Who: Ernie MacMillan & OPEN What: Going crazy Where: The Potions area When: 4 am.
This is what going insane felt like. He was sure of it.
Ernie hated not being in control. He hated not being able to help. He hated that he couldn’t do any of his school work (unless it was essay based) and he hated that when it came to NEWTs he would fail them all, because he’d be unable to complete the practical portion.
He hated himself.
He hated that the moment Healer Burke’s assistant arrive, Ernie was no longer needed, his research dismissed. He hated that his research had hit a dead end. Without trials, without experiments, without any sort of magic, there was nothing more he could do. He hated that he’d hit the end of the road and didn’t know what to do. He hated that he felt like all he did these days was complain.
Ernie hadn’t been running, it had been too cold, and too dangerous to leave the castle. Ernie barely did anything these days, it felt like it. The only time he felt happy anymore was when he was with Hermione. But he could hardly take up all her time, she had a life, she had friends, and he didn’t want to drag her down. Ellie and Michael had their own lives, he couldn’t bring himself to weigh them down.
He felt mentally exhausted. He felt physically exhausted.
He couldn’t remember when he last ate… was it lunch? Was that today? He could barely remember, there were numbers swimming in his vision, and he had to focus. There had to be something he’d missed, right? Something else he could do.
He knew you need magic to do potions, and he knew he didn’t have any, but he had to try, right? If people without magic could use potions, maybe he could do something.
Ernie had been chopping ingredients, mixing things, maybe the magic in the ingredients could do something. Something could happen. He had to try. He couldn’t just sit anymore. He couldn’t. He had to---
There was a bit of a bang and fizz, smoke thick and grey filled the air in dense curls. He tried to look at the potion, but he smelled like centaur dung, and was swampy green and tar-like. It was nothing. It was garbage. He was garbage. What was the point.
His head was starting to hurt. He sat on the floor, amid the acrid smell and a sea of notes he had spread out there. There was something, there was something, he had to find something. If he didn’t what was the point? He groaned slightly, punching out the ground in frustration.
This was useless. Everything was useless. He was weak. He was powerless. He wasn't in control. He was tired of it.