Analogue [Theodore]

The echoing footsteps approached, as they always did when he had a guest. Having one’s home at the very end of a particularly long corridor did have its advantages. Azkaban was not one known for the celebration of festivities, but Gaius had gone to the effort of at least lighting several candles within his dark cell. Or rather, the guards had done it for him upon his request. The antechamber that he used as his reading and writing room had a wooden table in its centre, with a chair at either end. In the centre, upon an old battered and discoloured copper plate, stood a grouping of well used church candles, coagulated within their own resolidified wax. The room was sparse, apart from some old books stacked against the wall and an impressive archive of the Daily Prophet nearby in a pile, yellowed and curling in the corner. Upon a small rectangular table by the window were dozens and dozens of articles, carefully carved from the pages of that hallowed periodical of journalistic integrity and laid out in some occult order, with names of relevant parties circled in pencil. Upon the floor by the wall were collected many scrolls of parchment - the documents from which Gaius’ memoir would eventually be constructed, or so he hoped. As far as he was concerned, someone had to document the final years of the Dark Lord, and he considered no one else upon the face of the earth better suited for the job than himself.

He had not spoken to Nott since the fall occurred. He had simply read of his imprisonment. They were carefully segregated within Azkaban, and had routines specifically designed and machinated to ensure that there was no chance of accidental meetings. Gaius’ status meant that, more often than not, he dined alone within his cellblock, and this too suited him. Years had passed since those dramatic events of nineteen ninety eight, and it was clear to see that the demographics of Azkaban were also changing. Death Eaters and their fellow travellers still made up a significant proportion of the population upon that godforsaken rock in the North Sea, however nowadays it would not be surprising to find regular criminals and other associated lowlifes of all affiliations within its cells too. And there were enough unsavories now within those walls who would rather enjoy causing an abrupt end to Gaius’ life, thus for his own security his segregation was by now a frequent occurrence.

Nevertheless, Gaius had an interest in the man. Or, to be more accurate, his progeny.

The sleepers had been awakened. Or, at least, Gaius had issued the order. And now, a year later, as far as he was aware, nothing had happened. No actions had been reported by the Daily Prophet. @Pyxis Hartridge Abercrombie  had never returned to him; instead he had taken up residence within the gossip pages within that awful newspaper, participating in bizarre charity events and strange philanthropic escapades whilst being photographed with the bold and the beautiful. It was as if something had gone wrong, and there was worryingly no line of communication coming back to the old Death Eater. He had spent sleepless nights wondering if perhaps Pyxis had been compromised. Perhaps his living with @Farren Abercrombie had been a terrible idea after all.

And so, like so many times in his life, Gaius was forced to take matters into his own hands. He had reached out to the Nightmare League, who, despite their efficacy, were difficult to gain information from at the best of times, not to even take into account the additional difficulty with regards his own confinement, and their own methods. If they were in fact educating his recruits, he had no idea of the progress.

Therefore, he had no choice but to consider the sleepers a failure. As far as he could ascertain, none had been successfully awakened, and any who had been were already blown; better dead than alive. The Death Eater had to go back to the drawing board, and that meant his original colleagues themselves, or rather, those who still walked free beyond the walls of Azkaban.

@Draco Malfoy was too big a risk to contact presently; Lucius’ sedition had seen to that. Nott’s son had never been a Death Eater. Not until now. Not until Gaius had sent his message into the Personals page of the Prophet, to be picked up by one of his men. And from there, young Theodore would have been contacted. And why would Theodore Nott, presumably trying to make his way in the Ministry and dislodge that permanent heavy weight of a convict father upon his young shoulders, have any inclination to visit Gaius Purcell within those oppressive walls of Azkaban? Simply because, as young Theodore would have been informed one cold night by a shadowy stranger in his very own dwelling, that Gaius had a message for him from his own father.

  @Theodore Nott   

Theodore had never been on this end of his father's study. He had been on the other side often enough, watching, listening, as each year his father's hair blended more and more into the drab brocade curtains which were always pulled tightly shut. The mahogany desk with the marbled top, a textbook villain piece of furniture, always seemed impossibly wide, and his father's lectures never became more distinct than a distant warble. From this end of the table, settled in his chair with the plush back, all he could focus on the painting that hung above the door. It was his mother when she was still young and lovely, a whisper of dark hair caressing her cheeks, her neck swathed in a brilliant emerald green. Like the magic that had left her body and this house, the portrait was still, frozen mid-laughter.

"Mitzy," he called out, his attention still on the painting, and when the elderly house-elf appeared promptly with a crack that was not too loud or intrusive, as if it was practically tailored to suit Theodore's tastes, a brief sense of power overcame him, warming the tips of his fingers. Was this what being his father was like? Was this what it meant to be a Nott, where the power to command, to control, came as easily as a snap of his fingers? Who else would do anything just for a chance to be commanded by the snap of his fingers? Theodore, quickly shaking himself out of it, found that upon first moving back into the estate after years of student accommodation, dwelling on thoughts like these, of which he had many, was incredibly dangerous. At least his father had gotten rid of that dastardly bell used just for summoning house-elves before his incarceration, in what was probably his only positive contribution around here.

Carefully, he extracted himself from his father's chair and motioned for the house-elf to follow him into the hall, where he locked the door and returned the key to where it normally sat— heavy in the breast pocket of whichever shirt he wore. "Mitzy," he repeated, "my coat, please, the grey one. It might be the diet, but Cinders has been sprouting the most ridiculous white hairs recently. No more Fancy Feast until this shedding stops."

He was still in his work robes when Mitzy brought him the coat in the grand foyer, but he did not see the necessity in changing. Where he was going, appearances didn't matter. Given the meticulous manner through which he was contacted, he doubted Gaius Purcell, of all people, would be rushing to place him on the best-dressed list anytime soon. For a brief moment, Theodore fussed with the collar of his coat, contemplating whether to ask Mitzy to contact the authorities if he did not return by the end of the day, before deciding against it; there was no reason to worry any of the staff. Giving his coat a final tug, and the elderly house-elf a serious nod, he too, disappeared with a crack.

———

Until now, Theodore Nott has not had the pleasure of visiting Azkaban. He did not even know which cell his father was in, having never bothered to open the letters that were sent to him. Letters that he could not bring himself to throw away, which stopped altogether after the first few months. The stories did not lie — the dank surroundings left much to be desired. Even without the dementors, this was a hopeless, soulless place. He was glad he wore the coat. He did not need his father's former associate detecting any weaknesses should he shiver or shudder.

The smart-looking brogues on his feet, the pair that he chose specially for work today, clicked sharply against the stone of the floor. On the way, the guards briefly explained the rules he was expected to follow and he had to surrender his wand, but Theodore still found the whole process much milder than he expected. Besides the occasional word of advice on how to interact with the prisoners, and one or two snide comments, there was no attempt to make small talk, which suited Theodore very well. It was a decent walk from the entrance — a childish voice in his head gasped — he must have done something really wrong to be locked up away like this — and it gave him enough time to push the thoughts around his head. He did not know why he was here, why he accepted what looked like — to him — thinly-veiled bait. It was no secret hidden in the sock drawer that Theodore renounced, or at the very least, was attempting to renounce ties with his father, going so far as to have him dishonoured and discredited and pushed out of the house of Nott. So why, why in Merlin's name was he here?

There was no time for him to unpack the boxes of this question, the answer to which he was sure he did not have yet, as he was led to the last cell at the end of the corridor. Theodore could not make out entirely the features of the aging Death Eater, but the figure seated at the table, across from which was a single, unoccupied chair, seemed to betray no ailing health. Ye' got thirty minutes, one of the guards grunted before taking him by the arm and all but shoved him into the cell, locking it after him. There was no need for any tips after all. Shame.

Theodore took the only available seat across from Gaius, and silence stretched between them. Much like the lectures from his father, this was something he could get used to.

"I see you've been entertaining," Theodore nodded at the candles — and after a pause, followed up with — "Witch Weekly's edition on 'How to spruce up your Azkaban cell' must have been a real epiphany. I would thank you for inviting me to your lovely home, but I think it's best that we get on to why exactly you went to such great lengths to reach me. Unlike you, my time is precious."

@Gavin sorry this is so late and so rambly >>;

The young man took his place opposite the Death Eater. There was no formal greeting; no how-do-you-do after the years that had passed and the events that had occurred. It was as though Theodore was visiting his tax-advisor. And there was something off in his seated posture; an attempt at arrogance perhaps; or maybe it was a new veneer of importance, or even duty; something heavy he was draping over his shoulders for the very first time. Theodore began to speak abruptly, and his biting words confirmed Gaius’ suspicions. After allowing the silence to envelop them for slightly too long, the Death Eater followed up with a precise smile for his visitor. “Hello, Theodore,” he began, voice low and silky. “Very nice of you to share some of that precious time with me. It is always most appreciated.”

Gaius stretched himself in his chair, his hazel eyes narrowed, and he examined the younger wizard in the sparse candlelight. He was the same, only stretched, aged in that sudden way that happens to those who have just left adolescence; that final growth spurt; perhaps the cheekbones were a little sharper; the quality of food in the old Nott Estate conceivably not much better than the gruel served up in Azkaban. The boy had his mother’s eyes. How ironic.

“So how have we been, Theodore? Are you getting on alright out there? Changing times, and all that.” A beat, and Gaius licked his lips momentarily. “The old Nott patronym must be something of a heavy burden these days. And, you, all alone in that big old house. I hope it’s not getting you down.” The Death Eater’s tone was a little too playful for the solemnity of his words.

“And how is the Department of Mysteries these days? Bit of a strange old assignment, that one, I always felt. For someone with your brain, I mean. Tell me, is @Winston T. Foss  still in charge there?” A look of puzzlement crossed Gaius’ features. “Very strange man. One of the most unusual wizards I have ever met.” For a moment Gaius appeared slightly troubled, before he shook his head and returned to the situation at hand.

The older wizard made a steeple of his fingers and placed them beneath his unshaven chin. His eyes sparkled in the candlelight as he studied the young man’s face. “I have had the good fortune to bump into your father now and again, Theodore. Now, the powers-that-be try to keep us apart. You know how it is, of course? Can’t have two old militants having a little tête-à-tête now and again, now can we? Who knows what chaos we might get up if that was allowed to happen.” He smirked, and the cynicism ran thick through Gaius’ languid vowels. “But, despite their best attempts, the odd, random meets do occur.” The Death Eater leaned back into the old creaking chair, for it was more comfortable to watch the boy from the encroaching darkness. “But old papa Nott is not looking the best, I must say. This place ages one, you see, Theodore. Make’s a man old before his time. It takes one’s weaknesses and draws them out; leaves one exposed, allows the rot to set in. And, some would say, your father had more than a little rot inside to begin with . . .”

A little lull in his words followed, and the Death Eater proceeded to absent-mindedly dust down the sleeve of his old prison robes.

“So where have you been, my boy? What has been keeping you occupied so much that you can’t even give your old man the odd visit? You can tell me, I won’t judge.” There was a coiled malevolence to Gaius’ words; an insinuation behind all the overt chumminess that all was not well. And nor could it be, because as far as Gaius was concerned, Theodore had gone missing. He should have been here; he should have been reconnecting to his father’s old network. There was work still to have been carried out. He should have been making amends for his family’s incompetence.

“So what is it, Theodore? What is more important than us? It can’t be that much more interesting wandering around that old estate of yours. Chasing girls, is that it? Or boys?” A raised eyebrow. “Or, perhaps is it simply just old-fashioned pusillanimity? Are you a coward, Theodore? I always thought there was more to you, more steel. The Dark Lord proved that with you. I witnessed it myself.” A wry smile.

Gaius sighed, changed his position and leaned closer over the table, bringing his own haggard visage closer to the young man. “Spyridon has given me a very interesting nugget of information. I’m certain you’ll be very interested. Tell me, do you think of your mother often?”