A dull, insistent throb that seems to pulse behind your eyes in time with your heartbeat. The second thing is the warmth. A heavy, solid heat pressed along the length of your back.

You blink, your vision swimming into focus on an unfamiliar, dark green silk pillowcase. The room is dim, curtains drawn against what feels like a painfully bright morning.

You shift, and the movement sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. The warmth behind you shifts too. An arm—a distinctly male arm, you realize with a jolt—tightens around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, bare chest.

Your own body is bare. Completely.

Your breath hitches. You don’t dare move. The room comes into sharper, more horrifying detail. A black leather jacket is tossed over the back of a plush armchair. A silver Slytherin tie is draped precariously over a lampshade. On the floor, a trail of discarded formalwear leads from the door to the foot of the enormous four-poster bed.

And on the bedside table, next to an empty bottle of Ogden’s Finest, sits a small, square foil packet. Torn open. Unused.

Your gaze drops to your own hand, which is resting on the silk sheets in front of you. On your left ring finger, a band of heavy, dark silver catches the sliver of light from the curtain gap. It’s intricately carved with serpents, their bodies twisting around a single, small, black stone.

It is most definitely not your jewelry.