Interestingly, the first thing Snape wanted to do once he regained consciousness and asked Harry to explain everything to him, repeatedly and in excrutiating detail, was to destroy The Elder Wand.
"But it wasn't real, The Three Brothers and all that," Harry said. "I wasn't an actual Master of Death. Dumbledore said -"
"For the hundredth and last time, Potter, what you saw was not Dumbledore, but a figment-"
"Well, a figment or not, he specifically told me-"
"Do not talk over me."
"How else can I make you see that it's pointless to-"
"Potter. No matter the new limits of inflation your ego has reached, you will do as I tell you, no matter your doubts. For as long as you live, the tale of how you, an incompetent child – DO NOT INTERRUPT ME – you, an incompetent child, defeated one of the greatest Dark Wizards of all time, will follow you and grow wilder and more convoluted with each retelling."
Harry bit his lip. He loved your Mum and saved your life, he inwardly chanted the now familiar mantra. He loved your Mum and saved your life, just let him rant.
Snape, sensing he had the floor to himself, slid of the hospital bed and began pacing, his night shirt flapping around his ankles.
"Sooner or later, if it has not happened already, your enemies will begin to wonder what happened to the weapon that – according to the legend – lifted you above your mediocrity and gave you power so extraordinary that a simple disarming spell led to the demise of the seemingly immortal Dark Lord. And they will want to usurp this formidable power for themselves and this in turn, will lead them to the conclusion that the only way, the most reliable means of transferring the wand's ownership to themselves, of acquiring its servitude and overcoming their own insufficiency is to-"
"To kill me, I get it, I get it." Harry, too, stood up. "Let me get in touch with Skeeter and we can get it done today. That's how you want it, right, make sure it gets publicity?"
That was how Snape wanted it and so the two of them, accompanied by Professor McGonagall, Ron, Hermione and Hagrid met that very evening with Rita Skeeter and a Daily Prophet photographer in front of Dumbledore's tomb.
Harry took the Elder Wand: "Er..."
He was saved by a rustling sound and then, Luna Lovegood emerged from behind the white tombstone, her arms full of weeds. "Oh, hello. I was just picking some nightshades." She took in the whole group and her eyes paused on the magical camera. "Some sort of second memorial? Can we write about it in the Quibbler too, then?"
No one protested, so she joined the group.
"Alright, Harry," said McGonagall, "you may go on."
"Er, as I was saying," Harry looked at the faces of his small audience, the Prophet reporters, his friends and mentors and Snape, and was suddenly grateful no one had asked him for more than to testify before the Wizengamot who had, in retrospect, probably guided him to give the most beneficial answers. The mood in the Wizarding society was that of exhausted, prolonged sadness. They won, true, but the cost was high, and there was no joy in the small crowd watching him break the Elder Wand in front of the grave of its former owner, a leader that would lead them no more. They were on their own in this strange new world that was awakening into a cold, cruel morning of victory. The major threat had been defeated, sure, but what about the dangers lurking in their own ranks? The Death Eaters were only a few dozen wizards and witches and yet the entire Ministry followed their propaganda. How could they let this happen? How will they manage to not let it happen ever again?
Harry stood silent. Luna and Hermione began to clap. Did he say all of that aloud? The camera flashed and Skeeter's quill scribbled furiously. McGonagall looked impressed. Hagrid's eyes were brimming with tears. Ron regarded Harry with such admiration that Harry's face grew red as if suddenly splashed with color.
"It's not enough to break it," said Snape."Someone could try to mend it. It must be obliterated."
"Perhaps, an Incendio?" suggested Hermione.
"The Elder Wand is too powerful an artifact to succumb to simple fire." Snape said dismissively. Luckily the school year was over so he could not take points.
"What do you suggest, then, Severus?" It had been weeks now, but McGonagall still did not really meet Snape's eyes. Harry had spent so much time lurking in the vicinity of Snape's now private room in the Hospital Wing deliberating whether the right time to enter was in two hours or in two days that he had a pretty good idea about the other visitors. He knew that once Snape had woken up, McGonagall went to see him only once, but stayed for hours and left looking so rigid and inscrutable Harry suspected they must have been practising Occlumency.
"Fawkes?" Snape called out in way of answering. And to be sure, the Phoenix materialized above them and gracefully swooped down to gather the broken parts of the Elder Wand into his claws. Harry quickly backed away from him, expecting him to burst into flames.
But instead of a sudden conflagration, Fawkes treated them to the slowest of slow burns, the fiery feathers of his wings ever so slowly becoming fire itself so one could not tell where one ended and the other began. And in the long minutes in which the fiery Phoenix gradually transformed into the element of fire itself, Fawkes sang. It was a similar song to the one he sang at Dumbledore's funeral a year ago, full of a sorrow only a truly immortal being could feel.
Finally, the Phoenix had burnt along with the Elder Wand, the song was over, and only an egg remained.
Harry stared at it, transfixed, his jaw clenched. He heard Hagrid's unmistakable sloppy sobs and a few sniffles here and there.
"So, that's one down." Luna said cheerfully. "Now what about the Resurrection Stone?"