Minutes to think

Hermione glanced down at her tattered clothing, her mind instinctively shifting into problem-solving mode. She calculated the rate at which the moths were consuming her remaining garments. Her bra, made of sturdier material, might last another twenty minutes, while her panties could disintegrate within fifteen. Her shoes, thankfully, seemed resistant, but she knew she couldn't rely on them forever. As she pondered her dwindling attire, an unexpected flutter in her chest surprised her. The idea of being exposed, of losing control, sparked a strange, thrilling sensation. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks as she realized the allure of her precarious situation.

Hermione's blouse and tie surrendered to the relentless moths, drifting to the floor in tatters as she stood before the Fat Lady's empty portrait. The realization of her precarious state sent a shiver down her spine, but she knew she had to act swiftly. With a determined glance, she turned away from the unyielding portrait and hurried down the corridor, her shoes making soft patters against the cold stone floor. The moths swirled around her, their gentle hum a constant reminder of her dwindling attire.