No, she is taken to Flich for detention

(All charcters are 18+)

Five minutes later, Snape led Hermione down the torchlit corridors, his black robes billowing behind him like a thundercloud. Hermione clutched the thin robe that Snape had conjured for her, the flimsy fabric doing little to ward off the chill of the dungeons or the icy dread coiling in her stomach. She had tried her best, but could produce no suitable covering on her own.

They stopped before a familiar door, the one bearing the sign: "ARGUS FILCH, Caretaker." Without knocking, Snape pushed the door open. Filch was hunched over his desk, examining what appeared to be a confiscated Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product, but his head snapped up at the intrusion. A greasy, malevolent grin spread across his face as he took in Hermione's disheveled state and Snape's thunderous expression. "Severus! What a pleasure. And... Miss Granger," he purred, his voice like gravel. "In trouble again, are we? And barely dressed, I see. The rules on proper attire are quite clear, even for you lot."

"She has broken those rules, Argus," Snape said, his tone devoid of all emotion. "And demonstrated a profound inability to control her own magic. She requires... remedial punishment. I'm assigning her to you for the remainder of the day. Detention, with you."

Filch's eyes gleamed with a sadistic light that made Hermione's skin crawl. "Oh, I think we can find something suitable. Something to teach her about respecting school property... and the value of proper dress."

Snape gave a curt nod, his lip curling slightly as he looked down at Hermione. "See that she learns her lesson, Argus. Her arrogance is becoming intolerable." With that, he swept out of the office, leaving Hermione alone with the leering caretaker and his cat, Mrs. Norris, who wound herself around Hermione's legs with a low, possessive hiss.

"Right then," Filch said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get started, shall we? No magic," he added, his eyes narrowing. "You've proven you can't be trusted with it. You'll do this the Muggle way. The Squib way."

He led her to a small, dusty chamber off his main office. "First, your work attire," he said, pulling a folded piece of grey fabric from a drawer. He shook it out, and Hermione's heart sank. It was a work smock, a simple, sleeveless garment designed to be worn over clothes to protect them. On its own, it was a mockery of modesty. "Put it on," he commanded, turning his back pointedly, though Hermione could see his reflection in a dusty mirror on the wall, watching her intently.

With trembling fingers, Hermione removed her conjured robe. The cold air hit her skin, and she pulled the scratchy smock over her head. The armholes were enormous, plunging down to her natural waist. The wrap-around style barely secured at her hips, and the hem stopped perilously high on her thighs. With her small breasts, the loose fabric offered no coverage at all.

"Excellent," Filch said, turning back around. His eyes roamed over her, taking in every exposed inch. "Now, for your first task. The floors in this corridor haven't been properly scrubbed in a decade." He led her out into the stone hallway and pointed to a bucket of grimy water and a stiff-bristled brush. "On your hands and knees. Scrub every inch from that statue to the end of the hall."

Hesitantly, Hermione knelt. The cold, damp stone immediately seeped into her skin. As she leaned forward to dip the brush, the smock gaped open. The entire side of her body, from the curve of her breast to her hip, was exposed.

"Put your back into it," he commanded from his position behind her. He could see the entirelty of her thighs, and half her ass peeking out from the smock. "You're not reaching the grout. Get your face down closer to the floor."

She had **** but to obey, leaning forward even more. The smock fell away completely, leaving her ass exposed, and her small breasts and their hardened nipples completely visible from the side. She didnt even want to think about where he was looking. She scrubbed furiously, trying to finish as quickly as possible.

"Always thought you witches had it too easy," he mused. "Waving your wands, getting whatever you want. It's good to see one of you on her knees for a change."

"This is humiliating," Hermione muttered, pausing her work. "And against school policy."

"Detention *is* humiliating, Miss Granger," Filch replied, stepping closer. "That's rather the point." He placed a hand on the small of her back, his fingers pressing against her bare skin just under the smock, which was now covering nothing below her waist. "Now, get back to work."

**** for some cover, she risked a tiny, wandless charm, hoping to make the hem of the smock grow longer and hang lower. It was a pathetic attempt, and it backfired instantly. Filch was on her in an instant. "What was that?" he hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her upright. "Magic? After I expressly forbade it?"

"I... I just wanted the smock to stay down," she stammered.

"Cheating," he snarled, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Well, we'll just have to find a task where that little trick won't help you at all. Follow me."

He dragged her to the library annex, a small, cramped room with towering, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "You'll use the stepladder," he instructed, pointing to a rickety wooden ladder. "Top shelf first."

Hermione's legs felt weak as she climbed the ladder. Each rung was a new humiliation. From below, Filch had a perfect view up the short smock. She knew he could see everything—the curve of her bottom, the shadow between her legs.

"Wider stance," he called up. "You'll fall if you don't balance properly."

She hesitated, but after glancing down at his determined face, she spread her legs slightly on the rungs, reaching to dust the top shelf. The motion caused the smock to ride up, and she knew he was staring directly at her ass and her exposed sex. A tear of shame slid down her cheek.

"Higher," he urged. "Get the very back corner."

She stretched, her body taut. The smock gaped open, and from his position below, he could see the soft swell of her belly, her ribs, and the full curve of her breast as she leaned forward. She was completely exposed.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, after a few minutes of enduring the humiliation, her voice trembling.

"Absolutely," Filch replied, his eyes gleaming. After another few minutes he waved her down, "Now, get down from there. Your next task is polishing these broomsticks."

He led her back to the main office, where dozens of old, school-owned flying broomsticks lay on the floor. "On the floor," he commanded. "You'll clean each one and polish it thoroughly."

Hermione sank to her hands and knees, crawling along the cold stone floor sending shivers through her body. She crawled to the first broom and began polishing the handle. As she worked, Filch positioned himself directly behind her, ostensibly to supervise.

"You're missing spots," he criticized, placing a hand on her bare hip as she leaned forward. The touch made her flinch. "Don't stop," he said, his fingers lingering on her skin. "Thebsooner you finish, the sooner youll be done."

She tried to focus on the task, but his presence was overwhelming. Each time she had to stretch to reach a different part of the broom, the smock would shift, exposing another part of her body. When she leaned forward to polish the bristles, the back hem would lift, offering him a full glimpse of her bare bottom.

"This is degrading," she said, pausing her work. "Detention is supposed to be a punishment, not a peep show."

"Watch your tongue, girl," Filch snapped, his hand moving to her exposed side, brushing her sideboob, his fingers pressing into her ribs. "Or I'll find something even more degrading for you to polish." He guided her back to the task with a chuckle, his touch lingering just a moment too long. "Now, finish polishing these brooms. And don't miss a single spot."

For what felt like hours, Hermione polished. The room was silent except for the sound of her rubbing and Filch's occasional critical remarks. The rough smock chafed her skin, and the position she was in caused her back and knees to ache. But worst of all was Filch's unrelenting, watchful gaze and his occasional "helpful" touches that always managed to find bare, sensitive skin.

As Hermione reached for yet another broomstick, the door to the office creaked open. Professor Dumbledore stood there, his expression unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles. "Argus," he said, his voice calm but firm. "I believe Miss Granger's detention is over for today. I require her presence elsewhere."

Filch's face fell, but he nodded reluctantly. "Of course, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's eyes met Hermione's, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something—pity? anger?—in their depths. "Miss Granger," he said gently. "Please come with me. And you may put your robe back on."