Draco grunted, in no hurry to shove off or anywhere else. He planted one hand on what felt like someone's knee, hauled his face off the musty ground with a look somewhere between disgust and an incipient sneeze, and for one bleary moment occupied the very strange position of wondering whether he was more relieved or disappointed to discover that the chaos he'd left behind had, apparently, been a dream.
But then the words caught up to him, and that voice, and when he finally managed to grope his way to the ground and get his bearings - there was Potter, no more a dream than he ever was, with the usual gawky look on his face and those stupid glasses to tie it all together. Draco leapt to his feet at once and began brushing earth off his robes (never mind that they were pretty well singed).
"What have you done now?"
Relief was fast solidifying as his dominant reaction, although there was a kernel of guilt threatening to sprout somewhere underneath it all. Wherever he was, at least he wasn't there. When he turned his glare down on Potter, it wasn't with all the feeling and gusto he usually could rally to the occasion. "Don't tell me to shove off."