She knew she needed to stop scrubbing. Her skin was already a bright red colour and the longer she scrubbed, the more it hurt. She had gone so long without a proper shower while on the run and then they were staying at Shell Cottage, she hadn't wanted to intrude more than they already were on the hospitality that Bill and Fleur were giving them.
When the battle ended and the dust cleared, a shower had been the farthest thing from her mind. There was so much death surrounding her, loved ones, friends, even those on the opposite side was still a senseless loss of life to her. The pain had threatened to overwhelm her, the despair that could be heard from mothers crying and screaming over the lifeless bodies of their children; husbands, wives, and children moaning in pain that they had lost their person. Hermione had done the only thing she could do, she shut it out.
She could remember turning to Madam Pomfrey and volunteering her help with the wounded. Throwing herself into helping anyone she could, Hermione had turned her emotions off and got to work. Bandaging those with cuts, directing those who were too injured for her limited skills to healers that had been sent from St Mungos, offering blankets and warm food and tea for those who were in shock. Staying at Hogwarts for three days, taking naps here and there, she was able to keep her mind occupied with anything over than what she had been through the past year. She wasn't ready for it and wasn't sure she ever would be.
After all the wounded had been tended to or sent to St Mungos and the dead had been claimed by family, and the last Death Eater had been rounded up by the Ministry, Hermione had to decide what she needed to do for herself. She could have gone to the Burrow, she knew she would be welcome. They had been a second family to her since she was twelve years old but the idea of going into the home that had always been so full of happiness, laughter, and love now filled with sorrow and grief was too much for her barely hanging sanity.
Seeking out the new headmistress, Hermione had sought sanctuary at Hogwarts in exchange for helping rebuild the castle when the time had come. Minerva, as she asked Hermione to call her, had told her that she was always welcome at the castle and showed her to the Gryffindor head girls suite. That's how she found herself, standing under the spray of the hottest water the shower could provide, scrubbing her skin until she was certain she wouldn't have any left.
Hermione felt as though she would never be clean again. Not just her body, but her mind and soul as well. The moment Dobby had rescued them all from Malfoy Manor, she had locked away the trauma of Bellatrix standing over her, knife in one hand, wand in the other, screaming in her face. The feel of the knife stabbing into her arm, the crude carving, the feeling of her nerves being on fire as crucio after crucio was shot at her. She had put the entire experience in a box and locked it up tight and shoved it in the back of her mind. Hermione knew she would never be the same, none of them would be.
A gasp of pain slipped from her lips as the flannel scrubbed the arm Bellatrix had carved mudblood into. She had kept it wrapped since the moment they had arrived at Bill and Fleur's, only uncovering it briefly to re-wrap it. Not wanting to take attention away from those who truly needed medical attention, she hadn't shown or told anyone. Hermione was fairly certain Bellatrix had used a cursed blade of some kind and more than likely, there wasn't anything that could be done for her.
The water cascaded down her naked body, skinnier than she had ever been in her life, able to count her ribs if she wanted too, and looked at her arm. The box was no longer locked. The feelings she had repressed, the pain of all the loss, the months upon months of bone-deep fear crashed around her and brought her to her knees in the shower. Thankful there was no one around to hear her, she let out a gut-wrenching scream. She screamed until her throat was raw and no sound was coming out. Sobs wracked her body, and though her knees ached on the hard stone floor of the shower, she continued crying, gasping for air as she ran out of breath.
It could have been minutes or hours that she lay on the floor crying. At that point, she wasn't even sure why she was crying. It could have been the loss of her childhood that she would never reclaim, the loss of her parents that she had sent away over a year before, knowing they would never know her again. Perhaps it was a mixture of her body finally realising it could relax, that she was no longer in danger and able to sleep for longer than a couple of hours a night. She cried for Harry who she knew would take the loss of each and every person and would never be the same. She cried for Ron who had lost a brother, a piece of his heart.
Standing up, she turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel that was hanging from a hook and wrapping herself in it. Walking into the bedroom, she found a pair of black joggers and a t-shirt laying on the bed for her. A small smile on her face as she touched the clean clothes, the first clean clothes she had felt in a long time. Drying off, Hermione put on the clothes and climbed into the four-poster bed and pulling the blankets until the were touching her chin, she pointed her wand that had been on the nightstand, at the fireplace in the corner of the room. She wasn't sure she would ever lose the feeling of bone-deep cold.
With the warmth of the fire washing over her face, tears began rolling down her cheeks. This was almost worse than the sobs in the shower. These were tears that she knew would never leave her, that would overtake her in her quietest moments when she thought she was doing alright. Before setting her wand back on the nightstand, she waved it around the room, setting up the same wards she had used around the tent, the compulsion was something she would have to work on quitting. She made a promise to herself to find out who had sent the clothes to her the next day when she awoke and thank them. Turning over, Hermione closed her eyes and prayed to any of the Gods listening to let her sleep.
The exhaustion she had felt since before Voldemort had fallen was debilitating. She had been surviving on pepper-up potions since the final battle. She lay there, her eyes open, staring around at the walls that were lit from the fire, shadows dancing along the way and though she knew no enemies were lurking in those shadows, she couldn't help her heart beginning to beat faster, her palms began to sweat. Hermione knew all the signs of a panic attack but was helpless to stop it.
Stumbling out of bed, back to the bathroom, she searched the counters for a calming draught, a vial of dreamless sleep, anything that would stop it. Bottles and vials, soaps, and flannels were thrown to the floor in her blind panic. Finding nothing, she curled into a ball on the cold floor of the bathroom and began to count. It was something her mum had taught her when she felt out of control, find something and count.
Just as she reached five hundred and thirty-seven, a quiet pop sounded just in front of her.
"Oh, miss shouldn't be on the floor. Can Winky be getting Miss anything?"
Wiping her eyes, Hermione pulled her body up until she was leaning against the wall. Seeing Winky was enough of a shock to pull her out of her panic attack. The tiny elf was twisted her Hogwarts uniform between her fingers. Hermione was happy to see she was no longer in the stained dress Crouch had given her and seemed to have sobered up.
"Did miss not be liking the clothes Winky picked out? I cans are goings to get different ones."
Hermione gave the little elf a gentle smile. "No, the clothes are lovely. Thank you so much for thinking of me."
Winky shuffled from foot to foot, pulling on one of her ears.
"Headmistress be telling Winky to take extra special care of yous when she asked for a volunteer. Winky be happy to take care of miss. Yous a good witch, Winky happy to look after you."
The tears that were falling now had nothing to do with the pain she was in, both mentally and physically, but knowing that someone was looking out for her, someone cared, helped more than she could say.