'How did I get here?' Draco questioned himself as he held his wand to Voldemort's throat. His mind racked for answers. He looked at the boy in Hagrid's large arms with tears pouring down his face. He almost looked peaceful. 'Why did I let you out of my sight?' His face softened for a second, anger replaced with agony. He shook it away, training his eyes back to Voldemort. Voldemort's eyes were calculating, as though he wasn't seconds from dying. He looked as though given a challenging question from a professor.
"Draco..." He looked past Voldemort to see his mother. She had thick tears running down her fair cheeks, she was reaching out to him. The only thing holding her back from coming forward was his father's arms that were tightly coiled around her waist. His father's face was twisted in agony. He knew that they knew.
"What are you doing Mr. Malfoy? I'd ask you would lower your wand," Voldemort addressed him calmly. Draco pressed his wand harder to Voldemort's neck in rebellion, his jaw clenched. "Fine then, have it you're way."
Voldemort backed up a few paces and raised his wand. Realizing what was about to happen, Draco glanced at the raven-haired boy in Hagrid's arms. He mouthed 'I love you,' as though he would receive it. As though the wind would carry the message to Harry; where ever his mind is.
He focused back on Voldemort, raising his wand higher. 'How did I get here?' His mind asked again. Was it because of his father's original devotion to Voldemort? Was it because of the strength and courage his mother installed him since he was four? Was it because of the genocide Voldemort reined on earth? No, it was because he turned 16.