Author's Note: In Locks we did fluffy and funny, here we're venturing to the darker places in my mind. This is inspired by the song "Hero of War" by Rise Against.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.
It rested on his mantle piece, mocking him. Daily, it taunted him, reminding him of his unfortunate survival. He wasn't supposed to live past Voldemort's defeat, it hadn't been the plan and yet alive he remained, an Order of Merlin First class making him rich enough to not ever have to return to teaching, and mocking him. Endlessly.
He occasionally contemplated ending it himself, but never could decide on a fitting ending; it seemed to be the only thing he was indecisive about these days.
His mail was sorted daily into three relevant piles - one a stack of death threats to be forwarded on to Potter at the Aurors Department; one "fan mail" which made its way into the fire, unopened; and one of pertinent correspondence, mostly his monthly Potions journals and letters from Minerva, pestering him to find a hobby or a woman, preferably both. He was in midst of the sorting process when it crept up on him - inky terror, burning slowly through his veins like Nagini's poison and he lurched uncontrollably backwards, away from a massive viper that wasn't there. One side of his neck felt hot, and sticky, and his throat clenched so it was impossible to draw a full breath. It felt like it lasted forever. He clawed at the high collared neck of his black frock coat and white shirt one handed, now surely crimson with his lifeblood, the other hand grasping desperately for something, anything solid in the dank mustiness of the Shrieking Shack. Pain exploded in his temples and chest, joining the pain of the snake's venom searing it's way through his bloodstream and into his nervous system; there was a bang and a thud - when had he gotten on the floor? He pushed himself back against the wall for support, old peeling wallpaper scratching against his robes.
The next he knew, small solid hands made of pure light were gripping his arms, pulling him up to sit. A glowing, solid body crouched at his side; he lunged for the light in the darkness, clinging to it tightly - was this Death, finally? He was ready. He was only sorry he hadn't found the boy - hadn't told him the truth.
He fumbled for his wand, "Take them," he gasped, trying to muster together enough coordination to pull the memories from his mind.
"Hush, hush now, Severus. I've got you, I'm here." The glowing form murmured; it was distinctly female - she smelled of cinnamon and pine and...toothpaste? - but beyond that, he could not identify her. "The war is over, Severus, you did it; you saved Harry; Voldemort is dead."
The blackness turned gray and dull; the pain dulled, aside from the headache throbbing in his temples.
His savior, the woman of light, became less ethereal and more… frizzy. "Hermione," he panted, sagging against her shoulder; his grip loosened on her robes, though he did not release them.
She rubbed soothingly between his shoulder blades, "I heard you screaming from the street - I had to break the wards when you didn't answer, I'm sorry if your head hurts." He nodded against her, taking another deep breath of cinnamon and pine. She continued, "This is the fifth time I've found you like this this month, Severus. I think it's time to try the muggle way."
"Will it help?" He asked finally, the woman still patiently holding him as the waking nightmare receded.
"It will help more than doing nothing."
"Very well, we will try your way. Make the appointment."
She squeezed him ever so gently, cautious against triggering another episode. "I guess this means we won't be going out to dinner tonight?" She teased.
"No, I don't believe we will."
He was Severus Snape. The Spy. The Death Eater. The Potions Master. The Princess of Gryffindor's boyfriend. He was a hero of war. And - according to his new Squib therapist - he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She helped. Eventually even his Order of Merlin stopped mocking him.
I mention Minerva bugging him to get a woman; I imagine their relationship is established enough that they're on a first name basis and are (relatively) comfortable entering each other's homes, but new and fragile enough that they're grossly private about it, avoiding being seen together in the Wizarding world.