“Ron! Did you find him?” Hermione says, sounding sufficiently panicked.

“No. I’ve checked everywhere, even got Neville to help, but it’s like he’s disappeared.”

“What about Hagrid? Maybe he went to see –”

“Hagrid was at the lake; says he hasn’t seen Harry all day.”

Hermione lets out an angry huff. “I could strangle that rotten Malfoy! I bet it was all him.”

Feeling inexplicably edgy, Snape finds himself strolling the corridors between classes, trying to work off some of the energy coursing through his veins. Black cloak trailing behind, he rounds the corner, stopping short when he spies the two Gryffindors locked in a heated discussion, both looking anxious and flustered. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Ron, dripping wet from head to toe.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Harry like that before...I mean, he seemed fine before potions.”

“And he doesn’t just skip classes either. I mean, Merlin knows Divination isn’t exactly crucial, but he’s never missed a class before. He wouldn’t.”

So Mr Potter isn’t attending lessons accordingly? No doubt Sybil didn’t even notice, Snape thinks as he listens in.

“When he comes out of hiding, he’s got some explaining to do. Look at me, I’m soaked!” Ron whines, peeling his robes from his skin. “Bloody weather.”

“Well, that’ll teach you to go out without a coat, Ronald.”

“Look, maybe we’re just missing him along the way,” Ron offers up, “he’s probably looking for us too. We should just stay in one place.”

Hermione sighs. “Alright. We can sit in the common room until Herbology,” she says, leaving no room for argument. Ron follows her as she strides down the corridor, books tucked safely in her folded arms.

Wherever Potter is, he had better not feel inclined to miss our meeting later. I will fetch him myself if I have to...

At dinner, Snape’s eyes scan the room, his gaze lingering on the Gryffindor table. Through a sea of bobbing heads, he cannot for the life of him pick out Harry.

Miss Granger and Mr Weasley seem agitated. Does the boy not put everybody through enough?

Something snaps in the back of Snape’s mind – an involuntary cascade of puzzle pieces waiting to be put together.

Nobody has seen the boy since his odd outburst in the middle of my class. He is foolishly neglecting his little friends...but no.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he checks the time and excuses himself from the table.

Hopefully he will not be so foolish as to skip the rest of his lesson this evening, he thinks as he sweeps down to the hall towards the Potions lab. 

The faint light of a half-moon seeps in through a tiny window in the corner of the room, giving it a silver glow. Sat at his desk, quill in hand, Professor Snape silently scribbles out numerous lesson plans, filling time before he’s forced to sacrifice his evening of freedom for the nuisance child, but his concentration wavers as he finds himself distracted by the loud, incessant ticking of the clock. This, and the sorry sound of rain beating against the castle walls seem to take precedence over his work and he finds that he can’t think beyond the noise.

Restless. That’s what he is.

Restless mind.

Restless hands.

Busy, tapping, restless feet.

For a moment, he muses that someone’s put something in his tea. Though, at first, the feeling is no more than an irritating sugar rush, it takes one tick of the clock for his body to quickly flood with anxiety – an intense feeling of dread washing over him.    

Taking him by surprise, he’s perplexed. Each of his fingers begins to rattle at its own separate pace, and his arms; they don’t know whether to hide under the desk or to wrap protectively around him. It’s as though his limbs are being controlled by an emotion he can’t decipher. The only part of himself he still has power over is his brain, and it’s telling him to be objective and to think; to be forceful with his body and to tell his arms to stop fidgeting...

...And they do. When he puts his mind to it, they reluctantly stop their shaking and jerking, though Snape can still feel them trying to tear away again. But he, his own rational mind, doesn’t feel scared. His entire body is telling him to worry about something, but he has no idea what that something is, he just knows that it’s bad.

Getting his arms under control, he tries to focus his attention on his shaking knees, using all his energy to stop them from knocking together, but with the anxiety comes nausea.  A deep set sickness that creeps up his throat and he has to bite down his jaw to get it to end. Focusing all his energy on this, he finds that his arms have freed themselves again, trembling like they’re freezing cold.

Pushing up from his desk, he swallows thickly and motions to the tiny cupboard at the end of the room. He clings to the walls, feeling his body quaking under his own weight. Searching his stores, he picks out a tiny blue vial labelled - anti-convulsant, but he can barely keep it steady in his hands to take out the stopper. Frantically trying to keep himself still, the vial slips like sand through his fingers and breaks almost clean in two on the stone floor.

It’s only as Snape curses under his breath and reaches back into the cupboard for more that he notices the stillness of his limbs. His hands are no longer shaking, his arms no longer trying to get away from his body. Releasing his vice-like grip on the wall, he exhales as his sturdy legs keep him upright. And he feels fine. As though nothing has even happened. So much so that he can’t help wondering if he was dreaming – that he fell asleep at his desk and managed to sleep-walk in a subconscious fit of panic.

Trying to do potions in your sleep, Severus? You must think of other pastimes.

In the end, he puts it down to a funny turn. After feeling edgy all day, he had a feeling it might amount to something bigger. Too many fumes in the first year class this morning...Didn’t wash my hands after touching the Scurvy Grass. Anything can explain it, so he decides, for the most part, not to dwell.

Stalking back to his desk, he tucks all the papers into a drawer, settles back into his seat and glances up at the clock. Only then does he remember the reason he’s in his Potions classroom to begin with. Potter.

Waiting in silence, he again becomes distracted by the relentless ticking, made even more unbearable by the fact the rain has stopped – so everything is about the clock. The damn clock. Still a little rattled, he can’t help but peer down at his hands, watching as his fingers drum noiselessly on his arm.

As a haunting chime rings out into the air, Snape looks to the door and purses his lips.

Late again, Potter, he thinks. Idiotic boy.

When Snape hears a hard rapping on the door about ten minutes later, he’s not angry. He sees this as an opportunity to relieve some of the strange pent up energy that’s making him so on-edge. Lips quirking upwards, he can’t decide whether to stay at his desk and glare at the boy as he enters or to be standing directly in front of the door when he opens it.

Give the boy a fright; that should teach him a lesson. Thinking he can just wander in whenever he feels like it...he can spend the rest of his evening feeling on edge too, see how he likes it.

Shifting from his seat to the door, he calls out a curt, “Come in.”

Snape positions himself in front of the door, putting on his darkest glare, and as the door swings open, he takes a confident step forwards, locking obsidian eyes with...

“Merlin, Severus! You scared me half to death!”

The expression washing from his face, Snape jerks backwards, just as surprised to see Professor McGonagall getting her breath back outside his door as she is to see him so close.  Stepping aside, he allows her to come into his room and watches as she clasps her hands together, her knuckles turning white. Her brow is knitted together – nothing unusual – but the deep-set lines on her face seem more prominent.

“Uh, my apologies, Minerva. I was expecting somebody else.” 

“I know you were, Severus. I hope you don’t always greet the boy like that, he’s nervous enough as it is.”

Jumping to defend the boy again, typical.

“I expect my students to be punctual,” he drawls.

“Yes, well that’s why I’m here, Severus. I’m afraid Mr Potter won’t be coming to your detention tonight.”

Snape’s eyes visibly darken, but before he can grind out a response, McGonagall’s worried gaze takes him by surprise and she continues. 

“Poppy has him in the infirmary.”