Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

The smell was - fuck.... that could only be described as decay itself. The mixture of blood, perspiration and the salty tang of tears hung in the air, vile and unmistakable. It didn't help that the wooden floor was sodden, the boards had absorbed the blood hours ago and were refusing to let go of the stench.

It was all part of Theo's interrogation technique; pick the most awful, fear-inducing stage for torture, set the mood and give the victim a taste of what was to come. He wanted their stomachs to knot when they saw the splattered blood on the floor. He wanted their lips to tremble when they saw the weapons that he'd neatly lined up on the counter, ready to use to force an extraction out of them - by whatever painful method was necessary. He wanted them terrified, frightened to death and soiling themselves before he'd even laid a finger on them, and only when they would beg for their lives, would he begin his performance.

Theo stood and reached across the bar to retrieve a long silver dagger. "Now, let's try this again, shall we?" The dim lights overhead cast sinister shapes across his face, exaggerating the hollows under his eyes and the sharp angle of his chin. It made him look all the more unhinged, ore dangerous, and certainly more menacing to his victims.

Theo pressed the cold blade against the girls bare, blood-soaked shoulder and dragged it lightly across her chest as he circled to stand behind her chair. "Let's not play these games, sweetheart. I know you know where Potter is." He leaned down, and pressed his chest against her back. His lips ghosted across her cheek as he spoke. His other hand wound around her body, his palm skating across her hip to keep her in place. "Now, be a good little girl and tell me where he's hiding."

Draco leaned against the broken jukebox with his arms folded across his chest, wondering who would have ever thought that Theodore Nott would have been so cruelly gifted in the art of torture. He'd been worried about him at the start of the war. Worried that his friend, the quiet Slytherin with mousy brown curls and gentle eyes, wouldn't be able to cope with the dark tasks he would be assigned.

Theo had always been the quiet sort back in Hogwarts, always had his head down, eyes on the floor and doing everything in his power to go unnoticed. His father had forced him to take the Dark Mark just nine months after Draco had, and he'd done nothing but fret about Theodore in the months that'd followed. He'd worried that his oldest friend would crack under the pressure, that he would crumble and cry and refuse to inflict pain on others.

Apparently, Draco's worry wasn't necessary. Theo was nothing like that now. Nothing like that small, quivering boy that used to shake at the mere mention of a Dementor.

Theo was strong now, powerful. He'd grown into his confidence, and adapted this deadly lifestyle far easier than Draco had ever anticipated he would. There had been resistance at the start, something holding him back and preventing him from embracing the darkest parts of himself, and reaching his full potential as a bloodthirsty Gold Mask. Then one day, he stopped resisting. Like the flick of a switch, he'd snuffed out that part of himself and became the ruthless bastard he was today.

And now his methods of torture and interrogation were legendary amongst the Death Eaters.

The girl hostage, Melanie, screamed when Theo tugged her hair back, exposing her throat so he could press the blade against it.

"Leave her alone!" the male prisoner shouted - Draco couldn't remember his name. The bloke jerked in his chair, fighting against his restraints while his partner begged for her life. "We already told you we don't know where Potter is! We weren't in the same base as him!"

Tim? Was that his name?

"See the thing is mate," Theo said, a sly smile spreading across his face. He increased the pressure of the blade, and a thin streak of blood seeped from the small incision he'd made on Melanie's throat. "I don't believe you."

Or was it Tom?

"What the fuck is wrong with you! We've told you everything we know! I swear!"

Or maybe it was Tim... Tim..... Hawthorne?

"Just let her go! You can do whatever you want to me! Just let her go!"

Tom Thorne! That was his name! He was Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain!

"Oh for Salazar's sake, can we just try this Malfoy's way and get this over with?" Blaise said. He sat on one of the remaining stools in the bar, leaning against the wall behind him and twirling his wand absentmindedly between his fingers, "We're clearly not getting anywhere this way."

Theo threw Blaise a sadistic little smirk. "I'm just getting started. Don't worry, I'll get what we need. Just let me have a little fun first."

"You've already had your fun," Blaise said coolly, his expression bored. "You've been at this for two hours and haven't gotten the results the Dark Lord has asked for. Perhaps you're losing your touch, Theodore?"

Theo straightened like he'd been cracked with a whip. His smile vanished, and a furious scowl coloured his face. "Me? Losing my touch?!" he shouted, pointing the blade at his chest to illustrate his point. "Are you having a fucking laugh?"

Blaise's lips pulled into a smug smile. He shrugged, and crossed his ankles casually as he let Theo mull over his assessment.

Blaise was always calm, always refined and dignified; the patience of a saint, despite the egregious sins he committed daily. Blaise was intelligent and devilishly quick-witted. His sharp and warped mind could always conjure the vilest and most horrific punishments.

Like Theo, Blaise had an excellent imagination when it came to torture, but he never lifted a blade or touched his victims. He didn't need to. He favoured psychological torture over the psychical. Preferred to torment a person's mind rather than soil his robes with their blood. He knew exactly how to get under someone's skin, knew precisely where to stick the metaphorical knife in to extract the most pain and unhinge his victim, with nothing more than his wit and sharp tongue. He often had them writhing, desperately trying to claw their chests apart as a reprieve from the mental torture he ensued.

In many ways, Theo and Blaise were as different as Yin and Yang. Theo's undeterrable fury was perfectly in sync with Blaise's calm demeanour. Theo's short fuse and willingness to cast a killing curse if anyone so much as quirked a disapproving brow at him, was diminished by Blaise's ability to remain composed, to see the bigger picture and know the wait would be worth the reward.

They were polar opposites of one another, but complimented each other perfectly. Well, when they played together nicely.

"How could you think that I'm losing my touch?" Theo snapped, losing his patience. "Look at the state of these two, they're blubbering messes, because of me!"

Blaise quirked a brow. His smirk grew but he remained silent. He was trying to get under Theo's skin, irritate him to the point he snapped, likely wanted him to slaughter the hostages in a fit of rage and end their interrogation early.

Blaise wanted to get home, back to his wife.

His plan had the desired effect.

Theo's nostrils flared with anger. He drew a deep breath, his eyes burning, then spun and threw the blade with a strong jerk of his arm, sending it straight into Thorne's skill.

The Ravenclaw died almost instantly. The enchanted blade cut through his bone like it was butter from the power of Theo's throw. It sliced between his eyes and pierced his brain before he'd even thought to scream. His blood sprayed up the wall at the impact, joining the crusted scarlet that clung between each brick there. The poor bloke's eyes widened for a second, blood trickled between his brows and down his nose. He choked, the sound curling in his throat, and then his head fell forward, limp against his shoulders.

There was silence. Melanie was still for several moments, frozen in terror, not even breathing as she stared at her partner's lifeless body. Horrified.