AN: First of all, I know this is not a very original plot device, but it just seemed to fit, somehow. This chapter and the next will be sort of back-to-front, because not everything in life follows a linear progression, don'tcha know. You may well be confused, as the author and almost all the characters are, but please bear with me and ride it out, the mists will clear in due course of time. Thanks, SN x

Now without further ado, back to our dearest boys.

Drifting.

Floating.

Rolling gently. Like being at sea.

But somehow, not.

A wave of soreness, washing from toes to scalp.

Then a wave of numbness, as something counteracted the pain.

Prickling deep inside his brain, itchy little fingers wandering erratically between each vertebra.

Kingsley was somehow aware of each and every component of his body – bone and sinew, blood and flesh, every living cell was alive and making its existence known.

But despite all the sensations, he was adrift. Perhaps centuries had passed, perhaps only moments, but the hypersensitivity and the numbness seemed to wash over him for ever. As though the pitching and tossing was the only life he had known, or could ever know until the end of the world.

It was the smell which registered first.

The synapses of his brain identified the smell, despite the rest of senses being on hold. It was an insistent, pungent smell, sometimes stronger, sometimes only barely there, but there was no mistaking it. His brain relished its renewed deductive capability and announced its conclusion in six-feet high, flashing neon lights, searing right through Kingsley's skull.

HOSPITAL!

The floating continued for waves and waves before the next thought materialised. Thankfully, this one was not so loud.

Oh dear.

The waves took him once more.

Drifting.

Floating.

Rolling gently. Like being at sea.

…….

The smell returned, this time bringing other sensations. He was lying on his back, underneath blankets. Though there did not appear to be any pain, he recognised the dull, fuzzy feeling of potions working hard to protect him from the pain that he ought to be in.

There was a small sound of rustling on his right. Paper turning. Someone was reading next to him. He cracked open an eye and immediately closed it as blinding light seared straight through his drowsy head. He groaned, prompting some more rustling and the creak of furniture as someone got to their feet.

"Kings?" The female voice was comforting and very familiar. Carefully, he braved the pain to open his eyes just a fraction. Blinking in the glare, he made out a brown face topped with a forest of vertical, four-inch high braids bending over him. Grinning back at her hurt his cracked lips, but he did it anyway, managing to croak a greeting.

"'Ello Saff."

His sister rolled her eyes at him and sat back down.

"I think I'll let you come round a bit before I tell Mama you're awake," she smirked. "You might not survive otherwise."

"Mama? Here?" he blinked some more, trying to construct more substantial questions without success. Saffron reached onto the side table and poured a glass of water for him to sip. The coolness felt disarmingly good as Kingsley felt it slide down his hot throat to quench a burning thirst he hadn't noticed before. Trust her to still be one step ahead of him.

"Mama came as soon as I told her about the attack. She's been harassing the healers and yelling at your boss, but all the time nearly dying of pride because her baby boy's a hero."

Kingsley processed this information for a minute, an all-too vivid image of Patience Jones (formerly Shacklebolt, née Mauldeth) in her horn-rimmed glasses and garish cotton robes berating Mad-Eye as only a West-Indian matriarch could.

"A hero?" he asked tentatively, as the last part of Saffron's statement caught up with him.

"Order of Merlin, they're all saying," her tone was teasing but there was the vaguest suggestion of pride in her eyes, too. She twisted one of her crazy plaits absently. "But I think most people who were involved are getting one."

He knew that what she was saying ought to make more sense, but when he tried to think deeply his head began to ache and he had to stop. He had been injured, that much was obvious, probably rather seriously if his mother was back in this country, throwing her considerable weight around. His sister had mentioned an attack...

"Saff," he was forced to admit defeat, hating how weak his voice sounded. "I don't know what you're talking about. What happened?"

"You don't remember?" she sounded surprised. He shook his head. "The war's over. You-know-who… I mean, Vo…Voldemort is dead. Half of Diagon Alley was flattened, but it's over. He's gone, I mean, really gone, this time!" She watched him carefully, apparently waiting for recognition to dawn on his face. When it didn't, she continued. "You were right there in the thick of it, you assumed command when the Light forces got split in two with Dumbledore, Moody and the others forced out into muggle London and held outside by a Stonewall Block."

"Did I?" croaked Kingsley in awe, desperately trying to dredge up some memories of his own. It was as though Saffron was telling a story she had read in a newspaper, completely unrelated to his life. However hard he tried, the only confrontational thing he could remember was being bitten by a rat, or a cat, or possibly a ferret. Yes, a ferret sounded right. How on earth had that happened?

"You're looking blank, Kings," she frowned inquisitively at him. "You really can't recall the battle?"

"Nothing," This was not good. He must have been hit by some complicated confunding curse, or else taken a fierce blow to the head. Whatever had happened, he hoped it was only a temporary problem. What else had he forgotten about? The effort of thinking was beginning to tire him, and he felt the familiar waves begin to gently rock his body as his sister's voice drifted to him from far away.

"I think I'd better call the healer."

Floating again.

Actually, it was rather pleasant.

Ferrets?

…….

The healer kept telling Kingsley to relax, which is easier said than done when there are huge chunks missing out of your life. Tonks had crashed through the door, cascading grapes, flowers and rude Get Well Soon cards just as Healer Legge was really starting to irritate him with stupid questions he could not answer. Plonking herself down heavily on the foot of his bed, she reached over to hand Kingsley some of his presents from the other aurors and knocked a jug of cold water all over Legge, who shrieked and began a sharp tirade about 'the patient needing rest'. Tonks stared at her colleague in horror, devastated that she might have caused him some harm.

He grinned in reassurance.

"Actually, Madam, you were just telling me that I should surround myself with familiar faces who might help jog my memory," he winked at the metamorphagus. Legge spluttered something about having to change and stalked out of the room.

"Sorry," began Tonks glumly.

"Don't be, you did me a big favour," he lay back on the pillows and closed his tired eyes. "Now, I wonder how quickly the gossip has spread?"

"You mean, about your amnesia?" asked Tonks immediately, tucking into a juicy black grape and choking as she accidentally swallowed the pips. She made a series of inelegant noises before swallowing audibly and finishing; "Your sister told me just now on the stairs. She's got very cool hair."

"Yes, that's what I meant," he sighed, handing her a tissue to wipe her streaming eyes. "I'm sorry, Tonks. It's really frustrating and I'm not feeling at my best to cope with it. Were you hurt in this huge battle which I can't remember happening?"

She gave him a pitying look which he answered with a glare. He wondered idly where he had learned such an uncharacteristically fierce expression. Moody, possibly?

"Not really. I was on the roof of Ollivander's but got knocked off by a stray hex. Michael Ivetsy did a wonderful Arresto Momentum and all I got was a sprained ankle."

"Which idiot stationed you on a rooftop?" asked Kingsley in disgust. That had been an accident waiting to happen. Who put the MLE's clumsiest auror in a high, slippery place?

"Er…you did, Shacks," she made a pathetic attempt to hide her laughter as his face fell. "You were great, actually, barking out orders and keeping everyone covered as well as you could. People just did as they were told, too, you have a very commanding personality when you put your mind to it!"

He opened his mouth to answer when something occurred to him.

"Ivetsy? But he resigned, didn't he? I remember that. Or at least, I think I do…"

"Yes he did. He was shopping when the fight broke out and joined in. Brought down Avery and Goyle, actually," she frowned. "Lost an ear, though he doesn't seem to mind. He was asking Mad-Eye for his job back yesterday."

Kingsley allowed himself to drift for a moment. It was such an odd scenario. So many witches and wizards would have given anything to simply wake up one day to find the war finished and themselves praised for bringing about its end. The harder he tried to penetrate the kind of fog in his mind, the deeper it became. Occasionally there would be the suggestion of a memory, but it would immediately swirl away the second he tried to grasp it, leaving him tense, irritated and none the wiser despite his efforts.

That Legge woman had told him there was no reason to be unduly concerned. He had only regained consciousness a few hours ago, things would apparently come back to him over time. He couldn't help but think that this would be a hell of a lot more comforting if only he could remember something other than that damned ferret. His unhelpful mind boggled. Perhaps the creature had been a pet from the shop in Diagon Alley, or a Death Eater animagus who had transformed during the battle.

The door opened again and Kingsley looked up to see Professor Snape standing nervously in the doorway, his right arm in a sling. Tonks immediately got to her feet and scuttled away, waving cheerfully at Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. He could never understand why she – who had faced countless horrors in the line of duty – was still so scared of her former teacher. Though it was odd, the look she had thrown him as she left had not been fearful, but rather knowing or even suggestive. He would never figure out that woman, he decided with a sigh.

"May I come in?" asked Snape softly. Kingsley motioned him to a seat, wondering why the taciturn wizard had decided to visit him. As he walked rather stiffly towards the chair, the auror began to make yet more bizarre observations. Besides the sling, there were other differences about Snape. His hair, for a start, though still hanging limply in his eyes at the front, was now neatly cropped at the back, giving definition to his sharp cheekbones and taking some of the length from his face. The right side of his forehead and cheek were glistening with some kind of gelatinous salve, and his right eye was only half-open. More remarkable than any of these, however, was the fact that his mouth was curving slightly at one corner into what could only be described as a kind of smile.

Kingsley could not recall ever having seen him smile. Smirk, sneer, grimace and gloat were the only departures he made from his habitual closed expression, usually signifying something unfortunate for someone, somewhere. Yet there was no denying that this was a gentle, pleasant little smile, lighting up the unmarred side of his countenance. Kingsley decided that it was due to the end of the war. Though St Mungo's was quiet, surely there were parties and celebrations of gigantic proportions happening outside, as relief flooded the country after so much suffering. He made a mental note to ask someone for the full list of casualties, in case he upset anyone with his ignorance of their bereavement.

"How are you feeling?" Snape asked, sounding for all the world as though he cared. Kingsley was becoming more confused with each new development. He had never seen Snape actively take an interest in anyone before, but he answered politely.

"Physically, not too bad, but I have sustained some form of amnesia, which is rather frustrating."

The odd little smile faltered slightly.

"You do not remember the battle?" he asked, even softer than before.

"No," sighed Kingsley, trying to clamp down his annoyance at having to repeat himself over and over. "Nor much else before it. But what happened to you? Something hit your right side?"

"A Thunderbolt hex from the Dark Lord which was intended for…" he tailed off and stared deeply into Kingsley's eyes until the auror started to become uncomfortable.

"Er…Snape? Is something wrong?" he sounded more disconcerted than he hoped under that icy black stare. He thought Snape would probably leave at the question – he had never been one to share his feelings with near-strangers. Even near-strangers who found him attractive in a quirky, sophisticated way. He turned away in case the country's finest occlumens turned out to be as skilled in legilimency.

"You…you don't remember?" the smooth voice was now little more than a whisper. Utterly fed-up with that particular question and even more so with the answer he had to keep giving, Kingsley snapped back.

"No, I don't remember. Now, if you don't mind, Professor, I'm very tired and would like to get some sleep."

The potions master recoiled as though he had been slapped. With a final, searching look at Shacklebolt, he got to his feet and left the room in a much less dramatic fashion than normal, a barely-perceptible limp slowing down his signature stalk-and-billow combination.

Kingsley sank back into the bed and rubbed his forehead. He must make himself remember. Snape obviously knew something he didn't. He snorted aloud. Most people knew things that he didn't at the moment, which was the whole problem. Ferrets came into it somewhere – or had he dreamed them as a side effect of the many potions he had taken? Like the strange ache in his gut which felt a bit like longing. But what could he be longing for? The war was over, by all accounts he had played a key part in the defeat. Snape had not been particularly caustic, yet he was left with a kind of bitterness in the back of his throat as though they had argued, which was ridiculous in itself, as everyone in the Order argued with Snape from time to time. It could only be one of the potions.

Furious with himself and the sensations his body was registering he shoved his spinning head under the pillow and forced himself to sleep.

Surely it would be better in the morning.

…….

Some life skills could be so well ingrained into the personality that their owner would not even notice their automatic deployment.

Snape's ability to completely shut down all non-essential brain activity when confronted with overwhelming floods of emotion had served him flawlessly since childhood, and so he arrived back at Hogwarts seeming completely composed, concentrating only on making his way safely through the wards and then the corridors. Blindly hurrying down the 'home' passage leading to his dungeon, he pulled himself up only just in time to avoid colliding with Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, Severus. I was just looking for you," she smiled. His blank gaze took in the champagne she was carrying without passing thought or judgement.

"Mm," he said. She peered through her half-moon spectacles at him in the gloom.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

"Mm," he said again, walking round her and trying to continue his way back to safety, sanctuary, familiarity.

"Severus!" she called, seizing the back of his robe to stop him. "What is it?"

He stared at her wrinkled hand, clutching at the black of his cloak, then along her arm to her face. The feline eyes were as piercing and formidable as they had been during his schooldays, but for some reason he no longer wanted to shy away from them. He realised with a jolt that she would not have to forcibly wrestle the confession out of him – he actually wanted to share his personal problem with someone else. It was a startling revelation.

Snape was unsure how to proceed. How did one go about broaching such a subject? And why would she really want to know? As he turned over these points in his mind, she tugged him silently towards his rooms and he lowered the defences on the door, wondering why he was so keen to drop the stronger ones inside his head.

They were settled in the chairs by the fireplace before he managed to speak. McGonagall did not rush him, instinctively knowing that this would not be an easy interview for her younger colleague.

"Kingsley," he began, then stopped. Even saying his name hurt. She nodded in understanding.

"I know he was badly injured," she prompted.

"He cannot remember," he heard himself say, in an odd, disembodied voice. When the deputy headmistress said nothing, he tried to clarify. "He has amnesia. He has no recollection of recent events. Of me. Of us." He gritted his teeth, dreading her reaction. She would mock him, he was certain of it, finding the unbearable situation amusing in some way. But even worse would be pity, he decided. He would be pitied by the whole community as the poor soul whose lover had survived the blasted battle but no longer wanted him, having been robbed of their meagre store of precious memories.

It seemed he had misjudged Minerva, however. Her expression was devoid of mirth or sympathy, being merely thoughtful as she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, and her chin on her hand.

"How unfortunate. Is this situation permanent?" she asked, mercifully not really looking at him as she pondered the matter.

"They do not know for sure. There are so many unknowns when dealing with the workings of the human mind, even today," Snape was pleased that he kept his voice so neutral, when all he wanted was to fling himself to the floor and sell his body and soul to any passing entity capable of bringing Kingsley back to him. If he had been unsure of his feelings before today, then there was no longer a glimmer of doubt. He had previously avoided emotional attachments wherever possible because of this. He only had himself to blame. Let down the walls in your head to let in Love and you were open and defenceless in the face of Pain. The avoidance of Pain was a tactic which had shaped his life since childhood, yet here he was, almost forty years old, with all his experience and qualifications, in pure agony at the loss of a love-affair.

"Minerva," he blurted, unable to keep all this unfamiliar emotion to himself any longer. "I love him. We had only just begun and I've already lost him." He hung his head at his shamelessly out-of-character behaviour, but McGonagall merely regarded him as though he had asked her to pass the salt.

"In that case, you will just have to win him back," she explained, logically.

"I can't!" wailed Snape, burying his face in his good hand as he sunk lower and lower. "He was the one who started everything. He investigated how I was feeling, adapting his own life to fit around my foibles. He listened to all of my insecurities and still wished to pursue me."

"Perfect," she declared calmly. Severus stared at her incredulously.

"What?" he demanded, desperately tired and hoarse.

"That would suggest that he cared a great deal for you before the accident. If he instigated the relationship, then he clearly finds you attractive. If he took pains to develop it, then he enjoys your company," she explained it all calmly, without passing judgement of any kind. Crossing her arms across her chest, she concluded; "All you need to do is spend lots of time with him. This will either jog his memory and you will be back to normal, or he will fall in love with you all over again and the lost weeks will have to be written off as casualties of war."

Snape gaped at her. She seemed to have it all worked out. Try as he might, he could not find fault with the argument. He dared to allow his miserable spirits to lift a little at the thought of Kingsley caring about him whether he remembered or not – could it really be so simple? Blasted Griffindor logic.

Swallowing, he looked at her for reassurance.

"So, what shall I do now?"

She finally broke the professional façade and allowed herself a grin, more cat-like than ever as she stretched her shoulders and wriggled in the chair.

"Now, my wee child, you go and get him!"

"But how shall I begin?" He worried, refusing to believe things could be solved so easily.

"In your place," she suggested, "I should start by telling him how you saved his life…"

…….

AN: Is it really so simple? Has KS changed?

Another slow update, I'm afraid. Thanks for lovely reviews of the last chapter, so glad I'm hitting the right note for so many of you! Especially as it's so AU now (mutters)! There will be a return to some of the more established forms of angst soon. So glad you like the Hagrid part, am actually planning on using RH in a new story in the pipeline…

Next time, we'll hear a bit more about what happened to whom during the battle, though this fic was never terribly concerned with the main canon plots or characters. Thanks so much for sticking with me! As always, I love to hear from any others interested in this rarer ship! Love to all x