Harry rolled his eyes and propped himself up on both elbows. He would have sneered, probably, but his lip was too cracked (and sticky, apparently) to allow himself such a needless expression of distaste. He used the back of his sleeve to attempt to wide specks of mud from his glasses, really just succeeding in spreading it around, and got to his knees before using the stone to pull himself to his feet.
Everything hurt, every muscle in his body burned and his legs nearly gave out under his weight, which he hated only because Draco was the last person he wanted to have to witness this kind of out-of-sorts. He used the same sleep so scrap dried blood from the side of his mouth before straightening up and letting go of the stone.
"I haven't done anything." He said, half-heartedly reading the name on the headstone; glad it wasn't one that he recognised. If he'd woken up on Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave once again, he probably would have just called the whole thing quits. He'd seen it through to the bitter end, all of it. He wasn't about to go back to the start. "We were -- where are we?"