Disclaimer:

I do not claim the rights to any of these characters who belong to J.K. Rowling.

No profit is or will be made from these stories.

These stories have not had a beta (please feel free to apply to beta).

None of the mental health issues portrayed here were heavily researched and should not be viewed as an accurate description or diagnosis.

All mistakes are my own.

OBLIVION

Chapter 1: A Man Without A Past

His name was Severus Tobias Snape.

At least, that was what he had been told and so it must be true for he saw no reason that they would have lied to him.

Upon waking up, Severus had realised he had no idea where he was. More importantly than that, he realised he did not know who he was. This naturally made him extremely concerned. At first the Healers had assumed he was simply disorientated. Upon further examination however, they realised that he did not remember that magic existed (he had yelled most indignantly when he was levitated to a gurney for transportation into a different ward). This was most worrying for the existence of magic was a very hard thing to simply forget, especially when someone had lived an entire adult life with it.

The Healers told him that he was a wizard who had just spent 15 months in a coma. He would have been inclined to dispute such claims, had it not been for the fact that a Healer had been levitating a feather quill and parchment, which was scribbling furiously of its own volition, as she fired off questions for Severus to answer. She was simultaneously waving a wand that made several parts of Severus glow. After Healer Rosek had finished, Severus could only conclude that yes, magic was real and that he was a wizard who had lost all his memories. So there he was; inside a magical hospital called St Mungo's, as a man without a past.

For several weeks, from the moment Severus' eyes opened each morning, he lived in a kind of limbo with the same repetitive routine. He waited to be fed, and tested, and medicated, and to finally fall asleep once more. Sleep was particular difficult as disjointed images filled his dreams. Whether they were fragments of memories his subconscious tried to bring forth or simply an over-anxious mind, Severus did not know. He could barely make out what or who they were as faces seemed to blur into one another and glimpses of places that were completely foreign to him appeared behind his eyelids.

When he had tried to entertain himself between all the waiting, Severus realised frustratingly that he could not even recall if he had hobbies to pursue. He certainly could sense he had preferences and found some activities more pleasing than others. After completing the many mind puzzles and exercises the Healers attempted to foist upon him, Severus decided he liked chess best, with its consistent rules and strategies. He was a fair player but his mind could not chase down the who or the how of learning it. No natural learner, no matter how talented, could reach the level of competency he displayed in just a few matches. How had he gained such a complex skill? Would he have played better if he had full command of his memory?

Though the Healers reassured him that it was perfectly expected to feel a little lost due to his condition, Severus felt like he was missing the very context and purpose of his existence. To his current self, Severus was experiencing his magical environment for the first time. He was constantly awed and surprised at such casual use; close a curtain; fill a cup with water; turn down a bed. Severus realised that his past self would have been armed with knowledge and perspective to make sense of it all and perhaps had even performed magic himself with great competency. He wondered if there was any possibility that he could use magic again. The answer to that thought filled him with simultaneous hope and dread. However, instead of dwelling on these emotions that brought with them an undercurrent of anxiety and longing, Severus filled his days with reading and catching up on as many current and past events as he could. Whatever man he might have been before, a strong instinct told him that he had to arm himself with information about this strange world he had awoken to if he had any hope of surviving now.

From his perusal of old newspapers and small talk with his caregivers, Severus learnt of a magical war that spanned several decades. He learnt of a Dark Lord (which they oddly would only refer to as 'You-Know-Who') had seemingly been trying to enslave non-magical people and anyone who supported them; of the Order of the Phoenix, headed by Albus Dumbledore, who had been fighting against You-Know-Who's sinister influences; and of Harry Potter at the centre of it all. He also learnt of his own personal involvement and to his great surprise, that he had been a spy for the Order. He had been such a good spy in fact, that when the war ended, the Ministry of Magic had wanted him to stand trial for war crimes, specifically the murder of Dumbledore, even as Severus lay comatose. Had it not been for the testimony of Mr Potter and pensieve memories from several sources, including those left by Dumbledore himself proving that Severus was just a catalyst for Dumbledore's sacrifice, Severus would not have been exonerated. Nor would he have received an Order of Merlin Second Class for his contributions to the greater good. Severus did not quite grasp the importance of such an award, but could infer that it would be an honour to receive one. It was all very strange to be reading about and sometimes seeing his other self in the moving images of magical newspapers. There was even a brief profile about him only a few months after The Battle of Hogwarts, which listed his life in little dot points and dramatic facts, which appealed to the gossipy tendencies of the general post war populace.

Severus could only accept such details of his past and surroundings with a vague sense of detachment. When he had first used a mirror, Severus could not quite recognise his own reflection. He certainly looked very different from the published photos of the papers and was surprised (yet somehow not) by his own current appearance. It was akin to staring at a painted portrait, the details both real and embellished by someone else. His dark eyes closely observed the line of his hooked nose, which sat above somewhat thin lips. Severus was not as gaunt or sallow as he had expected of somebody who had been atrophying on a bed for 15 months, no doubt helped by the magical remedies they had been feeding him. He already knew he had dark hair that was kept neatly trimmed to just shy of his chin. Although he felt the coarse rub of stubble upon his jaw, he had no other facial hair, for which he was glad, as he did not think it would have suited him. While he would not consider himself a handsome man, the overall effect was that of an intelligent one, even if the lines were somewhat harsh. There was also a hideous scar that stretched from behind his left ear to just below his collarbone; the only remaining mark of the snakebite that had nearly killed him.

Initially, the Healers had believed Severus' memory loss had been caused by residual magical venom for he had suffered the terrible bite from a giant snake when was first admitted. However tests conclusively proved that there was no trace of the snake in his system, magical or physical. They performed every diagnostic they could think of, hoping to comb for some fine detail they had missed. After the fruitless search and retesting, they finally surmised that it was not physical damage that caused his memory loss, but great psychological trauma.

Severus Tobias Snape had psychogenic amnesia.

Two months after regaining consciousness, Severus was reading through a copy of the Daily Prophet after breakfast when a knock on door drew his attention. He looked up to see a petite and feminine young lady with a strange mix of clothing. She seemed to have thrown them on with completely disregard for fashion and colour. Her slightly wavy golden hair the texture of fine spun silk settled just below her waist and on her nose rested a pair of purple horn-rimmed glasses. There was an air of the ethereal about her as she stood there. She carried a fabric bucket bag, which swung from her shoulders and in her arms held close to her chest was a glossy covered, full colour magazine with the heading The Quibbler emblazoned in a fiery font that actually flickered like a flame.

"Good morning, Professor." She said in a soft sweet voice.

Confused by being addressed as 'Professor', Severus simply nodded cautiously. He did not know this girl, but she clearly knew him.

"I suppose I shouldn't call you that anymore since you're no longer teaching me, or remember that you ever did." She continued, unperturbed by his lack of verbal response and made her way to his bedside. She plopped herself down into a chair next to the bed. "Let's start again. Good morning, Mr Snape. I'm Luna Lovegood. Before you lost your memory, I was one of your students at Hogwart's School of Magic. You taught me Potions and you were a very respected Potions Master."

Severus had read about that part of his former life in the Daily Prophet. For a brief moment, he felt a swell of pride; he was also hit with the immediate disappointing realisation that it was also not he who was a Potions Master, but another Severus who lived his life before him. He mentally shook himself from such negative thoughts and turned his attention to her instead.

"Thank you, Miss Lovegood. I'm no longer the Professor you remember, but I appreciate that a former student has made the effort to come and see me." He replied neutrally.

He stared openly as she let out a giggle and put her things down. "Please don't think I'm being rude, Mr Snape. It's just, when you were my professor, you were well known to be a very stern teacher of little words, especially not kind ones. I just found it amusing that the first words you would ever say to me after meeting for the first time again, would be 'Thank you'. You really are a different person now."

"I'm here to help you." Miss Lovegood continued before Severus could bristle at her honest observation. "I've been training as a sort of social aid for displaced wizards and witches who had lost their livelihoods due to the war. There were a lot of people who had lost their homes or need help to rebuild their lives. The Ministry of Magic had created a temporary department to assist them."

Severus frowned slightly. "I don't quite understand. What does that have to do with me? You are clearly aware of my inability to recall if I have a home to go back to."

"In your case, the Healers feel they've done all they can with your conditions. Healer Rosek has agreed that it would be better for you in the long run to be able to learn to live independently in order to heal your mind. Whether that's going to be in the muggle or magical world, it must be done. There is nothing else for you here." She explained patiently.

Severus had known the time would come when he would need to leave St Mungo's. While he was certainly handicapped compared to an adult wizard who could recall all their magical training, he was not impaired. He could learn. He could start again to build something of his broken life. Severus could not shelter in this temporary sanctuary forever. While the Healers and staff had treated him well, St Mungo's did not feel like a home to belong. There was something missing from his clinical routine-driven existence.

"I had expected as much." Severus agreed. "If my choice counts at all, I would like to attempt this process while living in the wizarding world. I may barely remember my past, but I am a wizard nonetheless. Perhaps something will trigger in my mind when I have reached an appropriate level of assimilation."

Miss Lovegood smiled again. "You still speak like your other self. I will make the necessary arrangements to best of my abilities. There are lots of classes and counselling sessions you can take to help with your recovery, but I think the best thing for you may lie in the people who knew you. Perhaps that's something to consider."

She stood to leave before turning back to him with a quirk of her head. "Oh, and I've brought you a condensed copy of The Quibbler from just after the war. It's much more informative than anything the Prophet may have published during that time. Please keep it." She indicated to the magazine she had left on his bedside table next to the small bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase.

On the cover, a phoenix flew in circle around a strange triangle symbol, leaving trails of scorching flame in its wake.

Author's Notes:

I plotted this story many years back when Harry Potter had a much more active fandom. I rediscovered the hastily scribbled notes a few weeks ago, buried in with a lot of other plot lines that I had also created at the time. Sadly, many of them were written by a less socially aware, more socially awkward 14 year old me and were super problematic in their themes and tropes. So they were mostly dumped, except for this one which I felt had a lot of potential. I'm a little rusty from years of not writing and involving myself in these characters, so please bear with me if any OCC-ness occurs.

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