pulling him up with me. "Friends, give your best welcome to our newest member, Wide-Eye."

I wait while he unties his shoelaces. He blinks in confusion when he sees the knot in them. I offer no explanation. When he's done, I lead him over to the other rats.

It doesn't matter why he attacked me in the first place; he was probably just trying to claim a reputation for killing me—the great Scar-Head, the leader of the biggest gang of urchins in London. Else he wanted control of my friends. Either way, he won't be trying again.

My hands have stopped hurting. I look down to see that they've already scabbed over.

I don't know what it is, these things I can do—tying shoelaces with a glance, healing cuts with a wish. All I know is that it's useful. It got me where I am today. No other way a short, scrawny boy of around ten years could lead a band this big, let alone survive.

"Scar-Head," says Sweet-Tooth, a teenage girl whose teeth are brown with rot. "Knife-happy, aren't you? He's bleeding out."

Doll-Face, a pretty boy with about two years on me, clicks his tongue. "Let him. Don't need another mouth to feed."

I look at Wide-Eye, who has fallen to the ground. His skin is blanched, blood spurting from the empty socket.

"No," I say, kneeling beside him. "He's one of us now. You know I don't let my friends die."

I cover his face with my hands. I've never been trained at this, this "power." Far as I know, there's no one out there who even could train me. But need has taught me well enough.

When I remove my hands, the spurting has stopped. His breathing relaxes.

Doll-Face grumbles, but Sweet-Tooth claps me on the back. "That's our Scar-Head. Don't know how you always do that, but it's bloody great!"

"Magic," I say, deadpan. "I'm a wizard."

She snorts. "If you're a wizard, why can't you magic us up a house or two? A few hot meals, and parents while you're at it?"

"He's lost his magic wand," Doll-Face says. "Obviously."

"Nah, it's the pointy hat I lost," I say. "That's the source of my power."

"Oh, of course." Doll-Face rolls his eyes. "Why didn't I see it before?"

"Because you never look past your own nose," Sweet-Tooth answers.

I chuckle a bit, then glance up at the moon.

"Right, you lot," I say, projecting my voice across the alley. "Back to base. Time to drown our worries in sleep."

Doll-Face and I help Wide-Eye along, slinging one arm across each of our shoulders.

Red-Cheeks, a small boy with a blushing habit, skips up to me and pulls on the hem of my tattered shirt.

"Can we have a lesson tonight, Scar-Head?" he asks in a sugary voice. "Please?"

I grin and look at Sweet-Tooth. "How 'bout it? You're the teacher here."

"God, you people…," she mumbles. Then, with a sigh: "Guess there's no helping it. Okay, fine, lesson tonight."

Red-Cheeks beams and dances forward, leading the way back to our head-quarters, beneath a bridge on the bank of the Thames.

Sweet-Tooth is the only one of us who didn't grow up on the streets, who still remembers a family and a home. Sure, I get dreams I assume are from "before" every now and then, but they're mostly dark—screams and flashes of green light. Sweet-Tooth's parents died in a fire when she was ten, and she ran away from the orphanage that claimed her after. But, as she was raised in the lie-world, she has one skill the rest of us lack: she can read. And she's been teaching ever since she found me five years ago and helped me build up my gang. We nick books from the library, and she shows us our letters and our words and our sentences.

She has a real name, too. But she doesn't use it anymore, won't even tell us what it is. That girl with a name isn't her. She left it behind when she took up the streets. On the streets, you don't have a name, and if you get one, you're off the streets. That simple.

The book we're working on now is called The Fellowship of the Ring. Sweet-Tooth chose it. She has a taste for this sort of story—monsters and quests and magic. And I can't say I dislike them. In the dark, when no one can see my smile, I sometimes imagine myself up as a powerful wizard like Gandalf.

We take turns reading aloud, a page for each of the fifteen (out of thirty-two) of us trying to learn, with Sweet-Tooth helping us sound it out if we get stuck.

I'm basically literate by now, though I have to bring the book up close to my face to even see the letters. But there's a difference between poor skills and poor eyesight. I even know the weird words like "knight" and "enough." Red-Cheeks has trouble, especially with the "silent e." I don't blame him. Makes no sense. And Doll-Face is completely hopeless, always mixing up the letters in his head. We don't laugh at him, though.

After an hour, Red-Cheeks is snoring so loud I can't focus, and I shut the book.

"Time for bed," I say.

We give one of our few blankets to Wide-Eye tonight. The hurt ones always get priority.

I don't regret cutting his eye out, and I'd do it again if I had to. When you've got thirty kids depending on you, looking up to you, you have to make hard decisions. I couldn't let Wide-Eye go without a scratch. He'd be back, or one of my friends would kill him for revenge. So I took his eye and took him in. Fair trade, I'd say.

I fall asleep slowly, with my arms behind my head for a pillow, looking up at the stars.

I dream about a flying motorcycle. Huh. Never had that one before.

Doll-Face shakes me awake, and I can tell from the force he's using that something is wrong.

"What?" I ask, sitting up.

"Someone's found us. Don't know who, but he's a right giant," Doll-Face says. His eyes are narrowed, and when Doll-Face's eyes are narrowed, you can expect trouble. "He's asking for you. I don't like it."

I nod and stand. We have to deal with this sometimes, when the Bobbies find us. We keep some pounds around us just for that. Bribe them enough, they'll leave you be.

"Get the money," I tell Red-Cheeks, who's standing beside us, pale as a bled corpse. "Where is he, Doll-Face?"

Doll-Face just points behind me. I turn.

He is the biggest man I have ever seen, and I can tell from one glance that he's no copper. He's wearing a huge, shaggy brown coat and carrying a pink umbrella. What the hell does he want?

I walk forward, stopping a few feet in front of him, craning my neck to meet his eyes.

There's a strange look on his face. Shock, maybe? Sadness? But he's gaping at me silently, so I make the first move.

"What do you want?" I ask in my coldest voice. "If you're looking for an easy rob or a cheap whore, you've come to the wrong place."

That opens his mouth.

"Blimey," the giant says. "I should've never let 'em talk me into leavin' you on the streets."

I stare at him.

"Who are you?" I say at last. "What do you want?"

Red-Cheeks runs up to me, holding out the sock we store the money in, but I keep him back with a hand.

Doll-Face comes to stand beside me.

"Let's just kill him, Scar-Head," he whispers, but loud enough for the giant to hear.

"Maybe it's escaped your notice, Doll-Face, but he's a bit bigger than us," I say. "We'd have a better chance taking down a pack of those fucking copper dogs."

"What'd he mean about leaving you on the streets?" Sweet-Tooth asks, coming up on my other side.

"Good question." I look back to the giant for an answer.

"Err," he begins, casting a threatening glance at Doll-Face. "I'll tell ya, just wait a moment. Name's Rubeus Hagrid."

Doll-Face scoffs.

"We don't care about names here," I say. "We don't have them; they mean nothing. Who are you?"

"I was a friend of your parents," he says. "Knew you when you was just a baby."

"I don't have parents." I look sideways, at my friends beside me. "None of us do."

"You did," he says, his eyes sad. "Died when you was very young, killed. Never wondered where you got that scar?"

My hand shoots to my forehead.

"Scar-Head's parents were murdered?" Sweet-Tooth asks.

"Where you get off calling 'im 'Scar-Head'? Hasn't he told you 'is name?"

"I don't have a name," I say again.

"You don't even remember your own name?" That sadness is back in his voice. "Blimey, shoulda never let Dumbledore….Doesn't matter now, anyway. Your name is—"

"No!" I shout. "Who the hell are you? What do you want with me?"

"I want to help you," he says.

I begin to walk away, down the bank of the Thames. He calls after me. I stop, turn, and jerk my chin for him to follow.

When we're out of earshot of the others, I face him.

"So," I say. "Rubeus Hagrid. That's your name. Now who are you?"

"I'm keeper o' keys and grounds at Hogwarts," he says, looking slightly more comfortable now that we're alone.

"At what?"

"Hogwarts," he repeats. "It's a school for people like you."

I laugh out loud. "A school for street rat orphans? Cute. What's it teach, begging technique? Pickpocketing?"

Hagrid shakes his head. "Not that. That's not who you really are. 'Ave you ever made anything happen? Anything you couldn't explain or couldn't understand?"

I stare at him. Healing. Tying shoelaces. Yes. Things happen around me.

"What're you saying?" I ask.

He leans in closer, glancing about to make sure no one's listening.

"You're a wizard," he says.

"I'm a what?"

"A wizard, like yer dad, and yer mum a witch."

I keep silent for a long while.

At last, I say, "What do you want?" I've been asking that a lot lately.

"You're not a 'street rat,'" he says. "You're a human boy, and I'm here to bring you to yer new school. You are a wizard, and yer name is Harry Potter."

I stiffen. My name. He said it. Harry Potter. A real name, not Scar-Head. A lie-world name.

For a moment, curiosity tickles my throat. Who is Harry Potter?

Hagrid pulls out a piece of paper from one of his coat pockets and hands it to me. I take it, trying to keep my hands from shaking as I grasp it and turn it over.

It's an envelope, addressed (I squint): Mr. H. Potter, the Bank of the Thames, Beneath Southwark Bridge, London, England.

I don't waste time wondering how they know where I live; I don't know yet what magic can do.

Inside is a letter. The top has a coat of arms and the title Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Below that is a name that I have no idea how to pronounce and an assortment of titles that mean nothing to me. Headmaster, though, I do understand.

I keep reading. It's brief and to the point. I'm invited to a magical school. I need books, cloaks, and a…wand.

When I'm finished, I look up at Hagrid.

"You can 'ave a home again, Harry," he says.

I don't like getting angry, losing control. Anger makes you stupid, and stupid makes you dead. But I feel a surge of rage in my chest, and I can't help it.

"I am not Harry Potter." I'm using my lowest voice, the dangerous one, the one reserved for enemies. "My name is Scar-Head. You say you left Harry Potter on the streets? Well he died the second you turned your back. I have a home. I have a family. I. Don't. Need. You."

"Listen," he says, his tone gruff—whether from fury or tears, I don't know. "You've made a life here because ye're smart and talented, but it isn't your life. Don't you want to learn to use yer powers? To help people?"

I can't stop myself; my eyes flick to my friends.

"Why should I care?" I say, but he's seen my glance.

"Cause ye're a good person, and ya care about other good people."

I laugh at that, long and hard. "A good person, huh?" I say when I can breathe again. "Tell that to the corpses I've left to rot. There are souls a-plenty begging to drag me to hell."

"I'm so sorry, Harry," he says. "I shoulda never—"

"Stop saying that! Stop calling me 'Harry'!"

Hagrid growls and steps forward to loom over me, but I don't back away.

"You are Harry Potter, son of Lily and James Potter! Ye're a wizard and ye're a good person, whether you like it or not!"

We glare at each other, neither of us willing to back down.

"Anyways," he says at last. "You hafta be trained up a bit so you don't go off blowing up cats. Ministry won't hear of it."

"So I'm not 'invited,' I'm ordered to attend?"

Hagrid looks over at my friends. "Not ordered. But you'll want ta be coming, anyway."

I follow his gaze. "Is that a threat?"

"No," he says. "It's an offer. You come with me, I'll see to it they're taken care of. Dumbledore'll help out."

Dumbledore. That must be the name on the letter. The headmaster of Hogwarts?

I think for a moment.

"How can I trust you? This? Anything you're saying?"

Something twinkles in Hagrid's eye when he hears this. He glances around, then without pause, he lifts his pink umbrella and taps it against the palm of his left hand. I inhale sharply—his hand has turned green.

He taps it again, and it's back to normal.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head slowly.

"If I say yes—if I say yes—they'll get houses? Hot meals?" My mouth twitches as I glance back at them. "Parents?"

"Yes," Hagrid says. "I can promise you that. Maybe not parents, but somebody to take care of 'em."

I look down. "Let me talk to them."

"Just don't mention the wizard business," he tells me. "Muggles—normal folk aren't s'pposed to know."

"Okay."

He nods and pats my shoulder, shaking my whole body.

I walk back to my friends, not really seeing them.

"Well?" Doll-Face says. "What's he want?"

I glance from him to Sweet-Tooth to Red-Cheeks to all the faces of all my family.

"If you had a chance at a home—a real home with a bed and a fireplace and everything—would you take it?" I ask.

Doll-Face's eyes grow wide. "You're leaving?" It's an accusation.

"You're leaving?" Red-Cheeks echoes.

A chorus of outrage rises from my friends. Just Sweet-Tooth stays silent.

"I'll only leave if you want me to," I say.

"Why the hell would we want you to?" Doll-Face glowers at me.

"Because it's not me that has a chance at a home," I say. "It's you."

Stunned silence. I continue.

"That man back there? He's offering me a deal. He gets to take me for some school, and in exchange you lot get off the streets. Eat food from an oven instead of from a dumpster. Wear clothes that fit instead of dirty rags. Wash in a hot shower instead of a freezing river. Can even pick names if you want."

"What school?" Sweet-Tooth asks, emotionless.

"It's called Hogwarts, and I know what you're thinking—but no, it's real," I say. "I trust him. And you know I don't trust easy."

"Scar-Head," she says. "What kind of school? Why do they want you so bad? What will they do to you?"

I give her a half-smile. "They'll teach me. I can't say any more."

She looks in my eyes, a long, searching look. "Okay," she says at last. "You trust him, I trust him."

"You two barking mad?" Doll-Face says. "Some giant offers you a deal to get us off the streets, and you just believe him? Probably black-market, looking for easy organs!"

"He isn't," I say.

"I don't trust him!"

"He isn't."

"I don't trust you!"

Doll-Face glares at me. I glare right back.

After a moment, I say, "Have I ever led you wrong, Doll-Face?"

"No. Scar-Head's never led me wrong, led us wrong. But you—you're not him. You've got a real family, he said, and a lie-world name. You're not him. You're not us." Doll-Face looks around at everyone. "You're willing to hand over your life to a stranger, fine by me. I'll keep mine, thanks."

"Anyone else feeling the same?" I ask, shouting across the crowd. "Not willing to take my word?"

They shift about a little.

I tighten my lips.

"Here," I say. "Those of you that want a home, there with Sweet-Tooth. The rest, up with Doll-Face. I'm putting him in charge of the gang while I'm gone."

I look Doll-Face in the eye. Most people would miss the small nod he gives me, but I don't because I'm watching for it. I just saved his life. There's a certain code on the street. If you want to take control of a gang, you kill its leader. Wide-Eye tried, and failed. Everyone's failed. What Doll-Face did was borderline treason. One step further, we'd have had to fight. By handing him my position, I stopped that. I don't want to kill my friend. And he doesn't want to kill me.

The group of kids before me starts to separate, some heading towards Sweet-Tooth, more towards Doll-Face. I feel a bit heavy when I see Red-Cheeks walking to stand at Doll-Face's side. Wide-Eye, at least, stands with Sweet-Tooth.

"What do we do now?" Sweet-Tooth asks when we're all settled.

"Stay here for a bit," I say. "Don't leave. I'll get word sent soon as I can."

She nods. Then she does something she's never done to me before, something no one's ever done to me: she throws her arms around me and pulls me tight to her chest. After a while, she whispers something in my ear.

"Lettie. That's my name."

Lettie. Her lie-world name. Her real name.

I take a deep breath before I answer, breathing in her earthy scent. If I say this, I'll no longer be Scar-Head. I'll no longer be a street rat. I'll no longer have my family.

"Harry," I whisper back. "Nice to meet you."

She lets out a long sigh, making a lock of my hair shift and dance, and pulls away.

"Nice to meet you," she replies.

I look at the others.

"Bye, mate," Doll-Face says, not meeting my eyes.

I give them all a smile, one last smile, then turn and walk back towards Hagrid.

He beams at me when I reach him.

"All right," I say. "Let's go."

"You did a good thing, Harry." He pats my shoulder again.

I let him use the name. Because it's my name. Because that's who I am now. I've made my choice.

I am Harry Potter.