You're using years of training to remain expressionless. Voldemort stands in front of you, a cold smile touching his lips, and though your stomach roils and your arm burns, you manage a weak smile of your own.
You woke to searing pain, and tried to avoid the eyes of your lover as he looked at you questioning eyes. Dressing silently, you left after a violent kiss. He was shaking, you felt it, and when you pulled away to go, he whispered, voice hoarse, a weak take care of yourself.
Long, cold fingers touch your cheek, and you can't help but flinch. Slitted red eyes meet your own, and he speaks. He has been captured. The idiotic boy who lived must have followed someone here.
Your blood runs cold, and though you're sure that your heart has stopped beating, you force yourself to smirk. Your next words are uncharacteristic, and you can almost feel the Dark Lord's displeasure. May I see him?
It is too late for that. We took no chances, young Malfoy.
No amount of training has prepared you for this, the seizing of your heart. You can't breathe, or maybe you can, air entering your lungs as you gasp and fall to your knees. Voldemort sneers, his wand pressing into your throat. You hope he kills you. You're mouthing two words over and over again, hoping he follows your lead.
He does not, instead watching you as you let out gasping sobs. You loved him. You forget where you are, who you are speaking to, the wand against your skin. Cheeks wet, you nod. He grants your silent wish.
Avada Kedavra.