His fingers shook violently as he untied the loose knot on the pouch. His face never left the ground as he dumped a little glass phial onto the ground by his nose. It was purple, he could still recognize color at least. A slip of parchment spiraled around the base of the phial. The words were slanted, tight script that Draco wouldn’t have been able to read if he tried. Against his better judgment, he uncorked (with significant difficulty) and gagged down the mystery potion. It writhed in his stomach like a basket of snakes, and for a moment he feared he might be sick again. The world lurched and swung, and he held onto the tile floor for dear life, waiting for the feeling to pass. After a few moments of what could be considered war-crime level torture, an icy feeling spread from his chest to his limbs, cooling his fever. The brain fog ebbed away slowly, bringing with it the pins and needles from behind his eyes.