What Do We Fight For?

Summary: Having mastered the Deathly Hallows, Harry Potter is reborn time and time again so that he is now so tired and dead inside that he no longer cares what happens to the world or the people in it. So what happens when, as a six year old, he wakes up in 1944 in Wool's orphanage? Apathetic!Dark!Harry

Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me and anything you recognise belongs to the wonderful J.K Rowling

A/N: I know there's been plenty of fan-fictions on these subjects but I love reading them so I thought I'd try my hand at writing one. It will most likely turn out crap but I'm hoping there will be people out there kind enough to bless me with their reads and reviews

Notes: Previously published under the title 'Living To Die'. Now rewritten to seem more realistic and hopefully not as bad.

Chapter 1:

Somewhere in England, a small boy of just four sat in a dense forest as rain drops poured heavily on him, gazing up at the sky blankly. The scrawny boy seemed oblivious to the rain that pelted him, soaking his hair and clothes and trickling down his smooth face, his light eyes dead and empty yet so bright. Shutting them briefly he took a deep breath - When they reopened they were filled with resigned determination.

Turning his gaze to his small hands where an object glistened threateningly in his pale palms he lifted it up. Then, in one swift movement of one who'd done it many times before, drew the blade across his neck. He was dead before his head hit the ground. The crimson blood soaking into the rain and staining the leaves underneath.

The next time those dazzling bright eyes opened, they were staring into brilliant emerald orbs smiling gently at him from an exhausted face. And he did what any normal newborn baby would. He screamed.

A small boy with brilliant eyes and untamed back hair lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, his eyes following the path of a spider as it wove it's web in the corner of the cupboard.

5 times now… 5 times he had died and 5 times he had awoken in his mother's arms.

Eyes fixed on the dim ceiling above his bed Harry lay thinking, thinking thoughts a 6 year old shouldn't be. He felt like he wanted to cry, like he should be crying but he was too dead inside to even bring up a spark of emotion.

Truth was, he was bored, he was fed up and he was tired. Why did he have to be cursed? What had he done wrong? Maybe he would never know. Sighing, he turned onto his side, eyes staring through the small door and into nothingness. He'd done everything he could think of in the hope that he would just be able to stay dead and just repeating the same thing over and over and over and over... He'd gone mad.

On his forth life he'd given into the temptation and started to study the 'oh so evil' dark magic, deciding to learn all branches of magic, fed up of restrictions. He now understood why dark wizards enjoyed casting their magic so much, the first time he'd started casting dark magic he felt a rush, it had been intoxicating and thrilling and dangerous. It had left him wanting to feel it again and again.

It terrified him. And he refused to touch it for several years.

However he continued to study it, learning everything he could about dark magic from any book he could get his hands on. He couldn't say that he had any qualms about it now, magic was magic. But the feeling it gave him? The pure bliss he felt? That was what scared him the most. That was what prevented him from going all out. He just wondered how long it would be until he craved.

Scowling, Harry glared at nothing in particular, quite frankly, he was tired. Tired of having to go through the first ten years of his life with the Dursley's who, he had come to the realisation, he hated. Not a simple dislike, but a pure and deep loathing. He was even tired of attending Hogwarts and he'd long since given up making friends of any sort...What was the point? When everything he worked so hard for just reset and started over again. Surrounded by naïve children and manipulative adults who always tried to mould him into what they wanted him to be.

Just because he was the lights 'saviour' where he was anything but. He hated how they put all their faith in a child. Never mind there would be people better suited for the job. And Dumbledore.. Well Harry realised he wasn't all he seemed on only his second life. Since he was less naïve and more powerful than his past 11 year old self, he recognised the subtle attempts at compulsion charms and carefully placed words the old man would use. There was no doubt about it that Albus was a master of his game. Oh Harry was sure the old man had a good heart but that didn't change the fact that Dumbledore was just as manipulative as Voldemort when it came down to it.

One thing he was sure on though was that he no longer felt any love for muggles, in some of his past lives, the wizarding world's stupidity had got them discovered and then they had made the mistake of trying to live peacefully with them. Once upon a time Harry would have agreed with them, but not any more. The muggles were huge in size and despite them having magic on their side, they were completely outnumbered. Sometimes, war had broke out and each time the magical world lost, forcing those few remaining witches and wizards to scatter and go into permanent hiding. Muggles were afraid of magic, afraid of someone being more powerful than them so, if they couldn't take it for themselves, they destroyed it. Which is exactly what they did.

Hearing the muffled noises of the Dursley's clattering about above his head as they got themselves prepared for bed, Harry turned onto his back again, staring distantly at the ceiling for a few seconds before shutting his emerald eyes and letting out a sigh.

5 years to wait until his Hogwarts letter. 5 years that he was not going to spend being pushed around by the Dursley's.

Once all noise upstairs had ceased Harry placed his hand on the doorknob, feeling the familiar sensation of magic as it rushed from his very core to his hand. The cupboard unlocked and, seconds later, he was out the front door.

Looking out into the darkness with not even the moon or stars to guide him, the small wizard started walking. Where he wasn't sure. He just wanted to get away. Wanted to escape if just for a moment. Unlike his last life however he wasn't going to kill himself. It had been a test that failed, a hope that was diminished in seconds. Because if even dying by his own hand didn't work then what would?

He didn't know.

Maybe he would never find out. Maybe he would simply be stuck, forever going round and round in a circle. No end, no hope of ever stopping. That thought alone was enough to break Harry inside just a little.

He just wasn't sure what to do. Because what could he do? Research had led him nowhere because who had ever needed to research his situation. Who had ever even thought that living your life over and over was possible?

So lost in his thoughts Harry barely even noticed when the rain started until he was soaked through, his flimsy clothes clinging pathetically to his body. Lightening struck, making the shadows jump and flash eerily, leaping out at the emerald eyed boy as though to swallow him whole.

Stopping after almost an hour of aimless walking he realised that he was merely standing in the middle of a deserted field, and as the storm picked up Harry was unable to prevent his body from reacting the the weather.

With the rain pelting down at full force Harry was suddenly unable to see, his glasses covered with water that was replaced the instance he wiped them with his hands. Wondering if he might die anyway form hyperthermia, Harry stayed perfectly still, trying to catch his bearings and knowing he would just get lost should he start walking.

They say the chances of getting hit by lightening in your life time is 1 in 3000. And having lived through over 5 muggle lifetimes and being Harry frickin' Potter… he supposed he really shouldn't have been surprised.

A blinding pain pierced through his entire body- his veins feeling like ice and fire all in one. As if that wasn't enough his scar, his scar sent a hot white burst of pain through his senses, scorching every nerve and immediately knocking him unconscious.

However when the storm finally cleared there was no 6 year old body lying on the grass; in-fact there was no sign of someone ever having stood there. Because Harry James Potter was gone.

And in the summer of 1944, green eyes opened.