Curiosity is the ruin. And digging alone under someone like Tom and his hounds isn't just recklessness; it's stupidity. It is felo-de-se. Although, perhaps, it would have been much worse to allow yourself the weakness of falling in love with Balthazar.

Avery sits up straight in a velvet armchair, his head leaning back against the dark cherry-coloured upholstery. His leg is crossed over his knee, swinging rhythmically. The shaft of his wand is held between his long fingers, and the tip taps a quiet but precise rhythm against his trousers. His other hand glides lazily across the glossy armrest, leaving barely noticeable marks on the lacquered surface. Balthazar's grey eyes rest on you, but his body is tense, like a spring—every movement is an assertion of control, even when he seems relaxed.

You are on your knees, rooted to the spot in the middle of the hall of his estate. Magical fetters bind your hands, paralysing your will. In the silence, you only hear his clothes rustle as he shifts in the chair, and the soft thud of his wand on the fabric.

The Dark Mark on your inner forearm burns with a pain that bites into your bones. It leaves no trace, but you feel its vile breath reaching deep into your gut, searching for cracks in your lies, for fear in your thoughts.

He knows. He already sees everything you have not said—and everything you are afraid to say.

"Rat," he began, "are you going to tell me of your own accord? Or should I call Tom? You know, he won't be as gentle as I am."

He stood up without a sound. His wand disappeared behind his back, and a dagger shimmered in his fingers—narrow, with a blade covered in thin runes. The silver handle merged with his palm. Crouching down, he ran the tip along the row of buttons on your shirt. A light touch, and they fell to the floor one by one. You felt completely sick from the slowness of his gestures, from the way the blade, having already completed its journey, still quivered a millimetre from the skin.

"Shall we play the quiet game, my sweet Auror? Or—?"