The second was the warmth. The solid, unfamiliar weight of an arm draped heavily over your waist.

You opened your eyes. The pale morning light filtered through the charcoal grey silk curtains of Draco Malfoy’s bedroom. You’d helped him pick them out.

Your head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. The formal. The Ministry gala. Too much champagne.

Your gaze swept the room. A trail of formalwear led from the door. Your emerald green dress was in a heap by the wardrobe. His tailored dress robes were flung over the back of an armchair. A single, abandoned high-heeled shoe lay on its side near the bed.