As ever, standard disclaimers apply.
Brandon was a seventeenth century English magician who was known for the rather bizarre trick of making a sketch of a real dove that was perched on a rooftop; when he stabbed the drawing, the real bird fell to the ground, dead. -- magictricks.com under /bios
How long had it been?
Now, that was a strange question. How long since what? How long had he been like this? How long since... before? He didn't recall any before. He only knew that now he was flat on his back, blind, and alone. At least he thought he was alone. He only heard that strange whirring and his own thudding heartbeat.
So. Where should he have been? Where should he have expected to be? Come to that, who was he, anyway?
A sharp sucking of air caught his attention. Some sound at last, though he had no idea what it meant. "He's awake," a husky female voice came from somewhere.
"So, this is a wizard, eh?" another voice, male and rough, not unlike ...M-... someone ... Who? His mind gave no answer. "Looks human enough, heh!" the male voice snorted derisively.
"Well so he is Ca-"
"No names."
"Of course." He could almost hear the woman roll her eyes.
There were some other sounds, none of which he could identify, and the conversation continued. "And what have you ascertained from this, erm, specimen? Will he be what we anticipate?"
"He's not especially co-oper-"
"Muggles!" the prisoner rasped hoarsely as the word suddenly forced itself forward.
"Eh?" the male voice, questioningly.
"Apparently their word for the rest of us normal folk," the woman explained tersely, her frown evident in her tone. "Indeed, we are." The woman addressed him. She was close now. Too close. "Do you know your name?"
"No. Do you?"
"Your name is Brandon."
No. She is lying! He felt it though he could not know it. He tried not to let his doubt enter his expression.Why would she lie?
"And so, Brandon, how are you feeling today?"
"Why don't you tell me?" his own voice rasped back. "That way I should know what you wish to hear." Her slap stung his cheek. She hadn't liked his sarcasm, apparently. Oddly enough, this made him feel strangely satisfied. A sudden sharp prick on his arm reminded him that she could do a great deal more to him than merely slap him. It was an alien sensation that became less unfamiliar as unreasonable terror upwelled and spread over and through him. His heart began to vibrate harder and faster. His lungs were constricting; he couldn't breathe. Worse than drowning! Worse than --
Two hands held his head still and a hollow voice came echoing from far away. He wanted to scream just to make sure he could hear it. But no sound could he force out without any breath in his lungs.
"Severus!" A thin voice called from a remote and inaccessible distance just before a welcome darkness overtook his senses.
"Good morning Brandon."
"I am not Brandon."
A brilliant shock of agony seared his face. Silent, no warning! No, there was a hum... Again. Again! His chest, his face, his palms, the soles of his feet. He screamed at last, a moment before unconsciousness took him.
"Good morning Brandon."
He did not answer. I am not Brandon!
An insect pricked the tender skin of his abused arm. More pain, more nausea. More darkness.
The light was bright and it burnt his eyes. Voices spoke and he knew they were speaking about him. "This is useless! This--" hesitation "--wizard of yours is no good if he can't perform as advertised. Wizard indeed! Cock up I'd say! Wizard!"
"If it's proof you need--" A snort cut off this plea. "All right!" He heard something slam with a metallic crash. Then a face moved into view and something was slapped against his palm. Instinctively his fingers closed about the slim, smooth wood. He felt a warm flush of power reverberate down his arm and he focused, trying to sense the source. Surprisingly, it was not the slender rod in his hand, but rather formed from within himself! He gasped and almost cried out. The warmth surged along his arm and through his wrapped fingers. He heard the crackle of lightning as sparks of lime and silver burst from the end of the rod.
And just as he almost recognized this power within himself, the wand was snatched from his weak grip and all his meager strength dissolved.
He woke to silent darkness and an uncomfortable pressure against his back. No. Not quite silent. There it was, whirrrr ...not an insect. No, it was too... constant. He tried to open his eyes, and realized that he had a headache that was the result of a too tight blindfold. He heard a sound, an unnatural gushing of air, then muffled footsteps and the rustle of cloth. An insect stung him. He felt sick to his stomach. He couldn't move but it didn't matter, there was nothing in his stomach to throw up anyway. And then the terror rose as well. Undefinable, undeniable--!
"What shall we do with you, Brandon?" The husky voice belonged to a woman with dark blond hair cut absurdly short and styled as if the owner wanted something she needn't bother fussing with.
"Who are you? Why am I here?"
"Your name is Brandon. I've told you this. You are an agent in Mi6."
"I don't understand."
The woman, sighed and looked down at him with grave concern, clasping the flat tablet she had been studying to her chest. "You were injured. Head injury. Lost your memory. We're trying to help you get it back."
"No..."
"Sorry. Yes."
"You... are a healer?"
"A doctor, yes."
"That is not my name..."
"I'm going to give you a shot now."
No! No! Again, the prick, nausea, overwhelming terror. And finally endless night.
"No!" The cry ripped from Snape's throat as the delirious man threw himself forward. Arthur Weasley barely managed to grab hold of him before any damage was done.
"Snape!" The professor's body jerked once against the ministry official's hold then sagged as if all life was drained from him. "There now. Let's have you lie back. Good man. That's got it." Arthur let the other man down into the pillows and straightened the sheets, pulling them up over the Potions Master's shoulders. "Can you hear me, Professor?" The dark eyes were halfway between open and shut and discomfitingly unfocused and it was perhaps too much to ask him to be aware of anything at all. But the fever did seem to at least not be rising any more.
"M-muggles..."
"What? Muggles? What about them? Severus? What happened?"
"Arthur, no. Don't force him yet, please." Molly had come hurrying upstairs as soon as she'd heard the scream. It had made its way through the dismal confines of the former Black residence almost as loudly as the portrait Madame Black's own vile screeches. Behind her crowded several other Order members, all curious and suspicious. "Albus will be here shortly."
"Who...?" a tremulous voice gasped as the long fingered hand plucked weakly at Arthur's sleeve, then fell away when the owner of the hand lost consciousness again.
"He's not much use like this," Mad-Eye Moody grumped. "You sure he isn't faking, Molly?" The ex-Auror's good eye narrowed as it gazed suspiciously at the now limp form on the bed.
Molly snorted. "As if I couldn't tell! Now out, all of you. Standing about here isn't going to answer any of our questions and Albus will be here soon... I better finish things in the kitchen. Mad-Eye, tell the children to come in now." She glanced once at Arthur for the support she knew she'd find and then herded everyone out. If Albus needed a second in command he surely couldn't do better than Molly Weasley, the only person to actually make the Weasley Twins nervous. Even Mad-Eye knew better than to argue; at least not until he was sure he had no choice. This wasn't the time or the issue for a confrontation with the red-headed woman.
The psychiatrist sat back in his squeaky chair, oblivious to the discomfort it's familiar sound imparted to the three visitors standing across the other side of his neat desk. "They had the right papers," he assured the man who was quite obviously in charge. "This isn't one your fancy--"
"Yes, yes. Very well. Can you describe them to us?"
"Well the man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, perhaps. His hair was brown going grey. Might be younger then... Ah, average height, I suppose. Thin. The woman, rather... erm... Dowdy, actually. Grey curls. I remember that. Reminded me of an elderly Aunt..." He shrugged apologetically. "Alice didn't tell me anything about the fellow..." He decided then that the best course of action would be to not say anything else.
The man in charge sighed. "We'll be in touch if we have any more questions. Phone us if you think of anything useful." Without another word he spun about and strode out of the slightly dilapidated office.
Only when they three men had piled into the car did anyone say anything further. "Bloody hell! What was she thinking?!"
One of his companions shrugged and offered a placating, "Well at least she didn't follow orders and have him killed."
"I think the governor would almost prefer that, Lou. I hate tying up loose ends."
"What about the estimable doctor?"
The leader snorted. "Not important. Leave him to his mental patients."
He felt... something. Alive, yes, that was it. He felt alive. He felt the presence of another. He briefly wondered what that meant. After all, there was no other. He was alone...