As she sipped her tea, her mind wandered to Malfoy Manor. She supposed she should have spoken to someone by now about everything that had happened - the nightmares and racing pulse and phantom pains that still haunted her - but the magical world didn’t have the equivalent of therapists and even the idea of figuring out how to explain what had occurred in muggle-friendly terms gave her a migraine. She couldn’t exactly bring it up with her friends either, since most of them were elated to be helping with the war effort and had stopped having their own nightmares years ago, no scars carved into  their  forearms. So she’d visited a muggle doctor and asked about coping mechanisms for panic attacks and practised various breathing exercises until she could more or less manage on her own. Still, counting her inhales and exhales seemed woefully inadequate faced with the reality of returning to the scene of her trauma. 