A fic inspired by Neil Diamond's "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" and the recent death of our beloved Alan Rickman. He will be dearly missed. /3

This was originally supposed to be a one-shot but it turned into a multi-chapter. So, seeing as I have no ability to plan anything, we'll see how this goes. :)

As always, I don't own Harry Potter. Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

A decidedly sick feeling settled in Hermione's stomach as she heard the front door click shut quietly behind her husband. She heard the squelching of his dragonhide boots on the stone floor, the sound of tiny drops of water hitting the ground reaching her ears.

Knowing he was coming in from the rain, where he was most likely collecting ingredients or stalking after misbehaving students, she paused her reading to wave her wand and put the kettle on. Another flick toward the fire caused it to grow and crackle loudly, increasing the warmth of the room immediately.

Sufficiently dried from a couple of charms, Severus Snape made his way toward the kitchen, barely brushing his fingers across the back of the couch in some sort of greeting, and poured himself a cup of tea before pausing.

"Tea?" His deep voice broke the silence smoothly.

Her head perked up. "Please."

He poured another cup and approached the couch quietly, setting the steaming cup beside her elbow. She murmured her thanks and he moved to stand before the fire for a few moments to warm himself before disappearing down the hall toward the lab and their bedroom.

Hermione let out a breath that she hadn't known she'd been holding as the door down the hall clicked shut. A sip of the tea that her husband had left her scalded her mouth and she set the mug down harshly on the table, a bit of the hot liquid splashing onto the wood.

Four years. Four years of laughter, tears, love songs, flowers, and everything Hermione had never expected from the sullen, bitter man who had insulted and berated her throughout most of her schooling at the castle. And now, she didn't know what had happened. Suddenly, he was out of her reach. He didn't come back from Hogsmeade with roses anymore – coral when he wanted her, red and yellow when he was happy and wanted to share it with her, pink when she doubted him, white when he asked her to marry him, red for every occasion in between. He used to go out of his way to do things for her: get up early to make her breakfast in the morning; clean the kitchen by hand because he knew she always thought it was a little bit cleaner that way; leave a rose on the pillow when he had to leave early in the morning, just so she knew he was thinking about her. Yes, now he offered her tea, but only because he was getting a cup himself and because he felt bad only helping himself to a kettle that she had put on for him. And sure, he didn't completely ignore her, but the knife in her gut twisted brutally either way.

Four years of marriage and suddenly Hermione couldn't look past the fact that her husband, Severus Snape, resident Potion's Master and love of her life, maybe didn't love her so much anymore. After all, she was a Gryffindor, she was a know-it-all, she had seen him in his weakest moment when he had almost died in the Shrieking Shack – he had more than a few reasons to cast her off without a second glance. And besides, she had always known that he was in love with Lily Potter. She could hardly expect him to love her more than the girl he had grown up with. But she couldn't bear to entertain that thought in her head, so she took another hard gulp of tea and returned to her book, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help remembering the times that he would pull her into his arms on the couch after work, tugging the thick book out of her hands so that he could read it to her, his velvety tone tickling her ear and soothing her every worry. The times that he would slip into their quarters between classes just to carry her down the hall to their bedroom. The times that they would lay on the rug in front of the fire and talk about the future – little bushy-haired children running around their home and getting into trouble. The times that he would lean in and kiss her cheek or brush her hair away from her face or link his fingers in hers because they couldn't stand to be disconnected for too long.

But that didn't happen anymore.

oOoOo

Severus stopped liquefying the leeches that he had collected from a small pond in the Forbidden Forest as he heard the mug slam harshly against the table in the living room. A choking cough reached his ears through the closed door to his lab, and he almost smiled at the sound. His wife's ability to sound cute even when she was choking on hot tea amazed him. He briefly considered poking his head out the door to see if she was okay, but instead turned back to the messy job at hand. She probably wouldn't welcome the interruption from her reading anyway.

A slight scowl marred Severus's face as he crushed the leech on the table with slightly more force than was necessary. There had been a day when his wife would have dropped her book immediately if he had merely called her name. Now, he got a distracted nod, an exasperated "Severus," or a half-interested glance in response.

Moving on to an ingredient that would require him to focus more, he pulled out a bag of black beetles and carefully began removing their eyes and placing them in a small jar. His frustration would have to deal with itself for the time being.

Two years of dating, four years of marriage. That was all the time that it had taken for the young Gryffindor princess and the brightest witch of her age to fall out of love with the bitter Death Eater, the greasy bat of the dungeons. He figured it was almost impressive that she had even lasted that long. Usually he scared people off within ten minutes of their meeting.

He figured it had all begun when the trial had finally come before the Wizengamot a couple years ago, when the full extent of his sins had been put on display for all to see. She had sat beside him throughout the painful event, holding his hand and rubbing his leg for support, but he had felt her stiffen against him and her hand tighten in his as the Chief Warlock read off some of his more grievous offenses. He had been terrified of losing her then, of losing her support through the aftermath of the War, but she had stuck with him through it all, including the year and a half of house arrest – or rather, castle arrest – that he had been placed on.

From there, he assumed it had all been downhill. He tried his best, but he was not an easy man to live with, and he figured it really only could be so long until she ran – maybe even into the arms of another man. Perhaps someone better, someone who had never been bitter or had questionable alliances or got jealous and angry easily.

A tentative knock interrupted his musing. "Enter." His voice was gruff.

The door opened quietly and Hermione poked her head around to look at him. He paused his enucleation of the beetle in his hand and raised a dark brow expectantly.

"I'm going to head to the Burrow for a bit to visit Ron, if that's okay with you. Maybe Harry and Ginny will stop by too with baby James!" Hermione looked excited at the thought, ignoring Severus' scowl at the name of Potter's son. "Severus, you're crushing that poor beetle."

He dropped the beetle back onto the table immediately, his eyes dropping to discern whether he had damaged the eye as well. "Very well. I shall be in here for a while as it is."

A smile lit up his wife's face. "Perfect! I'll be back in time for dinner." With another blinding smile, she was dashing back toward the living room. He heard the Floo whisk her away, and just like that, he was alone.

Ron Weasley. Exactly the kind of man he figured she would go for.

He brought his hand down onto the tiny dead beetle on the table, crushing it under his fist. Ronald Weasley did not get to steal his wife. Ronald Weasley did not get to take away the one thing in his life that brought him love, laughter, and the greatest happiness he had ever known. Severus Snape was nothing if not a fighter, and he would fight for the love of his wife. He would fight, and he would win.

So when Hermione stumbled through the Floo two hours later with a fruit basket almost larger than herself, Severus knew what he had to do.

Two could play at that game. As far as he was concerned, this was war.

oOoOo

The next day, Hermione came home to no husband. Which was surprising, since she had been up late in the library researching into a new Transfiguration topic that she potentially wanted to broach with her NEWT-level students.

She felt dread and acceptance wrap their cold fingers around her spine as she figured that the day had finally come. She was sure that she would find the note later – if he had even bothered to write one – stashed in her make-up bag or on top of her pillow, but for now she needed comfort. So she numbly lit a fire in the grate and grabbed a box of candied pineapple from the fruit basket Mrs. Weasley had sent to binge eat on the rug. A quick letter owled to Harry and Ron had her best friends sitting on the rug in front of her, offering reassurance around bites of candied pineapple slices.

"He's a git, 'Mione," Ron offered, sugar ringing his lips. "We've been telling you from the very beginning. No one changes that much; trust me."

"I know, Ron, but he did. Or at least, it seemed that he did." Hermione stuck a whole pineapple slice into her mouth as the first tear slipped down her cheek and dripped onto the rug. "I thought that we had it all figured out, but – but then he was distant, and now we're – now he's –"

Harry conjured a box of tissues and slid closer to her, wrapping an arm tightly around her and pulling her against his side.

"I know what would make you feel better," Harry announced suddenly, sharing a hopeful glance with Ron. "Butterbeer."

Hermione's bitter scoff surprised the boys. "I think this calls for something a bit stronger." She stood and pulled a nearly-full bottle of firewhiskey from the glass cabinet in the dining room. Holding it up with a sad smile, she grabbed three glasses and returned to the living room floor where her boys were waiting for her.

Several glasses of the liquor had her hardly even thinking about her absent husband anymore. Harry and Ron were playing an intense game of chess on the rug, both nearly as inebriated as she was herself.

"Nope, Harry," she slurred, pointing at his bishop standing alone in the middle of the board. "Wrong move."

Ron was grinning slyly as Harry protested. "No, 'Mione, look! My bishop is going to – damn!" He watched as Ron's knight promptly captured his poor bishop.

Hermione poured another glass of firewhiskey and offered one to Harry as well. He accepted it and took a long gulp, mourning the loss of his piece.

One more careless move by Harry had Ron grinning openly as he moved his queen into position. "Checkmate."

"Damn you, Weasley. I defeated Voldemort. This loss means nothing," Harry spat drunkenly, his eyes sparkling in amusement as he took another sip of alcohol.

Hermione laughed openly, and both of the boys gave her a surprised but happy look.

"That's right. Forget about him. He's not worth it!" Ron encouraged, packing up his chessboard for the night.

Harry stood up. "Let's get you into bed, Hermione. It's going to be okay. I promise." He led her down the hall to her bedroom and helped her remove her shoes and outer robes before tucking her down into the large bed. He kissed her on the forehead and quietly shut the door behind him as he returned to the living room and back home.

In her bedroom, Hermione's head was swimming with the amount of firewhiskey coursing through her system. But even through her drunken haze, she recognized that there had been no note. No note in the kitchen, no note on her pillow. That was a good sign, right?

She certainly hoped so.

Let me know what you thought. :)