This is my expanded and edited offering for the wonderful 2015 round of the SSHG Gift Fest, written for Gemini Sister; I'll list the brilliant prompt at the end as to not spoil things.

There are many people I need to thank in the writing and completion of this story. First, I want to the acknowledge mods, Amorette and Delphi, who put in a crazy amount of work to pull off yet another amazing fest. This would never have been finished without the not-so-gentle nudges of Nate (aka Flying SPaGhetti Monster) who despite not being a SSHG shipper- and not having read any of the Harry Potter books- still did a masterful job at correcting my many, many errors. Alas, my abundance of commas might have killed him. Coco96 beta'd the first two chapters, Delphi proof-read the entire story prior to the start of the fest, and now Gelsey is beta'ing for my final round of edits.

For the most part, this story is complete, although I'm in the process of adding several new chapters. There will be weekly, if not bi-weekly updates. I welcome and appreciate all comments and reviews

"It is perfectly true, as the philosophers say, that life must be understood backwards. But they forget the other proposition: that it must be lived forwards."- Søren Kierkegaard

Prologue - Of Tits and Tats

2 May 2008

For all that it was supposedly spring—nearly summer, at that—the wind whipping off the Black Lake was surprisingly icy. Minerva McGonagall closed her eyes, permitting herself a rare moment of indulgence; inhaling deeply of the damp, swirling, Scots air, she let herself simply feel the world unfolding about her. While the solid stonework of the Hogsmeade Station at her back served to buffer the breeze, the force of it was still enough to make her robes dance merrily around her feet and legs. For a brief second, she fancied dancing with the wind, of being swept away in its pine and smoke-scented embrace.

Ahh, she mused wistfully, but to have the freedom to go where the wind would take me. To leave my worries and cares—not to mention all that ruddy paperwork! —far, far below…

She had wanted, quite badly, to go on this trip. Despite her love for the imposing, looming pile of stones perched on the far side of the Black Lake, it had taken considerable willpower not to eagerly snatch the chaperoning duties from Severus. Naturally, the dratted man had grumbled and protested that he didn't want to go to France right until the minute she'd pushed him onto the Hogwarts Express and firmly shut the door on his bony arse.

Had he even an inkling how much she would have loved to tour the French countryside or sit in the academic salons of Beauxbatons, there would have been no managing him in such a fashion. She had presented him with a litany of reasons why she couldn't go, of course: she had a new apprentice, had been recently made a great-aunt, and was in the middle of re-writing the Transfiguration syllabus…

As co-heads of the school, one of them had to go, and Severus had grudgingly given in when it became clear that she wouldn't. Minerva had been both relieved and fiercely jealous. But the truth was, he'd needed the trip—and indeed, the distance, physical and metaphorical—much more than she had. That much had been clear; she had seen it in the restless way he had taken to scanning his surroundings every time he entered a room. A quiet and lingering dissatisfaction had seemed to settle over him throughout the previous year, and she had watched as his temper had soured into equal parts apathy and bitter ennui. It had all finally come to a head on his forty-seventh birthday.

Against all odds, Severus Snape had lived, even flourished, following the Fall of Voldemort. For almost ten years that fact alone had been enough to make him a contented man, until that fine, snowy January evening. Birthday cake had been eaten and a satisfying amount of presents had been given, but she'd seen the cool detachment that filled his eyes as he glanced around the staff lounge.

Is this all there is? Is this all I will have?

The bleak thought seemed to hang over his head for the space of several heartbeats, and it was a sentiment that Minerva had fully understood. Granted, she had not been paralysed by that particular notion until the dawning of her sixtieth birthday, but still, she readily recalled that hopeless, gut-wrenching feeling of life having passed her by with very little to show for it.

The problem, she reckoned, was that for the vast majority of his years Severus Snape had not been free to be his own man. He had not developed habits and relationships based on his own needs and wants. Add to the equation his inherently sarcastic and prickly mien… Well, it was no wonder that he found himself alone, unfulfilled and unhappy with no notion of how to step out of his plodding path. But unlike her, he was young yet and with the better part of his years before him; matters might be desperate, but they were far from dire. And so, after deciding that her meddling could be excused due to his willful and continued inaction, Minerva McGonagall had started to plot and plan in earnest.

When she had been a student, it was customary that a select group of sixth-year Hogwarts students would spend the year at either Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, and in return, Hogwarts would likewise host foreign scholars the following year. While Durmstrang was not interested in reviving the tradition—and Minerva was damned if she was going to send Severus to the cold and unforgiving north to 'find' himself—it had been easy enough to settle matters with Beauxbatons. She vowed that he would finally get a chance to live and breathe outside the familiar strictures of Hogwarts. Moreover, she hoped that familiarity would no longer breed contempt; perhaps he'd have a chance to gain some of what he was missing.

In a matter of three months, the exchange had been agreed upon. Eight students had been chosen, and she had the distinct pleasure of manoeuvring Hermione into going as well. Her favourite little lioness had been in just as much need of a holiday as Severus, and if the letters and bits of gossip she had received were any indication, things had progressed rather well on several fronts.

The soft chittering of a bird and indistinct hum of village life finally broke into her internal reverie. Blinking against bright mid-afternoon light, she announced, "A Crested tit, I would think."

"Ma'am?" her secretarial assistant, Matthew Clarke, queried, a flush racing over his round, innocent cheeks.

Bless him, she thought with no little amusement. I really shouldn't take so much joy in befuddling the poor lad. But then again, he makes such an easy target.

Pointing to the tree line, she dryly clarified. "It sounds like there is a nest of Crested tits in the pines at the end of the platform."

"Oh. You were speaking of birds…" the boy murmured, face closing in on crimson.

"I've always preferred Great tits, myself," a third voice interjected. "Better plumage, don't you know…"

Minerva turned to see the smirking expression of Hugh Monroe, the grey-haired Hogsmeade Station Master. The man stamped towards them with an avuncular joy, and she laughed at his ready sally.

"One would only need to meet any of your former wives to deduce that, Hugh."

"I am nothing if not a consistent man, Headmistress."

The wind picked up again, moaning softly through the woods like a living thing. All three pulled coats and robes tighter in response. Hugh's tone turned more matter of fact. "Come now, you've been standing outside for the better part of twenty minutes. Let's go inside and have a hot cup of tea while we wait. It's not as if the Express can sneak up on us, after all."

Minerva shivered slightly, registering the growing stiffness in her extremities. "I'll not say no to an offer like that, especially if you are willing to part with a bit of that whiskey that your brother is so famous for."

The man bowed smartly, teeth flashing in a piratical smile. "For you, I would be willing to part with more than just a tipple."

Wryly, she glanced down at her modest bosom and then met his glinting blue gaze. "Ahh, but I am no Great tit."

"Be that as it may, what plumage you do possess is rather fine." His grin had warmed, and Minerva felt the barest hint of a blush touch her own cheeks. "And isn't it you that always harps on about quality being more desirable than quantity? Perhaps I should finally give that old adage a proper go."

Her assistant squirmed uneasily, and she had to fight back another laugh. That's right, boyo. Old people flirt, too; sometimes we even do more than that…

Deciding that she'd let Hugh win this round, she blandly glanced at the boy next to her. "Come, Mr Clarke. Let us get out of the elements and take the good Station Master up on his offer of tea," she said with as much motherly kindness as she could muster. Must not smirk!

As she turned to go in, the cold wind strengthened, and the air abruptly turned smokier; eyes watering, she blinked rapidly. The strong lines of Hogwarts in the distance reduced to a blurred jumble. For just a moment, the world around her seemed to freeze, recalling another smoke-filled May afternoon ten years before.

The Castle in utter ruins, broken bodies—friend and foe alike—spread about the grounds like forgotten toy soldiers. The darkness of that day seemed to slither up her spine; she'd failed Hogwarts in so many ways… failed her students, her colleagues, and, most of all, Severus. I should have known...

Then the breeze shifted again, returning to its usual scent of loam and forest. With that timely interruption, Minerva was able to marshal her wayward thoughts back into line. She'd always hated anniversaries, whether they be of the romantic variety or otherwise. Today was no different; one could not go back and change the past. Severus has forgiven you, she reminded herself firmly. You have made all the amends that are possible. As for the dead… Well, there is no fixing that. One can only live better.

Resolutely, she walked forward, the steady sound of her boot heels striking the macadam giving no hint of her inner unease. Something must have shown in her eyes, however, because there was a hint of latent compassion in Hugh's gaze as he held open the door for them. Wisely, he did not comment on it, and Minerva was thankful for that small mercy.

In a flurry of footsteps, they entered the cluttered warmth of Hugh's office, and she was pleased to note that he already had the tea service laid out on the table.

"Be a love, Minerva, and play mother while I look at the map and see where the Express is. She should have pulled in a good ten minutes ago."

She had just poured Clarke a cuppa when she saw Hugh go rigid from the corner of her vision. Carefully, she put the pot down, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature settle in her stomach. No. Not again after so many years. We should be safe!

"Hugh," she questioned, rising swiftly from the table, "what's the matter?"

"She's gone." His voice had lost all merriment.

Bustling over to the large, enchanted map on the far wall, Minerva peered over his shoulder. "What do you mean, gone?"

Hugh's blue eyes were streaking up and down the map in disbelief. "The Express… she's not on the map. Not anywhere." A blunt finger poked at a point near the centre. "I looked not a half hour ago, and she was just north of Stirling."

He turned to face her; fear and a growing horror clear in his expression.

"Headmistress, the Hogwarts Express has gone missing."