Chapter 1: A Change of Place

It was an uncomfortable warmth that spread over Privet Drive. A consistent wave of heat that was not unbearable, but made most of the residents along the street sweat before their fans and air conditioning units.

This was the case for three people inside Number 4. A large waddling man moved towards the living room, cold beverage in hand, and sat in his favourite chair. He sighed in relief as his thin ghastly wife made sure the unit in their living room cooled it down even more, before relaxing in her own plush recliner. Despite the cooler temperature in said room, their son still constantly complained about the heat. He was built like his father, rather unfortunately. Many who met him would likely describe him as a whale – not to his face however. For this particular whale had a reputation among some as a bully.

There was a fourth resident, however. One that did not sit in the refreshing cool of the living room, relaxing and taking a break. Instead he stood over an oven to ensure the chicken linguine he had been tasked with cooking was finished to perfection. Or however perfect an untrained teenager could make such a dish.

Sweat threatened to fall from his black messy hair into the food, and he deftly wiped it away with the stained tea towel he was given to use that looked closer to a rag. It was still cleaner than most of his clothes, particularly the sweaty mess he was wearing as he slaved away.

It had been like this ever since he had returned from school for summer. All he did was housework, of which more began to pile up for him as the warmer weather swept through Surrey. Gardening, painting, washing, cooking, and anything else he was tasked with. Then sleep.

The truly perverse part to Harry Potter was not the work he was forced to do. Nor was it the bullying and attacks from his cousin Dudley that interrupted his work. It wasn't even the abuse he got from his Aunt Petunia, or his Uncle Vernon No, it was the fact that he actually looked forward to the glorified slavery and the beatings. Anything was better than sleep.

Since the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry had yet to gain a full night's rest. He had tried not sleeping at first, simply staying awake as long as possible to avoid the horrors his unconscious mind showed him. Yet, that only made matters worse. The less he slept, the more he needed sleep and more than once, his body gave up and forced his hand. Which was problematic when his relatives were expecting housework done and he was found sleeping, thrashing and crying. They did not take kindly to that freakish behaviour. As such he resolved to get at least a solid hour of sleep a night.

It was unhealthy, he admitted to himself as he stirred his relative's dinner. He knew he should sleep more. But reliving those events, being haunted by memories and visions – it only served to hurt.

This was the case after his first night back for the summer. A particularly bad dream had caused Harry to lose his dinner all over the floor of his modest bedroom in Number 4. Uncle Vernon, the aforementioned gargantuan in the cool, saw to it that Harry knew what happened to him if he made a mess in the Dursley household. After his less-than-ideal lesson, Harry cleaned the mess he had made.

It had gotten to the point that Harry detested sleeping. It was once a reprieve, both from his jailors in Surrey and the prying eyes of Scotland. But it had become something he truly loathed to attempt. It now became even more painful than his experiences with the Dementors.

Harry's nightmares could be summed up in three distinct categories. The first was memories. Harry's brain, whether out of fear, guilt or some outside interference, made him relive Cedric Diggory dying over and over. Hearing the callous words of a weak Voldemort, commanding his follower Peter Pettigrew to kill the spare repeated itself multiple times as he slept. But that was nothing compared to the haunting sound of hearing someone take their final breath. A breath that Harry had heard thousands of times at this point in his night time torture sessions.

And every time Harry saw Cedric's eyes lose their light again, he swore it broke him a little more.

The second category could only be described as dark fiction. Essentially, Harry would find himself in situations that made him sick to his stomach. Being tortured by the detestable Barty Crouch Jr., or being forced under the Imperius Curse to hurt Hermione Granger, one of his best friends. He even had a particularly disturbing dream where the traitor Wormtail had transformed into Ron Weasley, his other best friend, and was telling him all the evil sadistic things he could think of. Still, these were preferable to the other forms of nightmares. At least he knew they couldn't be real.

The truly disconcerting dreams were those Harry was certain weren't in fact dreams. Since the previous year, the last remaining Potter had known he could somehow see the world through the eyes of the Dark Lord. And Harry had been shown some very disgusting scenes of late. Murder, assault, torture. The first night he watched as a muggle was fed alive to Nagini, Voldemort's snake. Not that Vernon would understand that as the reason for his sickness.

But it wasn't just the scenes he was seeing that disturbed Harry. It was the feelings. When he saw what Voldemort was doing, he could sense the glee in him as he murdered innocent, defenceless muggles. The anger as he punished insubordinate Death Eaters. The malice whenever conversation turned to Potter himself. It was these feelings that scared Harry more than anything. Because they didn't feel wrong.

The conversations about Harry had not been too much of a revelation, and were few and far between. From what Harry had gathered, the Daily Prophet had been belittling both Harry and his Headmaster at Hogwarts for trying to tell people that the Dark Lord was once again alive.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, the raven-haired boy began to dish out the pasta. Honestly, it looked great all things considered.

Too bad he already had been given the tin of soup he was to eat in his room.

"Aunt Petunia, dinner is done!" he called after dishing out the delicious food. He could feel his stomach beginning to grumble as his senses were overwhelmed by his creation.

"Well, it's about time! Now, go to your room boy. It's time to eat, after all." Harry nodded robotically, having learned at a young age how futile asking for his own cooking was. He trudged up the stairs as his family began to dig in, listening to his Uncle Vernon praise Petunia for the dish. It was her recipe originally, after all.

Sighing, the sullen wizard sat cross-legged on the floor and opened his tin of soup. It was warmer than he anticipated – but that was due to the unnatural heat in the house he supposed.

About halfway through his glamorous feast, his eyes were drawn to movement in the corner of the room. A glove, floating near the wall waved at him. There were many possibilities. An invisible person, perhaps. More likely it was someone, be it wizard, witch or elf, that had animated the glove to grab his attention.

The glove pointed towards his window, which Harry took as an indication to the latter being the truth. Slowly, the boy moved towards the window and looked down with a gasp and a smile.

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore waved up to Harry from the neatly cut grass in the back yard of Number 12. Harry waved back to his Professor, happy to finally have some contact with the wizarding world this summer. There was something off with Dumbledore though. Something about his posture was off.

In a beat, the yard was empty. Harry would be concerned if he hadn't heard the gentle popping sound behind him. "Harry, my boy. I hope you have been well?"

Harry turned to face his visitor and grimaced. Up close, Dumbledore looked how he felt. His eyes had dark circles under them, and his smile didn't quite seem genuine. Harry nodded as he wondered what had happened to the usually jovial man before him. "As good as it could be, I guess. How are you, sir?"

"Officially, I am fine. Between friends, however," the Headmaster sighed, looking his age for the first time Harry could remember. "There has been a lot to manage. Part of which I am hoping to remedy while I am here, hence my unannounced arrival. I do apologise for dropping in without warning, Harry."

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, sir. It's fine. I've been going stir crazy anyway." The following silence rang in Harry's ears. "What has Voldemort been up to?"

It was Dumbledore's turn to shake his head. "That is, unfortunately, not a conversation for here, my boy. Speaking of which, we need to discuss your living arrangements." Harry stiffened as his Headmaster look dead into his eyes. "You have made it abundantly clear in the past that you'd rather not return here – a request which I took as a childish dream to remain with magic forever. I regret to say I now know I was mistaken."

Harry watched as the great Albus Dumbledore wiped the tears from his eyes. "You see, Harry. When I first brought you to this house, I had hoped it would be a home. That the love of two sisters would carry on to you, and that this love would fuel your protection." Harry stood completely still as the Headmaster began to pace within his humble room, looking anywhere but Harry. "I broke laws to protect you the best I could, knowing that as long as Petunia loved you, you were safe."

The man seemed to grow older as he shook his head more, tears welling in his dull eyes yet again. "I hadn't noticed my protections weakening until they had almost broken. Which was last night. They broke fully this morning." Albus looked towards his student. "I am truly sorry to have ever sent you here, Harry. Had I known what they would do, had I listened to Minerva this never would have happened."

Harry was stunned. The Headmaster had sent him home with the hope he was loved. There was a small part of Harry, the part of himself he ignored in the third type of dream, that began to burn with unbridled rage towards the man who sentenced him to Dursley Prison. But despite the hidden part of him, Harry couldn't be angry at his Professor. Besides, he was too tired to truly feel that level of rage.

"You didn't know. I never told anyone how they treated me. I've been worried that Madam Pomfrey would figure it out but she hasn't said anything. How could you know? It's okay, sir." Harry smiled gently. "You only did it to help."

The Gryffindor was glad to see that twinkle return to the tear-filled eyes of his Headmaster. "In time I hope to have earned the respect and kindness you have shown me, Harry. For I do not deserve it now. Nevertheless, thank you. I would not have begrudged you hating me. You have eased this old man's heart." The pair smiled brightly towards each other.

He once again wiped tears from his eyes. "Now, your living arrangements. I have been rather ill prepared for this problem, and have had somewhat of a maddening scramble to solve it, if you will. I had thought Hogwarts, but not even us staff stay there over summer. I'd expect you to go even madder with only the ghosts and house elves for company." Harry chuckled at that thought. "Sirius and I also considered our current base of operations, but Remus rightfully pointed out that it isn't truly suitable for children. Regretfully, the Burrow is not as well protected as one would hope so that also is not an option."

Harry nodded. It made sense that Sirius and Remus were working with Dumbledore with whatever was happening on their side of the war. He was glad to hear both were safe, however. "So where am I going then?"

Dumbledore smiled softly. "Ah. I believe it best if we keep that a surprise, Harry. If you would please," he almost whispered as he offered his arm. "Do not fret for your belongings. A particularly peculiar Hogwarts house elf readily agreed to assist in your relocation. Just ensure you have your wand on you, hmm?" Harry snickered at the wink Dumbledore gave him – of course Dobby would agree if Harry Potter was involved.

The dark-haired boy grabbed his Headmasters arm and, in a flash, he felt his entire body being pushed from all sides. It was pitch black and uncomfortable. It reminded him of the Dementors, but without the chill that accompanied them. Harry was then thrust through what felt like a long pipe as he yearned to scream. As it reached the point of peak discomfort, Harry felt himself pop out the end of the tube and reform on the other side. It was insane to think it all happened in the blink of an eye.

Harry glanced around as he picked himself off the ground, still yet to find any magical transport that agreed with him as much as his broom. He struggled for a moment to see where he was as his body threatened to expel what little food was in his system. He eventually saw that he was outside a large manor house near a forest. The house itself looked old, but we'll kept. Dark wood and cobbled stone seemed to make up the majority of the manor house, though every so often he saw a glimpse of metallic bronze. "Where are we, Professor? Is this where Snuffles is staying?" he almost whispered, hoping beyond hope his godfather would be there for him soon.

"Unfortunately, no. At least, not at the moment. No, Harry my boy. This is where you should have been, had I listened to Minerva instead of being an old, single-minded fool. Welcome, Mister Potter, to The Brass Heart."

Brass Heart. Harry was nigh certain he could recall the name from somewhere. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn't quite remember. "I don't really know what that is, sir."

"In due time, Harry. It is true that in some regards, it is best to seek the information you need. But in others, isn't it more magical to keep the secret alive, to allow the unknown to take you, even if it is only for another moment?" Dumbledore smiled as he looked down at the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry sighed. That's a fancy way for the Headmaster to say he wasn't telling. Well, he figured the best approach would be to find out for himself.

As he made towards the door, the Professor placed a hand on his shoulder. Albus Dumbledore once again looked mournful, his eyes losing the shimmer Harry had noticed was less commonplace these days. "It is my hope that you will forgive me once again, Harry. It was never my intention to hide what you will learn today from you. Even I was unaware of the situation myself. I am, however, responsible."

The old man then smiled, but it still didn't manage to reach his eyes. "My only advice, Harry. Beyond the walls of Brass Heart, you will find something you may have dreamt of, something you have long desired. Do not allow an old man's foolish machinations squander that chance. Take it with both hands."

He was dumbfounded. Where had Dumbledore taken him? Surely it must be secure, and with people who were trustworthy. Harry nodded towards the Headmaster, unable to formulate words after the speech. He then continued his march towards the large double doors at the entrance to the manor. Harry wished he were better with wood, it looked nice and he would love to know what kind the door was made from.

Harry's hand reached a large bronze knocker, shaped like a traditional love heart. It managed to put his mind at ease, while somehow maintaining the sense of importance the manor carried. As he waited impatiently for a response, he realised that in his tired and over exerted state he had neglected to ask the Professor for help with his sleeping problem. He turned to Dumbledore. "Professor, I've been having these dreams-"

The Headmaster had left, and Harry was extremely confused. Had he disapparated? Harry hadn't heard the tell-tale crack of magic when someone attempted that level of magic. Dumbledore usually made a rather small pop when he apparated. Harry had heard it twice already today. There was the chance he was still there, or he had used a Portkey?

It was these thoughts that flitted among Harry's mind, and the ones that disappeared when he heard the door open behind him. He turned to see who it was that had greeted him and was shocked at who it was.

She was around his height, which wasn't saying much as he knew he was shorter than average for his age. She had long dark brown hair that was loose, unlike how she would wear it at Hogwarts. She was wearing a black tank top and jeans, not too dissimilar to the clothes he was wearing. Except hers fit, and weren't still coated in copious amounts of sweat.

Her sharp, admittedly pretty face had, for an instant, a sense of intrigue on it before it glazed over to a cold mask of indifference. But behind those light blue eyes he saw an emotion he was all too well acquainted with. Hatred.

Daphne Greengrass was not pleased to see him.

AN: Thanks to those who noted an issue with the story originally! Hopefully this fixes it? My best guess was the copy-n-paste made the text weird? Anyway, I'm planning on writing this two chapters ahead, and I just began writing chapter 3! If you notice any grammatical errors please let me know!