The cold, oppressive air of Azkaban was the first thing Theo felt, seeping into his skin like a curse he could never escape. The fortress loomed around him, a place where hope had long since withered and died. It was a bleak landscape, the stone walls pulsing with old, malevolent magic. He swallowed his discomfort and steeled himself, knowing that any hint of weakness would be detected and exploited.
His father, Lycurgus Nott, sat in his cell with a posture that was both proud and decaying, as if arrogance had managed to persist even through the Dementors' leeching presence. The elder Nott's eyes, however, were still sharp, glittering with a predatory awareness that made Theo's stomach twist.
"Well, well," Lycurgus drawled, leaning forward slightly, his chains clinking. "You seem… different." His voice was honeyed with malice. "Happier, perhaps? Must be someone putting that light in your eyes."
Theo stiffened, his guard rising like an unbreakable shield. He let a small, humorless smile curl at the corners of his mouth. "I suppose even Azkaban hasn't dulled your talent for stating the obvious."
Lycurgus's lips stretched into a semblance of a smile, but it never reached his eyes. "Happiness, in our world, is a liability, Theo. It makes you soft, vulnerable. I taught you better."
Theo's jaw clenched, and he felt the familiar itch of irritation, a sensation he had always associated with his father. He couldn't afford to let Lycurgus see how deeply the comment cut. His father always knew where to aim his verbal daggers.
"Funny," Theo replied, his voice steady and laced with mockery. "I thought vulnerability was running to serve a master who couldn't even secure his own immortality."
Lycurgus's eyes flashed with something dark, but his smirk never wavered. "Mind your tongue, boy. You may think yourself above your roots, but you'll never be free of the Nott blood."
Theo ignored the sting of those words, the way they clawed at the parts of him still desperate for a legacy unmarred by cruelty and blind fanaticism. He forced himself to change the subject, adopting a tone of feigned interest. "I've heard some rumors," he said, leaning against the grimy bars of the cell. "About a… resurgence, let's call it. Some of your old friends haven't let go of the past, it seems."
Lycurgus's expression grew cautious, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze. "And what would you know of that?"
Theo shrugged, playing the role of the disinterested heir. "Barton Carrow let a few things slip. Apparently, there's a 'cause' gathering steam." He let the words hang, watching for any flicker of confirmation.
A twisted, knowing smile crept across his father's face. "Carrow always did have a loose tongue. But I'm surprised you'd be interested, Theo. Last I checked, you were content to float about in your own world, detached from… greater ambitions."
The implication stung, but Theo didn't let it show. "I thought it was time I took a more… active role," he lied smoothly, holding his father's gaze with practiced detachment. "Someone has to ensure that your efforts aren't wasted on reckless zealots."
Lycurgus leaned back, a glint of approval darkening his gaze, though there was still a hint of doubt. "Perhaps there's hope for you yet. But remember this, my son: power is never freely given. It must be taken, no matter the cost."
Theo nodded, his mind already racing, mapping out the threads of deception he would need to weave. But beneath his calculated thoughts, something softer and more painful twisted in his chest, a longing for something other than this endless game of shadows and lies. Happiness, as his father said, was a liability, but perhaps it was also the only thing that kept him from becoming a monster.
He forced himself to hold on to that sliver of humanity, to the fleeting moments of warmth he'd shared with Sera, even as he steeled himself for the conversation ahead. Happiness had to be enough of an anchor, something to tether him to the man he wanted to be, not the one his father had raised. Drawing in a sharp breath, Theo listened intently as his father spoke.
"Squibs," Theo repeated, almost idly, as if the word hadn't just ignited a panic he couldn't afford to show. "Not exactly the most strategic choice, is it?"
Lycurgus's smile twisted into something grotesque, a relic of his hate-stained ideology. "We're cleaning up the dregs first, establishing dominance. Send a message, I say. The bigger targets will come later."
Theo's mind raced, but he kept his expression neutral. He'd learned long ago that showing vulnerability to his father was a fool's errand. Instead, he inclined his head in mock interest. "And who's part of this… initiative?"
Lycurgus's eyes gleamed with a predatory glint. "Names, boy, aren't free. What will you give me in return for such a precious list?"
Theo held his father's gaze, a silent battle raging between them. He knew the elder Nott would demand something—information, a promise, a favor to be paid back in blood or secrets. But there was no room for games. Not now.
"My loyalty," Theo said, voice smooth but lined with an unspoken threat. "Or at least, the illusion of it. Keep me in the dark, and you'll only guarantee your own failure."
Lycurgus's smile faltered, and for a moment, the chains that bound him seemed almost insignificant in the weight of his presence. Finally, he relented. "A show of good faith, then," he said, leaning forward. "Fifteen names. Barton Carrow, of course, is one. Young Avery. Travers's son. And…"
As the names fell from his father's lips, Theo committed each one to memory, his brain cataloging the information with practiced precision. Lycurgus revealed a handful more, a list of heirs and malcontents, people clinging to old grudges and the thrill of blood purity. Theo felt the bile rise in his throat, but he pushed it down, his face remaining impassive.
When Lycurgus finally finished, Theo inclined his head again. "Appreciated," he said, his voice cold. "I'll see to it that the Nott family's interests remain protected."
Lycurgus's laugh followed him as he left the cell, the sound hollow and taunting. Theo stepped back into the cold corridor, the oppressive weight of Azkaban pressing against him from every angle. He forced himself to keep his pace measured, even as his heart thundered with urgency.
The moment he was far enough from the cells, Theo's composure cracked. He Apparated as soon as he cleared the anti-magic wards, arriving in the courtyard of Malfoy Manor. The autumn air was sharp, biting at his exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold dread clenching in his chest.
He rang the old manor's warning bells, the magical chimes echoing out with an urgency that couldn't be ignored. Within moments, Draco Malfoy appeared on the front steps, his expression tense.
"Theo?" Draco called, his voice cutting through the silence.
Theo approached, his jaw set. "We have a problem," he said, voice low but heavy with the gravity of his words. "A new wave of Death Eaters. They're planning something catastrophic, and it's starting with a purge of squibs in London."
Draco's eyes darkened, his hand clenching into a fist. "You're certain?"
Theo nodded, the weight of his father's twisted legacy pressing down on him. "Fifteen names, Draco. And they're growing. We need to warn the Aurors. We need to act—now."