In short order, Harry was kneeling in the middle of a circular marble rune inlaid into the floor of Ritual Room 1, deep in the bowels of Gringotts. The acceptance potion, which looked like water to Harry, was in a crystal goblet on the floor in front of him. A parchment with a written version of the Peverell family acknowledgment lay beside it. At the goblins' instruction, Harry drank the potion and recited the acknowledgment:

I, Harry James Potter, claim the heritage of the Peverell family. I accept the heritage in blood, in memory, and in magic. I will take the name Peverell as one of my own, never to bring it shame. I am of the Peverell line, and this is my right.

Harry felt warm all over, as though he had suddenly been immersed in a hot bath. Something unidentifiable was sweeping through him, altering him in small ways; and although he thought this should frighten him, he felt good. Alert and peaceful at the same time. After a couple of minutes, the bathtub sensation faded, and Harry stood up.

"Well," said Cursentog in satisfaction. "It didn't kill him."

They gave him a small box which they said held the Peverell family signet ring and a stack of papers which were the certified copies of his blood records. "Don't put the ring on until tomorrow night," advised Knacklebrat. "It would be bad form. It usually takes twenty-four hours for the potion to do everything it's going to do, so you won't be a full Peverell until then. Should any other claimants to the line show up…"

"That's not likely," Cursentog interrupted.

"But if they do," said Knacklebrat, "You'll be expected to donate your blood for the creation of another heritage acceptance potion. You will remain the main Peverell heir with whatever that might entail, but other heirs will still be able to share in the family name and magics if they choose."

"Alright," said Harry. He began to gather his things together. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Not really. As I said, the heritage will be in full force by this time tomorrow night, but it's already active now. If you have achieved a split heritage, you should be able to make some changes in your appearance or casting just by shifting your mental perception of yourself."

"What?"

"If you feel more like you're a Potter, then that heritage will come to the forefront. If you feel more like a Peverell, then that one will. The differences between the two will be slight. It's really quite simple."

Cursentog cleared his throat. "Who should I list you as for record keeping purposes?" Seeing Harry's blank look, he clarified, "Your name. Traditionally, you would call yourself Harry James Peverell Potter, but given the unprecedented nature of your situation, choosing a separate name for the Peverell family would be advisable. What would you like to call yourself?"

"Greek or Roman names and their derivatives would be best, Mr. Potter," added Knacklebrat. "Those are the most common in pureblood circles."

"Ummm…" Harry muttered. A new name? Well, he would have to have one anyway to live in Knockturn Alley. Maybe he should just stick with the same initials? What was a pureblood name that didn't sound completely ridiculous? "Hephaestus," he said at last, wincing at the thought of calling himself that, "I'll be Hephaestus Peverell."

]

Harry was surprised to find that Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley were very different places at night. Hooded and cloaked, he left Gringotts at 11:30 PM and stepped out into a mostly empty street. Very few lights shone in the windows of Diagon Alley, and those that did were mostly those of small flats above some of the shops. The glow from the Leaky Cauldron seemed a vague, weak thing in the distance. The alley looked grimy and bereft without the usual press of bodies.

When he arrived at Knockturn Alley, he thought for a moment that he had turned down the wrong road. He hadn't been expecting anything like this. Twice as many witches and wizards roamed the street as the last time he had been here in second year. Most of the stores appeared to be open and doing a good business. The smell of food wafted from vendors' stands, making Harry realize that he hadn't eaten since lunch at the Dursleys, which seemed like a lifetime ago. Eerie music floated on the night breeze out of a pub about a hundred meters away, and the reedy voice of an elderly man could be heard crying, "Poisonous toadstools. All varieties. Half-off tonight!"

Harry pulled out his wand, pointed it at his face, and whispered, "Inmemorse," a spell that Charms for Charmers had called an "unmemorable charm." It worked sort of like a notice-me-not spell. The book had recommended it for covering up pimples or scars, but Harry could tell by the burning tingle he felt all over his face that it worked over larger areas as well. Unlike the notice-me-not spell, this one didn't prevent others from becoming aware of his presence. Instead, it altered their perception of his face, causing his features to slip from memory almost as soon as a person registered them. Someone who looked at him would see that he was Harry Potter, but they wouldn't be able to hold onto the idea for even a second at a time.

He hadn't planned on using this spell tonight. He thought it might be Dark magic, and he was a little uncomfortable with the idea of fiddling with other peoples' memories; but with the crowded, well-lit street in front of him he didn't see much choice. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk down Knockturn Alley.

He had gone only a few yards before a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see three rough-looking men dressed head to toe in dark gray robes. His heart seemed to pause in his chest. He could barely make out their faces under their low hoods, but he couldn't mistake the sinister feeling that seemed to be a part of their very presence. One of the men held the chain of some sort of creature that looked like a hairless wolf with red eyes.

"You're in the wrong place, kid," rumbled the one who had grabbed his shoulder. "Your kind isn't welcome here at night."

The wolf-like creature was growling low in its throat, and Harry couldn't help but notice the long strands of saliva hanging from its yellow fangs. Harry swallowed out of habit. His mouth was completely dry. A couple of hard-eyed hags had stopped to watch the confrontation. Harry didn't know how to handle this. At least they didn't seem to recognize him. How would the type of person who would be welcomed in Knockturn Alley deal with this?

The image of Professor Snape sneering down at him popped into his mind. Knowing that he would hate himself for this later, Harry drew himself up to his full height (wishing as he did so that he wasn't one of the shortest boys in his year) and said in a cold, controlled voice, "I beg your pardon? Just what kind do you think I am?"

The man didn't seem to be put off by Harry's show of confidence. One of his companions hissed through his teeth and whispered, "…probably a Ministry spy, Rukus. Best to do him in quick like."

Harry glared at the man in perfect imitation of the look that Snape always reserved for him during the start of term feast. "What a clever observation!" he jeered. "Do the idiots at the Ministry regularly send people my age to infiltrate Knockturn Alley after dark, or do you think I'm a special case?"

The one called Rukus leaned back on his heels, studying Harry. "We keep track of who comes and goes in the alley at night. It's our job to determine whether unfamiliar people might be…unwanted. Who are you, and what business do you have here?"

"My name," said Harry with an arrogance he didn't feel, "is Hephaestus Peverell. My business is, quite frankly, none of your business. I am on my way to the Doxy Closet for the evening."

The one holding the wolf-thing's chain snickered at this, and Rukus raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little young for that?" he asked.

This question was confusing. "I'm older than I look," Harry said, "and I'm certainly old enough to rent a room if I want."

"I suppose so," said Rukus. "Fine, kid. You go on then, but the rest of the watch will be on the lookout for you, so don't try anything."

With that, the three men were gone, and the small group of people who had stopped to watch dispersed. Harry had to take several deep breaths before he walked on. The farther he walked the more surreal Knockturn Alley seemed to become. It was every bit as exotic and new as Diagon Alley had been when he was eleven. Most of the stores were open, and yellow light spilled out into the street. It was quieter than Diagon Alley in the day time, but there was still a steady murmur of voices around him. The window displays didn't have the cheerfulness of those he had seen at stores like Flourish and Blotts, but many of them were beautiful in their own ways. Poisoned candles burned with flames in every color of the rainbow. Ruby and citrine hued fairies fluttered prettily in small glass boxes, and vials of every potion imaginable sparkled in torchlight. An entire herd of real miniature horses ran in circles in one windowsill. And even the things that weren't pretty were…well, interesting at least. Hanks of human hair "plucked by the root" dangled from the apothecary's window, a set of charmed rune knives traced intricate patterns in a pit of sand, and fist-sized blobs of molten wax seemed to be breathing in the front display of Rosemary's Reagents.

When Harry turned down Daemon Lane, he spotted the Doxy Closet immediately. It was a tall, narrow building that had been painted pitch black, and a large signboard with a crudely drawn picture of a doxy was propped against the front wall. The most remarkable feature of the building, however, was the color of the windows. Harry stared. They were large, there were many of them, and they were all a very feminine shade of pink. The light coming through these windows from the inside stained the stores on either side of it, and the street in front of it, a delicate rose.

Harry felt his face heat up as he realized something else about his destination for the night. The Doxy Closet was obviously a whorehouse. Suddenly, the comments of the Knockturn watch made sense. Raucous laughter and playful screams sounded from inside, and a couple of scantily-robed witches called to passerby. Harry only considered turning back for a moment before he realized that he had nowhere else to go.

The inside of the Doxy Closet was, thankfully, much more tasteful than the outside, and if Harry ignored what was going on in the dark corners of the common area, he could almost imagine that it was nothing more than an inn. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, spelled not to give off any heat during the summer, and several wizards (a couple of them actually looked like vampires) were sitting around a long table and drinking from heavy mugs. Harry was just looking for someone to ask about a room, when a heavily made-up woman in revealing green satin robes swept up to him. Her eyes smoldered as she laid a hand on his arm. "What can I do for you, love?"

Harry felt his blush return full force. "I just…errr, that is to say…I need a room for the night," he stuttered.

"Sure thing, honey," she replied with a dazzling smile. "Come with me."

"Just a room, though," Harry blurted out. "I don't want…anything else." He wondered if he could actually blush hard enough to break through the inmemores charm.

The woman laughed. "I knew what you meant, love. About half our business is just the inn, though most folk know to come for that during the daytime. It gets sort of loud at night."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak, so he followed her in silence to a tall cabinet behind the bar. She opened it to reveal a number of room keys pegged to a board. "You'll want one of the more remote rooms, I guess?" she asked. "There's not so much coming and going up on the attic level, so you can have a nice sleep."

"That sounds fine Ms…"

"Aren't you sweet!" she squealed then patted him on the cheek. "It's just Cora, honey. No need for the miss bit." She handed him a key. "Room 413. All the way up the stairs, then right. It's five galleons a night, and if you're up by six you can have a nice breakfast with us down here."

Harry thanked her and paid for the night, then headed upstairs to his room. Room 413 was small, and the ceiling sloped with the roofline. It was only basically furnished with a twin-sized bed, a chest of drawers, a side table and a lamp. The windows, thankfully, were not pink from the inside. Harry enlarged his trunk and slid it into place at the foot of the bed. He cast a standard locking charm on the door, making a mental note to learn stronger spells soon, then stripped out of his clothes.

After showering in the tiny bathroom and putting on a too-big Westham tee shirt that Dean had given him as a Christmas gift last year, Harry sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. It was cramped, dusty, and loud. But, it was more than he had ever had to himself at Privet Drive, and he could use as much magic as he wanted to in order to make it more livable. He would look up how to perform a silencing ward and a few cleaning spells tomorrow. Most importantly, Harry realized, no one here expected anything of him. He could come and go as he pleased, and nobody would care. He could be Hephaestus Peverell, a teenager without a destiny hanging over his head, all summer. Smiling, he lay back and pulled the sheets up over himself.

It was the best sleep he had had in a long time.