Astoria's words stirred nothing but agreement in Julian. It didn't just feel hopeless. It was hopeless. The whole situation was spiraling out of control way too fast for Julian to keep up with. And he could grow used to the life of a muggle, but he didn't want to. It was a selfish desire of him to continue to be pampered by magic, the very same magic that was failing him and deserting him now. And yet he wanted it. He wanted his magic to forgive him for whatever he had done to deserve this.
Julian wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything before. And the whole hopelessness of the situation did little to assure him that he would get it back one day. He may as well resign himself as a squib now, because he was positive he wouldn't be getting it back.
He had though that magic and potions could save everything. He had relied on them so much, had been so careful to make sure that it was perfect, and... and what did he have to show for it? All those health potions hadn't kept him safe against the one virus he had not wanted to get. Prolonged it, perhaps, but even then it had just prolonged the suffering.
Tensing when Astoria told him to wait, he snapped his head up and looked around wildly when she said aloud he was sick. Pomfrey was going to hear, and she was going to strap him down to the bed and add his name to the list of people that were sick and-
He shot up, before hesitating and slowly lowering himself back down.
"Can she help?" he whispered, eyes wide and frantically looking for any sign of movement. "I don't like this. I've never been sick before, I don't know how to get better. I..."
He trailed off, disgusted with himself for losing his cool like that. What would Astoria think of him now?
"I'm sorry," he composed himself. "I should be going."