"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" whispered Harry. "Does the wand in your hand know it's last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."
"And does the Elder Wand," Voldemort inquired, "know that, in that case, I cast a Killing Curse upon its true master not an hour past?"
Potter's calm expression wavered. "But I didn't die from it, and I did so willingly," he said a moment later, his confidence regained. "Therefore, I was never truly defeated-"
"Ah, but as you said, you meant to die to save the others," Voldemort said silkily. "Willingly accepting your defeat makes it no less defeat, Potter." He smiled mirthlessly. "And do you think a wand passed down, century after century, through an unbroken chain of thievery and murder cares a whit for whatever noble intentions you may have had for doing so?"
Potter barely had a chance to look alarmed before Voldemort's volley of spells - all nonverbal, so as not to be delayed by incantations - began.