Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea.
Professor Snape is hovering over me, and I feel a shot of anxiety slip its icy tendrils through me. My heart rate increases, and I'm wringing my hands nervously, though the skin on them is very nearly raw from wringing them so often. "Longbottom," Professor Snape drawls, and I feel my stomach clenching, my teeth chattering. "Longbottom," he reiterates, quieter this time. "I see that, once more, your incompetence has decided to raise its head. What, pray tell, is this?" My shoulders are quaking, and I'm jittering my leg with disquiet. "My," I rasp out, before clearing my throat, "my potion, sir."
My hands are twisting in my lap, fingernails digging into flesh, and I fix my eyes on them. Behind me, I can still feel the scorch of Professor Snape's malevolent sneer. "Do you take me for a fool, Longbottom?" he enunciates, "10 points from Gryffindor for talking back to a teacher. 'Potion,' indeed."
My housemates around me groan, and I feel shame threaten to consume me. The guilt is swirling in my stomach and suffocating me from the inside out. I attempt to assume an apologetic expression, but my teeth keep coming out to gnaw on my lip, and my brows are knit in a concerted effort to keep myself outwardly calm. "Clean this mess up, Longbottom," Professor Snape breathes callously in my ear, "and next time you decide to ignore my instructions, there will be far worse consequences."
I breathe out a tiny, shaky breath as Professor Snape steps away. There are half-crescent dents in the flesh of my pale hands, and I taste the coppery tang of blood from where my teeth tore at my lip too harshly. I'm slowly relaxing, the pressure of everyone's attention slowly being relieved, but still my eyes are prickling with tears.
I clean up my materials, starting when my trembling hands overturn a bottle of ink. I'm muttering apologies before I even register what I've done, apologizing being my instant reflex to any situation. The class just stares at me, a mass of unforgiving glares, and I lapse into silence once more.
By the time we are released from class, my hands are soaked in ink and my brow is soaked in a fine sheen of sweat. My eyelashes are sparkling with crystalline droplets and there are soft tear tracks running down my face. I shuffle out of the class, eyes trained on my feet. My legs are wavering beneath me, and I feel the looming menace of collapse. Devil's Snare, I think to myself, it's like Devil's Snare. The more nervous I get, the faster it coils around me.
Devil's Snare I could deal with, I think. I like plants in that they are unassuming and unable to judge. Wrapped up in Devil's Snare, I'd be able to relax, be able to appreciate the subtle beauty of even the most terrifying of plants. Wrapped up in the confines of my own anxiety, I can find no escape. Wrapped up in the confines of my own anxiety, I find only more anxiety.
I trudge to my next class, foreboding building up once more.