This idea popped in my head while I was revising for my maths final. Essentially this will be a story about Albus Dumbledore's redemption and him handling all the challenges from Harry's point of view. It will also be about him recognising his past wrongs and him trying to find solace in the fact that magic has given him a second chance to right his wrongs. I will probably only sporadically update this as I have a very busy life (note that this is my first proper post this year) and I am graduating in two months, so along with that, I have to experience all of the 'holy fuck will I get into uni' stress. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this fic.

Warnings: mentions of possible abuse, lots of magical theory, death, references to a lot of shit (see if you can spot the sherlock holmes quote in this chapter), etc. As the story progresses, I shall have to add more warnings.

Story begins in Harry's sixth year atop the astronomy tower of Hogwarts, where Dumbledore is murdered by Snape.

"I said no!" shouted the brutal-faced man; there was a flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of the way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking furious. Draco held on to his wand, arm trembling as he focused on his target: but his heart was not in it, if it ever had been.

"Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us-" screeched the woman, but at that precise moment the door to the ramparts burst open once more and there stood Severus Snape, his wand clutched in his hand as his black eyes swept the scene, from Albus, slumped against the wall, to the four Death Eaters including the enraged werewolf, and Malfoy.

Albus felt his body slump in surrender; Severus, too, was aware that it was time for him to die. Nevertheless, Albus felt fear start to creep up his spine. Death. He had always respected death, never feared it. But now in his final moments, Albus became convinced of the fact that only a foolish man would not fear death. That implication of that (and of what he had been all his life up until now, namely: foolish) would have brought a small chuckle and a twinkle of his eyes to his face, had the situation not been so terrifyingly dark.

He could see Harry in his invisibility cloak watching on with bated breath and in horror as the scene before him unfolded. Albus felt sudden guilt that the boy - no - man, would have to see this; would have to witness the death of his mentor, and dare he say it, friend.

"We've got a problem, Snape," said the lumpy Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon Albus, "the boy doesn't seem able-"

But Albus found suddenly that a word had slipped through his limp lips.

"Severus…." He pleaded. Begging was a foreign concept to him. He didn't ever remember begging for his life, not like this anyway. It was fear of the unknown speaking, of course. And Severus knew it. His cold, dark eyes, flashed with something pleading for a moment or two and all of a sudden, Albus realised how very much this man trusted and respected him.

Severus said nothing, instead, his eyes spoke it all. He walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters fell back without a word, even the werewolf seemed cowed and Albus was very suddenly reminded of the the power and of the rank that Severus had achieved over the years… all for Lily and her son. For a moment, they stared at each other, communicating unspoken words, unsaid promises, then Severus' arm tensed, as it always did before casting a spell.

"Severus…. please…" He pleaded one last time. They both knew he would be dead within a few months anyway - the curse on the ring had insured as much. His blackening arm would soon yield to the sickness completely and it would spread like a wildfire, ending his life in terrible agony. It was a miracle the potion's master had managed to hold it at bay for as long as he had.

Severus finally raised his wand and pointed it directly at Albus.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light shot from the end of his friend's wand and it hit Albus squarely in the chest. For a moment, Albus felt nothing at all, but then with a sickening single movement, his soul was ripped from his body. He remained in awareness for a few seconds more, watching as the sky above him turned a deep, dark red when someone cast the dark mark, and then finally, he started to fall slowly backwards, like a rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight. He never felt the hard, cold ground when he finally struck it.

.

Regaining awareness after an infinitely long period of immense numbness, so very suddenly was like being dropped in a tank full of ice-cold water in the middle of a deep sleep: jarring. For a moment or two, all Albus could do was gasp for air, like a desperate, drowning man.

After calming down somewhat, Albus noted a few things in quick succession: one, he was in a small sort of enclosure; two, dust permeated the very air causing his breathing to come back ragged and harsh; and three, his body was not his own.

Odd, he thought, looking down at two unfamiliar set of hands. They were small, perhaps of a five or six year old child… and yet, they looked and felt so weathered as though this body was severely used to hours upon hours of menial labour every single day. The next thing he noted was the poor clothing: the socks had holes in them and the shirt was so unwashed it stank of stale sweat. He also noted that they were muggle clothes.

Very odd indeed.

Seeing a crack of light from under one of the walls, Albus concluded that that was the door and gently pushed at it, attempting to get it to open. Nothing happened. Frowning, Albus wondered who in their right mind would ever dare to imprison a small child in this way. Concluding that there was no way out of this but to use magic, Albus reached into his core-

Only not to find one.

For a moment, panic such as he had not felt in a long time surged in him, threatening to throw him into mass hysterics, but then he detected a small wisp of golden light, right at the centre of the boy's chest. The magic seemed familiar, he thought with a frown. But now was evidently not the time to ponder such things. It was evident that he was not in his own body - not in the body of Albus Dumbledore anyway - anymore. No, instead, he had been… reincarnated… in a small child?

Curiosity surged within him: reincarnation? He had read many texts on the subject, all implying that reincarnation was possible, and that in the way that that magic worked, it was actually very probable, but it had never been proved before. Yes, there were one or two wizards or witched every century who claimed to be a wizard or witch reborn, but nothing ever really came out of it.

This boy's magical core was quite active for a person his age, and also had promise of becoming quite large. Even so, it seemed very impossible that Albus would be able to tap into it any time soon - it was simply too undeveloped. Which was why, of course, wizards and witches were only given their first wand after their eleventh birthday, when their cores had matured and stabilised.

Perhaps pure brutal force would jerk the door open? While undignified, it would have to serve him as a solution for the time being. Manoeuvring in his crouched position, he pressed his back against the wall opposite to the door and placed his feet against the door. Using his back as counter-force, he started to roughly, sporadically kick at the door. He was going for his fourth kick when the door flew open; the momentum caused his body to propel forwards and his head to hit the top of the door frame.

Albus' vision swam for a few moments and he attempted to massage his head, but the headache only became worse.

"Boy!" Shouted, in a whisper, a harsh voice above him, "What is this racket?! What have I told you about being silent when respectable people are over?"

That voice… he recognised it. But no — it couldn't be?! Simply couldn't! He couldn't be-

Vernon Dursley was staring down at him; he was dressed in a size-too-small expensive-looking suit - probably his only suit. Albus could hardly see his face over the pudgy stomach, but the large walrus-like moustache was trembling with rage. There was also inherent hate etched into his entire visage; his body was trembling with malicious intent and his very eyes seemed to be bulging a little.

"In!" He whispered harshly, motioning at the inside of the cupboard as Albus' - or Harry's - legs had stretched over the 'threshold'. "IN!" He said somewhat more forcibly.

"Vernon, dear! Is everything alright?" Called a woman's voice from the next room, which Albus realised sounded very much like Petunia. Although, this time, it wasn't laced with venom and hate, as it usually was when Albus had spoken to her in the past, instead she seemed to be trying very hard to depict herself as the exemplary house-wife. Albus heard voices in the next room (which he supposed was the living room) and they were promptly followed by raucous laughter.

"Perfectly fine, Petunia!" His voice was a pitch higher than usual and moderately kinder than usual. Then he turned his pudgy face on Albus once more.

Albus was not one to discriminate on the basis of one's genetics, orientation or blood, but even now, faced with this utter pig of a man, who treated his own nephew with such hate and ostracisation - well, it was disgusting. "Back inside, freak," he intoned the word with so much malice that even Albus was stupefied for a moment. And with one quick jerk of the door, Vernon slammed it shut, nearly injuring Albus' legs if the latter hadn't been quick enough to pull them to his chest. A 'click' sounded, and Albus very suddenly realised that Harry's uncle had locked him inside. What an abominable muggle.

Now back in the darkness, Albus surveyed the situation.

Evidently, he had somehow been reborn as a five or six year old Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter. In the darkness, he could vaguely see the rest of his body, and as he gently allowed it to relax, he realised what a surreal feeling it was to have such a young body under his control once more. It was foreign to him to command a leg to stretch out and then see said short, youthful leg move. It was very much like taking a polyjuice potion, and then marvelling the abrupt changes it did to one's own body.

Albus gently raised two fingers to his - Harry's - forehead, after suddenly remembering why Harry was in this predicament in the first place. A rough scar met his rough, calloused fingers and he traced the lightning-bolt scar. Cursed with black magic indeed, he thought grimly. A Horcrux. Tom's Horcrux. He would have to find a way to get rid of that as it seemed to be trying to stunt Harry's magical growth.

Delving deep inside in a meditative sort of way, Albus gently probed at his own spirit - or soul, for lack of a better word - wondering what had happened to Harry's own. He delved deeper and found his own soul impatiently working against the youthful body, being much more used to the elderly body that Albus had previously had. But he found no trace of Harry's soul anywhere within. It was as though his very essence had been taken over by Albus' magic and mind.

And Albus mourned Harry; the boy had had such a beautiful, pure soul with so much capability to love and care. And to think that he had grown up in a household such as this. A household that… Albus had put him in. He shuddered. It seemed magic itself had made the decision to relive Harry off this terrible life, and had put Albus in it, to punish him.

Perhaps this was also a chance for Albus to do a better job this time? Redeem himself in the eyes of magic? For he could see no other explanation other than this. There simply was not. 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,' Albus' mind quoted for him.

Perhaps he could do it better this time.

.

It was a day later that the cupboard door was jerked open once more. Albus had been trying to - in vain - access his magic, but every attempt had only frustrated him more and more. His core had not matured yet and there was not much he could do until it did. Maybe in two or three years when his accidental magic began to act up in earnest.

Nevertheless, now was not the time for pondering on such things: Vernon was shouting at him again.

"Boy! You burn the bacon again and - !" He seemed to raise a hand to mimic striking or hitting and for the first time in this surreal experience, Albus felt dread. He had never felt a particular attachment towards his own parents; his own father had resented him after a while, but he had never resorted to neglect or even the threat of abuse.

"Vernon," Petunia whispered quietly from the doorway. Both persons turned to look at her, one with hatred still etched on his face, the other with silent dread. "You don't know what they will do if you do that," she said, eyes glancing around furtively. "They might be watching us even now."

Almost at once, Vernon deflated, hand dropping and all hateful tension leaking from his body. Even so, when he turned to look at Albus one last time he still saw a lot of malice in those dark eyes. He did raise a pointer finger at Harry though. "The bacon, boy. You don't burn it, you hear?!"

He vanished down the hall, presumably towards the kitchen. Frowning, Albus followed him. Did they really expect him to cook? He hadn't cooked himself since he had lived with Abe and Ar — no, he would not think of her. Glancing around the kitchen, Albus found several objects he did not recognise. While the muggle world had always fascinated him — being a half-blood wizard who had grown up within the wizarding community — but he was altogether unprepared to cook, of all things.

Petunia was at the stove, minding something in a skillet, but Albus was too short in his present body to see what precisely — and more importantly how — she was cooking it. She glanced at him with a distasteful glare, but was forced to acknowledge him when he cleared his throat. Her unpleasant 'yes?', told him that asking questions was not an altogether good thing to do in the Dursley household, so he refrained, unwilling to earn Petunia's ire too.

"You will stand on this," she hissed, placing a stool in front of the stove. Albus stared disbelievingly at her for a moment or two, then seeing the impatient tension in her body, he acquiesced. She handed him a pair of long tongs. When she saw the blank look he was giving her, she gestured impatiently at the skillet (where he could now see bacon being fried).

"Well! Turn it over!" She turned around to start mixing something else in a bowl on the other side of the kitchen while Albus stared, dumbfounded at the muggle tools before him. He, Hogwarts prodigy and then headmaster, defeater of Gellert Grindelwald found himself defeated by a simple muggle every-day-sort-of-thing!

All of a sudden, an apple and a piece of toast was placed next to the skillet, but when Albus turned to look at Petunia, he found that her back was turned once more. Was it possible that she felt more remorse than she showed? Albus gingerly placed the apple in his pocket and took the piece of toast in his other hand while he clumsily attempted to get his body to work with his mind and flip the bacon before he managed to burn it.

"Mummy!" Said a youthful voice from the entrance to the kitchen: a large, pudgy boy with a blonde head and wide blue eyes. Dudley, wasn't it? Petunia turned, a look of utmost love and doting on her face. Why won't she show that to Harry? Albus wondered to himself.

"Duddykins!" She said in a shrill voice and peppered his face with kisses. The boy was dressed smartly - for school presumably. And now that Albus examined him, he realised he looked perhaps a year or two older than Albus felt his own body did. Had the Dursleys stunted his body growth that much already?!

Petunia very suddenly turned her head in Albus' direction once more. She gestured to the bacon. "Get that done, and then get ready for school, boy." Albus felt himself nodding and very gently, mindful of his as-of-yet clumsiness with muggle tools and the concept of cooking, he placed the slices of bacon on a nearby plate. Then he turned off the stove. He hopped off the stool and brushed past Dudley (who elbowed him discreetly in the side as he passed) and to his cupboard.

It was truly abominable how the Dursleys treated their only nephew and he felt sudden guilt rise up within him for his decision to leave Harry in such a household as this. He should have listened to Minevra when she had told him that these muggles were vile. They were worse than vile.

His empty stomach heaved suddenly, and Albus found himself rushing to the nearest bathroom. He heaved and panted, but alas, all that came out was stomach acid. Biting his lip, he went to wash up when he caught his reflection in the mirror, and he gasped: Harry's body looked terrible; his face was gaunt and what little baby fat remained, it did nothing to conceal the horrendous treatment that the Dursleys evidently gave him. The scar stood out prominently through his unruly black hair. The eyes, however, twinkled with the similar look of power and joy of life as they had in his previous life. He wondered if that was an effect of him taking over Harry's body.

Cleaning up quickly — he was unwilling to get shouted at again — Albus rushed himself to the cupboard and found that someone (Petunia no doubt) had laid out a washed pair of trousers and shirt. Oversized, yes, but at least they did not stink of musk and stale sweat.

.

He had taken a seat at the back of the class, thankfully Dudley was sat before him, as Albus imagined that he would have snapped quite quickly if he had had to bear Dudley's concept of humour which involved flicking the ear of the person in front of him and then exploding into silent hysterics with his little gang.

Albus felt eager to be out of the Dursley household and back in such a familiar environment, only now not as a teacher or a professor, but as a student. Even so, his love for academic studies and knowledge quickly made itself known and he found himself eagerly doing exercises that were far, far, far beyond his level. Nevertheless, it was interesting to see his body trying to write down what he wished it to. It seemed that muscle memory was not something that had been passed on from his old body too.

"Very good, Harry," the Scottish teacher (a Mrs. Vipond), said as she examined the sums he'd done. An irate Dudley turned to glare at him from the row in front of Albus and he deliberately raised a finger to his throat an mimicked 'cutting it off'. It seemed that 'Harry excelling at something' was another unwanted thing at the Dursley household.

"Why don't you try this, Harry?" She sketched out a more complicated sum. For a moment, Albus hesitated, wary of what Vernon might do when he came back to their house. Then again, it seemed his magic wouldn't be very active until a few years at least, so academic success seemed like the only way he would be able to put any distance between himself and the Dursleys.

Picking up the muggle pencil (its ingenuity kept on surprising him - to put lead inside of the utensil - incredible!) he easily did the sum, recalling his expert knowledge of arithmetics. The teacher hummed and smiled in approval. "That's very good Harry. Why don't you stay after class and we try some more?" He glanced at Dudley who was staring at him with the utmost hate and defiantly nodded. He would have to work on Dudley, but the boy would eventually learn that the world was not as black and white as the Dursleys had evidently presented it to him as.

The end of class could not come soon enough, and suddenly, the rest of the students had gone out to play in the yard during their break while Albus remained inside, now in the front row, as the Mrs. Vipond wrote sums (each one more complicated than the previous one) on the board.

"Okay," she said putting the chalk down and turning to face him with an encouraging smile. "Take as long as you need, Harry."

Albus gently placed the tip of his pencil back on the paper and started doing the sums. He was done in less than a few minutes. Hearing that he had stopped writing, the teacher looked up. "Too hard?" she said kindly. Albus cocked his head to the side, eyes twinkling and mouth curled into a small smile.

"I'm done, miss."

A look of wonderment crossed her face and she reached out her hand in a silent demand to look over his answers. Her eyes widened when she saw that everything was right. "Oh, wow." She glanced up at him. "Who taught you this? Did your uncle show you how to do this?"

Ah, so she was familiar with his living arrangements. Albus steepled his fingers under his chin. "No, miss."

"Well, well, Harry. We'll have to see about placing you in a higher year, yes?" She laughed incredulously when she looked back down at the paper. "Of course, you'll have to take an exam to see if you can join a new class… but this is outstanding, Harry!" Even with his unfair advantage and massive intellect, Albus found himself smiling a little in response: apparently there was still hope for him to get away from the Durselys. But even now, in this terrible situation, in this terrible household, he found that happiness and hope could still be found in the darkest of times if only one remembered to turn on the light.

Lemme know what you think!