The intensity of it was indescribable. Don Juan had already been spasming due to the effects of the potion, but he tried to thrash more purposefully as well, to fight the fellow off. He didn't have Don Juan's best interests at heart; he was trying to kill him. Unfortunately he didn't make any progress in hurting the other man — everything was reeling and he was uncoordinated, incapable of violence. The most resistance he could manage was to not look at the man when he ordered it, and to let out a continuous impotent string of profanity. "Fucking shit hell goddamn," he swore, trying to wrench his head out of the man's grip.

Sober, the man proclaimed, and dropped Don Juan back into the chair. Don Juan sprawled, off balance from the sudden shift. He scanned the room he was in — where the fuck was this? How had he gotten here? — looking for escape routes. There was a fireplace, but no way of knowing whether it was connected to the floo or not, and he didn't fancy self-immolation as an exit strategy. He put a hand on his leg and felt the reassuring shape of his wand in a pocket, but he couldn't very well apparate while he was —

That was when it struck him that the man was right: he was, in fact, sober. He blanched. Don Juan had grown up in a world full of magic, but he would have said this was impossible, if it weren't happening to him right now. The man — a familiar man, where did he know this man from? — turned back towards him. Don Juan returned his appraising look with a wary one of his own. "What the hell was that?" he asked, voice still shaking slightly from the intensity of what he'd just experienced. "What did you do to me?"

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