Nott, II
He didn't have the energy to argue. At his best, Theodore might have wound the words round and round, a little filibuster here, a hint of honesty and compassion there. But this wasn't his best. Not even close. He was too tired, and, ultimately, he knew he wouldn't escape prison, no matter what he said. Leaning back into his chair, he could feel his shoulders slumping, spine rounding. He said "yes sir" and "thank you, sir" as he ought, but the conversation had already passed into the vague ether of a moment gone to weariness. Azkaban would change a number of things, he was sure. He only hoped it didn't change his heart.