In the dim, cold cell, Hermione and Draco sat in silence, eating the tasteless, sludgy porridge pushed under the door. The atmosphere was thick with exhaustion and despair. Hermione, trying to distract herself from the monotony, picked up a sharp rock and scratched tally marks into the stone wall. "IIIII II" — seven long days of captivity.
She hummed a soft tune under her breath, glancing at the still-healing wound on her arm, a stark reminder of the pain she'd endured. The faint stench of her clothes clung to her, and with a quiet determination, she decided it was time to clean herself. Moving to the bucket of water in the middle of the cell, Hermione began to wash both her clothes and her body as best as she could, scrubbing away the grime of their imprisonment.
Draco silently observed her movements, his expression unreadable, before turning away, giving her privacy in the only way he could. Neither of them spoke, each lost in their own thoughts, but their shared silence had become a bond in itself.
The cold water from the bucket felt like a blessing against Hermione's skin, soothing and refreshing after days of grime clinging to her body. She scrubbed at her flesh with a torn piece of the blanket, using it as a makeshift washcloth. As she worked, dried blood and layers of dusty dirt washed away, clouding the once-clear water.
A pang of guilt struck her as she glanced at the murky water now tainted with her filth. Draco would need it too, and she had no idea when they'd get more. It seemed the Death Eaters brought water every one or two days, but without the sun to mark the passage of time, it was hard to tell. Still, the need to feel somewhat human again overpowered her hesitation. She scrubbed harder, trying to erase the feeling of filth that had become a constant companion in the darkness of their prison.