She grabs her magazines

She packs her things and she goes

She leaves the pictures hanging on the wall, she burns all her notes

She knows, she's been here too few years to feel this old

A flawlessly manicured hand picked up an outdated copy of Witch Weekly and stared with disgust at the happy, smiling couple. This issue was the one that sent the Wizarding World into a moral upheaval. A trusted Professor was to wed a student? It was unthinkable, but as unthinkable as it was, it wasn't impossible.

That same hand with the meticulously painted finger nails picked up her suit case and turned back to look at the room she was leaving. The furniture they had bought on their honeymoon, the rugs she had ordered from France, the pictures that looked down from their home on the deep-blue walls. Her gaze locked on the mountain of parchment strewn about on the living room floor. There lie years and years of her research. Documents on Wolfsbane, Immortality, notes about thousands of potions they had made together.

Brown eyes hardened, none of those memories mattered any more. The good times had been too few and too far inbetween, it was time for a real life and for, Gods willing, time for a man who could express his love. They had only been married three years, but in that time not one single endearment had been uttered, not even at the wedding. She had thought she could change him, but that was just yet another thing she had failed at.

Tears flowing down deathly pale cheeks, she picked up the match she had been carrying around for weeks. She struck the red tip on the bottom of her worn-out shoes, and dropping it into the pile of papers, she fled.

He smokes his cigarette; he stays outside 'till it's gone

If anybody ever had a heart, he wouldn't be alone

He knows, she's been here too few years, to be gone

And we always say, it would be good to go away, someday

But if there's nothing there to make things change

If it's the same for you I'll just hang

A hard and callused hand put the cigarette between his lips; he let the toxins burn his lungs, feeling a sick pleasure in the sensation. The wind blew a smoldering scent into his nostrils, and he turned his gaze south. There he could see the red-orange glow of fire on the horizon, and thats when he knew she had finally gone.

The trouble understand, is she got reasons he don't

And she goes, she's been here too few years, to take it all in stride

But still it's much too long, to let hurt go

And we always say, it would be good to go away, someday

But if there's nothing there to make things change

If it's the same for you I'll just hang

Their relationship hadn't been long, and he would have loved to see it last a few decades more, but emotions were uncertain territory for him, territory he avoided at all costs. Perhaps everyone had been right, perhaps she was too immature, too young, too unskilled in love, but somehow he had know she was right for him, someone to love despite her age. Oh, he knew she wanted him to say it, but he could never bring his lips to form the words, no matter how often he wished he could. He tried to show her, doing subtle things, making her morning coffee, tucking strands of hair behind her ear, allowing her unrestricted use of his labs, but Gryffindors never were any good at subtlety.

There had been a trip to Paris planned at the end of the term, and it would have been good to be removed from the disapproving eyes, but that didn't matter anymore. She was getting her vacation any way, while he was left to clean up the mess she made, of their home, of his heart.

Carefully polished boots turned to retreat indoors, away from the flickering light of what was once his home. The man inside those boots walked purposely over to his potions cabinet and reached for a vial.

But if things don't work out like we think

And there's nothing there to ease this ache

There's nothing there to make things change

If it's the same for you, I'll just hang

He threw back his head, draining the vial in one swallow. He felt dizzy for a moment before the room righted itself. The hard and callused hand wrote a quick eloquent note making sincere apologizes to whoever had the misfortune of finding him. He conjured a rope and tied one end around a ceiling beam, the other around his neck. With one jump off his desk, all his pain ended.

The next issue of Witch Weekly was not a pleasant one. It depicted the Professor's life and death, and held one entire page dedicated to his note, which proved once and for all that Professor Severus Snape had indeed loved Hermione Jane Granger.

AN- Harry Potter does not belong to me. This story inspired by "Hang" by Matchbox 20, which isn't mine either.