"And that over there, that's Bright Quigley. Only thirteen years old—quite corrupted."

I growl as Eddie, one of the regulars at the Sneezing Snitch, tells a bureaucrat who doesn't look very interested about my life. Granted, I have an interesting life, and I'm slightly offended that the snobbish Ministry dog doesn't want to hear about it.

But that doesn't mean that Ed can just go telling any old person.

But that doesn't mean that he isn't going to. I decide to listen and see if he's going to tell any lies. Most know better than to lie about me. I can throw a mean hex.

"Heard it all straight from one of the old Death Eater spies, a Mr. Norman Connolly. They killed 'er dad, captured 'er mum. She was just nine. Just a tyke! She 'n' her sister—Elizabeth, 'bout seven a' the time—hid out at the old Leaky Cauldron. That place the Longbottoms own now, full of Aurors and gover'ment lapdogs like yerself, eh?" Eddie laughs, ignoring the shocked expression on the bureaucrat's face. "Anyway, those Masks found 'em 'bout two years later, when You-Know-Who really took power. 'Bout time tha' Potter went into hiding. They took the girl—little Liz—they take her out into the square, see? Blow her 'ead straight off. And they says, 'look, y'fools! An example.' An example!" Eddie shouts drunkenly. I clench my hands into fists.

"That's quite enough," I say coolly, marching over to them. "Obliviate," I spell, pointing my wand at the stiff. "Eddie, I swear I'd kill you if you weren't bloody drunk. Colloshoo!" I aim towards his feet, which promptly stick to the floor. Eddie groans. "Oi! Amadine!" I wave over the barmaid, Amadine Vaisey. Amadine's a slag, but a nice slag—she sometimes gives me extra food because she knows how dirt poor I am.

"Take care of this wanker, would you?" I toss her a bronze Knut and a winning smile, and storm out of the Sneezing Snitch.

Sorry, I do believe I haven't introduced myself. I'm Bright Quigley. Let me get this very clear—I am not a bright person. I don't mean to say that I'm not intelligent, for I'd be lying if I said that. I'm probably the smartest person in the Alleys, especially when it comes to common sense. Bright as in cheerful. Biggest pessimist you'll meet in your lifetime. And rightfully so.

I'm a regular at the Sneezing Snitch, but I don't come for 'the best firewhiskey in all the Alleys!' (That's also a lie, by the way. You learn to differentiate between lies and truth when you hang around here as much as I have.) No, I come for the dialogue. Drunks make very interesting conversationalists.

Like I've previously mentioned (and I do hope you're keeping up), I'm poor. And it's rotten. If they evaluated girls based on cleverness in the Alleys, I'd have loads of Galleons. But unfortunately, that's not how the female gender is assessed around here, and for a kind of plain, skinny girl with only a mop of black hair, blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her nose, it doesn't bode well. But I get what I need to survive by pickpocketing, and that's enough. My main source of income is Twilfitt's (used to be Twilfitt and Tatting's, but they shortened the name when Mr. Twilfitt and Mr. Tatting fancied the same bird). Twilfitt's is a rather high-class clothing store, where all the high-class swots go to get fitted into their high-class robes. I think all that upper-class nonsense is a load of rubbish. Here's the breakdown: you're close to Harry Potter, you get gold: you're at the bottom of the social food chain, you get rags. It's ironic, yes, that that now decides my fate, because Harry Potter was a bit of a joke when Liz and I were kids. It was all over the papers that he and his old crony Dumbledore were complete nutcases who actually thought You-Know-Who was back. Mum and Dad had always told us You-Know-Who was dead, and everyone knew necromancy was just a myth, so why believe anything other than what we knew? But then some of the stuff Potter and Dumbledore said turned out to be pretty damn true, and we learned that a bit too early for our liking. I was outraged when the Daily Prophet (was a nasty piece of dragon shite back then—still is) passed off Dad's death as a heart attack. Something so simple and Muggle as a heart attack. I always had Dad's logical head, but I also had Mum's unfortunate, unruly temper. It was always Liz who was more soft-spoken and persuasive. It was her who convinced me not to go hunting down that demon of an obituary writer.

Now, I try to be more like her at that time as I stroll down Knockturn Alley, my worn blue cap in hand, shouting out to all the drunks and loons of the night.

"Galleons for education! Galleons for a measly year of schooling! Anyone?"

It's another lie, and I'm sure most of these fellows know it. If I gave that McGonagall the usual sob story about how my whole family was killed and I've nowhere to go, she'd take me right in, no tuition, no question. But I don't particularly want to go to Hogwarts. I was there when I was eleven, and even though all the kids that come to Diagon in the summer say it's soo-o-ooo ace now, I still shy away from it. Let's just say Amycus Carrow didn't take a fancy to me during my first and only year at Hogwarts. I think she was more confused than angry, really. A Slytherin who didn't want to be part of her little clique? Preposterous!

I need the money, though. I can't live off Amadine's scraps forever, and sooner or later I want to get myself a room at the Leaky. Maybe persuade some Auror living there to mentor me. For now, I live at Cuffe for seven Knuts a week. Cuffe's a boarding house run by the charming Vingerus Grawe. It's basically a giant, run-down building filled with twin beds. Grawe lets in new people every week, and mostly kicks those out, but there are a few people who've lived at Cuffe for a while. I'm one of them; I've been here since the war ended almost two years ago. So is Avery, an old bloke. I feel for Avery. He was a Death Eater during the war, but he didn't want to be. He was just scared. Of death, of You-Know-Who, of losing the people he loved. I've heard the story a million times. It's the one he always tells when he's drunk. I don't know where he gets the firewhiskey, seeing as he hasn't got a job nor any money. I know for a fact his daughter Audrey, a girl in her early twenties who lives at the Leaky, is the one who pays his Knuts every week. Audrey's a careless, clumsy sort of person, and has been more loving than strict with her father, but I doubt she would be the one to supply him with firewhiskey. I bet it's Grawe. I knew he had a soft spot for Avery. I would shout at him, but I want a roof above my head, so I'm nice (enough) to him even when he's acting like a prat.

There's a few other semi-permanent residents at Cuffe, but I don't talk to them much. I more observe them. I know that Beatrice is having trouble keeping her barely-paying job as a street seller, that Katie lost all her money in a crisis and is saving up her Sickles to seek out her ex-boyfriend, who's in the big Quidditch leagues. Apparently, she was on the same Quidditch team as Potter once. That's what she tells her friend Jensen late at night. I don't believe it for a second. But here she is, repeating the story again, this time to the new girl, who says her name is Contra. I'm listening in, but my eyes are on Avery, who's sleeping and murmuring something indistinguishable in his sleep.

"There was this one time we had a match against Ravenclaw, and Potter was terribly scared of dementors, so this Slytherin kid Malfoy dressed up as one to try and sabotage the match."

"Why did 'e want Ravenclaw to win?" Contra asks tentatively. She's French, so I don't think she gets the rivalry between the Gryffindorks and the serpents yet.

"'Cause Ravenclaw was rather shite back then, and it would've been an easy way to the Quidditch Cup. But Potter shoots this weird shape at Malfoy, and then he goes after the Snitch! Hilarious, really, to see the look on Malfoy's face. Think he's engaged now. If I could only remember her name..." Katie scratches her chin. "Oh, right! Astoria. Yes, that's it. Astoria Greengrass."

I sit up straight suddenly, because I know that name. It rings a bell somewhere. Greengrass...Greengrass...I rack my brains, trying to figure out where I've heard it before, but no luck.

"Going Galleon-snatching again tomorrow, Princess?" Beatrice asks. All the tenants of Cuffe call me 'Princess' for some bloody weird reason. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest there, at thirteen.

"Yeah, Beatrice," I reply.

"Good girl," Beatrice says with a cackle. "Yes, very good. You're learning the ways of the world, aren't y'? So young. Like a flower waiting to wilt."

"In that case, I've already disintegrated," I tell her, unsmiling. She has no retort to that, so I curl up on one of the dirty mattresses and do my best to fall asleep.

The next morning, I rise bright and early and go to the Sneezing Snitch to wash my dark curls in the sink and nick a few breath mints from Amadine. That's my morning routine. I wear a blue T-shirt, tight black jeans, and shiny combat boots (all stolen from respective clothing shops, of course). I look very normal. Anyone who looks at me twice will think I'm one of the Muggle-born children who's come home a bit early from Hogwarts.

As I steal my way through the crowd, I spot a catch. A big one. One of those Quidditch-playing types is talking to a dark-skinned girl with cornrows snaking down her back. I recognize her from the discarded editions of the Daily Prophet Grawe keeps around. She's a war hero, but I can't remember her name right now.

The real point is that Mr. Quidditch has a bulging wallet hanging out of the back pocket of his slim maroon robe. A purse full of gleaming gold Galleons that he won't even miss. I take a deep breath and barrel into him. The wallet conveniently falls out of his pocket and onto the pavement.

"I'm so sorry!" I cry.

"Yes, well..." Mr. Quidditch replies, obviously disgruntled. Merlin's hat. He's rude, too, so I don't feel a bit guilty as I ever-so-discreetly snatch up that lovely money and disappear into the crowd. But I freeze as I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Give me back my purse," he growls. He looks a bit frightening now, and I'm stuck there as thoughts whirl through my brain, coming up with a billion ideas of what to do. I could always give him his purse and run, of course...but I could stand my ground, too.

I must be very, very stupid if I'm even thinking of doing this. There are so many things that could go wrong. But I do it anyway.

"Stranger danger!" I yelp, alerting nearby shoppers to Mr. Quidditch's menacing figure and my small, defenseless form. Then I kick him in a very unfortunate place and run for my life, but not before I see the woman he was talking to—I remember her name now, Angelina Johnson—smirking at his predicament.

Success.

I finally reach Ambrosey Alley, the nearest safe haven where I can open my prize without people inquiring after it. Ambrosey is rather deserted, but it's a nice place, and the few people that inhabit it are generally kind and keeping to their own business. I empty the contents of the purse, and am disappointed. There's not as much as I expected. About twenty Galleons and a few Sickles. I expected at least one hundred Sickles from a rich bloke like him. But this is still a catch. Galleons are rare to my eyes.

"I hope you're going to share that with me, Bright."

I jump and clutch the wallet to my chest, then sigh in relief. It's just my occasional partner-in-crime, Maisie Cattermole, or Cat, as the Alley people call her. Cat's whole family was killed off by Death Eaters during the war, just like mine. Maybe it's why I like her so much. She has just turned eleven, which means she can go to Hogwarts in the fall. But she won't. I know she won't. I've already poisoned her mind against the place with my tales of lurking figures and evil Carrows.

"My money?" I ask her, snorting incredulously. "There's not too many Galleons in here. They'll pay my rent for a while, though." I eye the coins hungrily. "Two months...if I'm lucky."

Cat brushes a strand of limp blond hair out of her eyes. "I need it more than you do."

It's true. She's not as good at surviving as I am. Her long, sandy hair hasn't been washed in ages, so she plaits it in a long, intricate braid to make it look halfway decent. She wears a worn frock and her feet are bare. Her nose is smudged with dirt.

"You can still pickpocket," she continues. "C'mon, Bright. I'm only asking for three."

"Three?" I yelp. "No. Nothing doing." Then I bolt. If I don't, Cat will eventually persuade me into giving her up to six Galleons with her puppy eyes, and I can't afford to do that.

Suddenly, I bump into a tall figure in the archway between Diagon and Ambrosey. I observe them. It's a boy who looks to be a few years older than me. He's tanned and gangly, and his hair is bright purple. He doesn't appear to have a wallet on him, which is a shame. It'd be nice to top off my prize with a few more coins. "Sorry," the boy mutters, brushing past me.

I shake my head and walk to the Sneezing Snitch. I have to be frugal with my new money, but I decide to celebrate a little and order a butterbeer with the mush Amadine serves me (it's disgusting, but it's food and at least it's free) instead of my usual water.

"Where'd you get those Sickles?" Amadine asks suspiciously, eyeing the two silver pieces I've placed on the bar counter.

"I earned them," I lie with a false cheery grin. She knows my excuse is barmy. She's seen me swipe the wallets of her customers before, but she doesn't care. I give her extra Knuts to keep quiet.

Before I know it, my tankard is emptied and my bowl clean. Amadine snatches them up and hands them to one of the kitchen folk for washing. "Go on, you've had your breakfast. Get back to Knockturn."

"Oh, no, I'm not going to Knockturn..."

"What, are you actually going to do something decent today? Read a book? Get ice cream, like any normal kid your age?"

"...that place's terrible for business." I tip an invisible cap to her. "Cheers, Ama."

I end up in Twilfitt's. It's very crowded today, full of jeweled birds and sighing husbands. Among the royals, I see a flash of brown. A knitted sweater. On the street, this would not be an uncommon sight. But here it is. I move towards the sweater, and to my shock, I see that it's Audrey Avery. Her straight auburn hair is in a sleek, elegant knot, and she's looking longingly at a wedding dress. Suddenly, she stops to admire the diamond on her finger. I stare in awe at the ring—I could probably sell it for at least a hundred gold ones. I've never seen her talk of any fellow or wear the ring when she visits her father.

Then it clicks. This is very valuable blackmail material. I approach her with a wide smile on my face.

"Hi, Audrey," I say conversationally. She jumps.

"Bright! Funny seeing you here." I nod, and suddenly she looks mortified. "You mustn't tell Dad I've been here. Or about the ring. You mustn't!"

"Doesn't he deserve to know?" I ask. "After all, an engagement is happy news. When's the big day?"

"You mustn't tell him," Audrey repeats.

"Oh, but I don't know if I can promise that...these things slip out, you know."

"Please!" She's getting hysterical now. A few of the queens give her disdainful glances.

"I can be persuaded," I tell her in a low voice.

"How much?"

Yes, that's what I was looking for.

"A few Galleons. Not much for the time being."

"Galleons? I—I couldn't—"

"Could you?" I eye her sharply. "I want ten." It's asking a lot, but if it works, I've got a few more weeks of butterbeer and maybe some new clothes.

"Ten?"

I could lower it to five if necessary, I suppose. It depends on how desperate she is for Avery not to find out she's getting hitched.

We're interrupted unexpectedly by a man who looks to be about her age. He's as tall as a beanstalk, with curly, bright red hair and lots of freckles.

"Hey, Aud, you find one you like—who's this?"

I recognize him from somewhere. Maybe I've pickpocketed him recently—no, that's not it. Definitely not. "This is Bright," Audrey says quietly. "Bright, this is...Percy."

Yes, I've seen him in the papers a lot. He's one of Potter's mates. A Weasley. How did she get her hands on a bloke like that?

"Nice to meet you, Percy," I chirp. "Well, I must be going. I'm on my way back to Cuffe," I say slowly, gauging Audrey's reaction. She grows very, very pale. Good.

"Here, before you go," she says hurriedly, dropping a small sack of gold into my hands.

"Why, thank you." I flash her a smile and bid them goodbye. Her fiance looks quite bewildered at the exchange.

Cat's waiting for me outside, of course. She has eyes only for the ten Galleons clutched in my fist.

"What about that?" she asks, trailing behind me as I walk down Diagon. "Are you going to give me any of that?"

"No."

"But now you have thirty!"she exclaims. "Plus the Sickles."

"I know. I'm saving it."

"For what?" Cat pouts. "If I got my hands on that money, I'd spend it without a care in the world. I can't remember the taste of ice cream anymore. 'N' I haven't read a book in ages neither."

"I'm not falling for it," I tell her. "Wait till Christmas, maybe I'll give you a Galleon then."

"Just a measly cone, Bright."

"What the bloody hell is a cone?"

"An ice cream cone. I wouldn't even spend one of your precious Galleons. They only cost a Sickle."

"Only a Sickle? I barely see Sickles, kiddo. My stash is all Knuts."

"And Galleons, now. Thirty of them."

"I told you, I'm saving them."

"I just want one Sickle. For ice cream. I won't ask you about it anymore, promise."

Cat's 'promises' are rubbish, and she knows I know it. She won't ask for money for about three days, but then she'll come blubbering to me about how she lost a game of dice against that Dillonsby brat and needs to pay him back soon, and oh Bright, it's only five Knuts, please!

But if a Sickle (which seems quite small now compared to the gold jingling in my pocket) buys me three days of her silence, so be it.

"Fine. But I'm coming with you, just to make sure you don't gamble it away." Cat grumbles, and I know that's what she was planning to do. It's really not that I don't approve of gambling. She's just bad at it, and not smart enough to realise when she's starting to waste every Knut she gets.

We approach Florean Fortescue's. Florean's getting old, and he's a bit of a loon ever since he was captured by Death Eaters during the war. He still runs his shop, though, at least to my knowledge. Right now he's not at the counter. Instead, there's a tanned boy with bright green hair. I remember bumping into him on my way to the Sneezing Snitch, but I could have sworn his hair was purple back then.

His hair turns pink as I order Cat's ice cream cone. "That'll be all?" he asks.

"Yes." I turn around to leave—I have no use for this shop with its happy atmosphere and customers with their wallets tucked safely in their bags—but he stops me.

"By the way, I'm Jasper."

"I don't care," I tell him coldly. "C'mon, Cat, we're going."

"She's Bright," Cat says to him, grinning cheekily at me. I knew I should have let her give my Sickle to Dillonsby. I feel my cheeks heat up. I don't like people knowing my identity. What if this boy, this Jasper with his colour-changing hair and 'that's one Sickle, miss's, were to see me ever-so-discreetly slipping my hand into a shopper's robe pocket and report me to the authorities? No, it's much too dangerous. Cat knows this.

I don't say anything else. I drag that stupid eleven-year-old out of the shop without sparing so much as a second glance for Jasper.