The foreign swearing lanced through Draco's hazed mind, and the hex that followed finished the job. He sat up, gasping, clutching his arm to his chest, sweating and shaking, but awake. The little fairy light that Goyle insisted on using shone through his bed curtains, giving Draco enough light to see where he was and where he wasn't. He wasn't on the bloodstained drawing room floor in the Manor, taking the pain of his master's Cruciatus in punishment for letting Potter escape. He wasn't shivering and naked in wet grass, taking the pain of his master's Mark.
Braeburn. Hogwarts. "Blaise," he said, voice choked, as he realized who he'd hit. "Blaise, I--" His gut roiled, acidic bile coated his tongue, and he bolted from the bed, tripping over a shoe someone had left out. He landed hard, his thin pyjamas no cushion on his knees, and he scrabbled to make it into the bathroom. He skidded across the tiles and fetched up against a sink. He bent over it, clung to it, as he sicked up everything in his stomach. Whimpering, he sank to his knees and rested his forehead against the porcelain.