Draco was working, in his own way. The moment the man's eyes met his, he was inside their victim's mind, probing deeply, letting Melinda distract him with the pain. He was vaguely amused by the use of a tickling charm, which certainly wasn't getting any giggles.
There was one memory the man was holding onto very tightly. A young girl, in summer, somewhere on a beach, building a sandcastle. A daughter, maybe, one that wasn't listed in his file, or a niece, a god-daughter. And then the man's mind dissolved into chaos and pain, even as he tried to cling desperately to his sanity. "You did it for her, didn't you," he said darkly, moving forward, laying his hands on the arms of the chair to stare directly into his victim's face. "How'd she die, then? Screaming? Bloody? Terrified?" His words were getting under the man's skin, he could tell, even though he wasn't in his mind. He could see it in his eyes. "You were useless to her then, and you're useless to her now."
He gave the chair a shove, making him fall backward against the floor, still tied to the hard wooden chair. Draco looked on with satisfaction when his head hit the ground. "He thinks he's a hero," he said aloud in the same tone, mostly to himself. "A hero with no guts. I hate heroes."
But he righted the chair again with his wand, looking disgusted. "I've got what I need," he said to Melinda, though it was mostly for the man's benefit. "If he's got any names, you can kill him quickly. If not..." He let that trail off, shrugged. She could have her fun.