Hermione runs the bath once again before she is done, because once she has cleaned herself – gingerly and with tears streaking her cheeks – and catalogued her many hurts, the water is tinted dirty reddish-grey. She rinses off in the shallower bath, relishing the fresh, hot water again, and wraps herself in a massive towel that hides the bruises quilted in patchwork over her torso and thighs, but the ones on her arms, face, tops of her breasts, and the rest of her legs are still painfully visible. She looks haggard, face swollen to the point where she is barely recognisable. She stares and stares, hair stringing around her face in dark tangles, and she can't find a connection to herself; she looks like a stranger in the mirror. A brutalised, hollowed out stranger. There is a bruise potion on the bathroom counter that she swallows, the taste bitter on her tongue.