SerpentSpine
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Energy is pulsing through him, gut clenching, undulating. His foot taps rapidly on the floor, expelling the excess. Wave after wave. If he stops moving, he is going to explode. His skin is too tight, his bones too brittle, to hold himself, to hold it in. He hopes he vomits rather than shatter completely. It feels inevitable. The edges of his vision start to turn white. Leaking in from the corners like a tentacular beast. That beast is Death and they have a task for Harry.
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Harry Potter is dealing with PTSD at a newly restored Hogwarts for his eighth year. The embodiment of Death haunts his every breath. Draco Malfoy keeps looking at him with those silver eyes and Harry—Harry can’t even begin to interpret his expression. Theodore Nott walks with shadows dancing in his footsteps. He is a whisper. He flickers out of existence when no one is there to perceive him. Harry perceives him.