Nott, II
Theodore sat heavily in his chair. With his friends listening, with his enemies, too, he was sure, close by, this witch had cut him more deeply to the core than anyone had ever done in his life. He felt like a child again, hollow and distant from himself, weak, sick, pathetic. For all his mother's faults, and she had many, he often wondered this very question.
He rolled his head, trying to keep his chin up, but it dragged down, heavy with guilt and loneliness. Not for what he'd done but for all the things he'd never done. All the effort he'd never put into keeping his family together. For all that he had failed in making his mother love him more and in keeping his father alive.
"Yes," he said, dredging up the effort from his stomach and working it into his breathless lungs. "Yes, I think I have failed." Anything would be better than this place, he thought. Even Azkaban. At least there, his weakness would be hidden away, secret. here, it was spread wide open for everyone to see, and nothing could be worse than that.