The Elder Wand dug into Harry's hand, the ridges pressing circular marks onto his hand, pinpricks of blood staining the wood red. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something told him to relax his hand. He had never been good at following his common sense. The wand in his other hand, the one of holly, the one that doesn't feel right anymore, the one he loves, twitches, and the soil above Dumbledore's grave pushes itself to the side. Though Voldemort is long gone, though Harry's love for the man who had raised him as a pig for slaughter is muddled, the thought of a slender hand, of bony fingers repeating Harry's actions makes the boy sick to the stomach. It makes acid roll up his throat and causes a gag reflex to try to push out the meagre breakfast Harry had eaten earlier. He stops himself. He is here to return the Elder Wand, nothing more, nothing less.
He had told Ron and Hermione once that if he had any hallow, he would take the cloak. That had been a lie. Ron had been right. With the wand, you be able to do anything the other hallows could do. But that was not the RIGHT answer. The wand might be better in terms of power, but that was the problem. Too much power was dangerous, and even if Harry wanted the wand, it didn't matter. He was expected to get rid of the wand. He was getting rid of the wand.
The coffin lid slid open, and Harry squeezed his eyes closed. He was not eager to see more dead bodies, he was not eager to see what the bodies of his friends would look like. What Remus Lupin's body looked like below the ground. Bones and half gone flesh.
He tossed the Elder Wand towards the coffin and flicked the phoenix wand quickly. His eyes flickered open, quick enough to see the marble coffin, to see Tom Riddle's red magic ghostly imprint on the pure white. The dirt kept pouring in. The traces of magic, the magic that Harry had never seen until a fraction of a soul poured out of him. The magic that shouldn't haunt him because he only saw it once, in the final battle. Harry wonders sometimes why he couldn't see magic before. Why he couldn't see the swirling lights and smoke of magic, he wonders why he never picked up on other wix's references to the power that makes a wizard what he is. And now the dirt is falling. The dirt is falling. And all he can see is the red smoke that was left there months ago when a wand was taken. Not claimed. Just taken and used.
The magic has been hidden already, by the dirt that is falling, but Harry can't stop seeing it. And suddenly he has memories of green light, of a woman falling to the ground, but this time, his view isn't blurry from tears, or from his hazy memory, red blocks his view. Thick magic that shimmers black with death and the holes in Riddle's soul.
And the ground begins to shake, the dirt stops falling, the dirt starts flying. It settles on the ground. The coffin breaks open. The wand lifts out, it broken in two. Harry hadn't realised. And as the wand of power, the wand of death rises up, the magical energy that had settled inside it each time a spell was cast, burst out. It wove itself together in a bid to save its master, it pulled Harry's soul out and began to spin time backwards.
He wakes up in Grimmauld Place, a month before his fifth year starts.
A/N - Looking for a beta reader
