Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear — He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
Until it wasn't. The light was blinding, white, the type you'd think of when you pictured heaven. Then again, he had just been killed, so maybe this was heaven. It didn't look like heaven. Four walls closed off the small, square room, their whiteness shining through the clutter of awards, medals, and certificates and pictures of a man receiving them. Everything was white. The long desk was white, the chairs were white, and the air felt like it itself was coated with the colour. Harry felt seven years old again, back in the doctor's office after one of Dudley's many beatings. This resembled heaven in only one aspect, it lacked any life.
Even the man in front of him didn't have a hint of it, maybe because he was also dead. He looked rather angry, then again, he couldn't fault a dead man for that. It wasn't like everyone died like him, graciously accepting it. Dead was an old friend of the family, at least that's what the tale said. Properly looking at the man behind the desk, Harry was beginning to rethink that fact.
"Potter," the man snarled.
It was then that Harry realised he didn't like this man much. He was starting to doubt he was a man at all.
"Yeah?"
The man pushed himself away from the desk and off his chair. "That's it. I'm done. We're done."
"What are you-"
"No," he shouted. "We're not having this conversation again. We're not doing this again! Do you know how tedious it is? Repeating the same thing over and over and over again, having the same meeting with you, sitting there like a retarded six-year-old, begging me to solve everything for you. No, we're done. We're not doing that. This is the last time you're here, and I'm going to make fucking sure of that."
"Wait, I've been-" Harry stopped himself. He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't beg. Fuck whoever this guy was. "Fine. Just tell me what to do and I'll leave."
But the man didn't seem to be listening. He knelt behind his desk and was scouring for something in one of his drawers. "Second chances, third chances, eight chances, last chances," he muttered viciously. "Time loops and reboots and many deaths and everything, and you still couldn't survive seven bloody years. The Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Won. The Hero Of The Fucking Wizarding World," he scoffed. "Nothing but a rash, reckless, idiotic jock. I'm the real hero of the wizarding world."
Before Harry could respond, the man turned sharply to him. The room began shaking, the whiteness becoming brighter. It was like a rocket about to explode.
"Kill the bastard. Marry the girl. Get fucking rich, while you're at it. Do whatever the fuck you want. See you never, Potter!"
"Wait, what girl?"
"Oh, I don't care," the man spat.
And then the world was nothing but white.