The Kitchens.

The sensation of apparition was always deeply unpleasant—that feeling of being compressed through a space far too small for a human body, colors blurring into nauseous streaks, her stomach lurching violently. It happened so fast she barely had time to register the panic rising in her chest before suddenly—

Thump.

Her feet hit solid ground. Hermione stumbled, the elf releasing her wrist as she caught her balance. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus through the disorientation, one hand instinctively pressed against her churning stomach while the other clutched her towel.

Where—?

The first thing that hit her was the warmth. Much warmer than her dormitory had been, almost oppressively so. Then the smells—roasting meat, baking bread, the sharp tang of herbs and spices layered over each other in an overwhelming wave. Sounds filtered through her confusion: the clatter of pots and pans, the hiss of something frying, the splash of water, countless small footsteps moving in organized chaos.

Her vision cleared. She was standing in an enormous, cavernous space with vaulted stone ceilings. Massive fireplaces lined the walls, each containing multiple cooking fires. Long wooden tables stretched across the floor, covered with food in various states of preparation. Enormous copper pots hung from hooks. Stacks of dishes towered precariously near gigantic sinks.

The Hogwarts kitchens.

Recognition clicked into place. She'd been here before, during her S.P.E.W. campaign, though that felt like a lifetime ago now. But why had the elf brought her here?

And then the full awareness of her situation crashed over her.

Hermione looked down at herself. The burgundy towel was still wrapped around her body, thank Merlin—it had somehow stayed in place during the apparition. She was clutching it with her right hand. But that was all she had. Just the towel. Nothing underneath. No clothes, no wand, nothing.

"I'm in the kitchens in a towel," she whispered, her cheeks flushing hot.

The self-consciousness hit immediately. This wasn't her private dormitory anymore. This was a public space—well, not public exactly, but still. She was standing in the castle's kitchens wearing nothing but a towel that barely reached mid-thigh. Her shoulders were completely bare, her legs exposed from the knees down. The towel covered her from just above her breasts to mid-thigh — adequate, technically, but she was acutely aware of how little fabric stood between her and everything beneath it.

If the towel slipped even slightly...

She clutched it tighter, her now-free left hand joining her right to secure the towel. Her heart hammered in her chest. This was completely inappropriate. Completely mortifying.

At least the kitchens were full of house elves, not students. Dozens of them scurried about their tasks—stirring enormous pots, kneading dough the size of cushions, washing dishes in sinks that could fit a first-year student. Some glanced over at her arrival with their enormous eyes, then immediately returned to their work. Others didn't even seem to notice her presence.

That was something, at least. House elves didn't care about human modesty. Clothing meant nothing to them beyond their own cherished tea towels and pillowcases. They wouldn't find anything strange about her being here in a towel.

But she cared. Very much.

"Why am I here, again?" she muttered, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.

The juvenile elf who'd brought her was bouncing on his feet, gesturing wildly as he spoke in that rapid, high-pitched voice. "Miss Granger helps house elves! Miss Granger fixes problems! There is dispute, yes, and Miss Granger must—"

"Wait, what dispute? Slow down." Hermione tried to follow his words, but he was talking so fast the syllables ran together. "What exactly is the problem?"

She looked around the kitchen more carefully. The elves all seemed to be working normally. Efficiently, even. She saw no signs of conflict, no arguments, no distressed house elves huddled in corners. Just the usual controlled chaos of meal preparation.

"I don't see any—"

A sharp voice cut through the kitchen noise. "What is this?"

One of the elves near a large stove had stopped working and was staring at her and the juvenile elf. He called out something in the strange, squeaky language house elves used among themselves. Other elves paused, turning to look. The word spread through the kitchen in a ripple—a human here, brought by one of their own.

Hermione's flush deepened. More eyes on her. More awareness of her state of undress, even though she knew rationally that none of them cared. She tugged at her towel slightly, making sure it was secure, wishing desperately she was wearing actual clothes. A robe. A school uniform. Anything.

An older house elf was making his way toward them, other elves stepping aside to let him pass. He wore a cleaner tea towel than the others, pressed and crisp, and carried himself with unmistakable authority. His wrinkled face was set in stern lines as his enormous eyes took in the scene—Hermione in her towel, the juvenile elf looking increasingly nervous.

Relief and mortification warred in Hermione's chest. Someone in charge who could explain what was happening —good. But also, now she was standing in front of what was clearly the head kitchen elf wearing nothing but a towel—bad. Very bad.

She straightened her spine, trying to maintain some dignity despite her bare shoulders and exposed legs. The head elf stopped in front of them, his gaze sharp.

"What is going on here?" His voice carried authority despite its high pitch. "Why has Miss been brought to the kitchens?"

He looked at Hermione, then at the juvenile elf, suspicion clear on his wrinkled features.

"He apparated into my dormitory and brought me here," Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady and polite despite the embarrassment burning in her cheeks. She gestured down at herself with one hand, painfully aware of how ridiculous she must look. "I was just about to take a shower. He said something about a dispute that needed resolving? But I don't see any problem."

The head elf's large eyes narrowed. He turned to address the kitchen at large, his voice ringing out. "Is there a dispute among us? Has anyone requested help?"

The response came in a chorus of squeaky voices and shaking heads.

"No dispute, sir."

"Everything is fine, sir."

"We did not call for anyone."

The elves returned to their work, the brief interruption over as far as they were concerned. Pots continued to bubble. Knives continued to chop. The kitchen's rhythm resumed.

The head elf turned back to the juvenile elf, his expression darkening. "There is no dispute."

The young elf's enormous eyes went even wider. He looked down at his feet.

"You acted on your own," the head elf continued, his tone severe. "Without permission. Without cause."

"I... I thought..." The juvenile elf's voice was tiny now. "I heard Miss Granger helps house elves. I thought... if there is ever problem, Miss Granger fixes..."

"There. Is. No. Problem." Each word was enunciated carefully, damning. The head elf's ears were flat against his head. "You disturbed a student. You brought her here inappropriately. And—" His voice dropped lower, almost dangerous. "You apparated within Hogwarts walls?"

The juvenile elf flinched.

"This is forbidden!" the head elf snapped. "House elves can do this, yes, but it is secret! Not to be used for foolishness! Not to be used to bring students places without asking!"

Hermione stood awkwardly during this exchange, clutching her towel with both hands. She felt increasingly uncomfortable—not about the scolding, which the young elf clearly deserved, but about standing here in the middle of the kitchens wearing only a towel while this played out. Multiple elves were working nearby, even if they weren't paying attention to her. The heat from the cooking fires was making her skin prickle with sweat.

She just wanted to leave.

She wanted clothes.

"You will be dealt with appropriately," the head elf said coldly to the juvenile. "Go. Now."

The young elf's shoulders slumped. He shuffled away toward a door at the far end of the kitchen, looking utterly dejected. Hermione felt a pang of sympathy despite her frustration with the situation. He'd meant well. He'd just... completely misunderstood what her S.P.E.W. work had actually been about.

The head elf turned to her, his expression softening slightly. He inclined his head in a small bow. "Deepest apologies, Miss Granger. This should not have happened. The young one acted foolishly."

"It's... it's alright," Hermione said, trying to be gracious even as she clutched her towel tighter. "He meant well, I think. He just—" She broke off, then tried again. "Could someone perhaps help me get back to my dormitory?"

Or... maybe some clothes?

The hope in her voice was painfully obvious even to her own ears.

The head elf nodded. "Yes, yes. You should return to your dormitory. Good evening, Miss."

And then he simply turned away.

"Wait—" Hermione started, but the head elf was already moving across the kitchen, calling out instructions about dinner preparations to the other elves. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Issue resolved. Apology given. Back to work.

Hermione stared after him in disbelief. That was it? Just... good evening?

She looked around at the other elves, trying to catch someone's attention. "Excuse me? Could someone—" An elf passed by without even glancing at her. "I need help getting back, or some clothes?" Another elf stirred a massive pot, completely focused on the task.

She tried three more elves with similar results. One looked at her blankly, clearly not understanding why she needed help—the door was right there, wasn't it? She could walk. Another muttered something about needing to check the bread and scurried away. A third simply ignored her completely, hands deep in bread dough.

Hermione's frustration built with each failed attempt. They didn't understand. From their perspective, she wasn't injured or in danger. She was just a human in a towel, which meant absolutely nothing to them. They had work to do, meals to prepare, duties to fulfill. Why would she need assistance?

But she couldn't explain to them about human modesty, about how inappropriate this was, about how mortifying it would be to walk through the castle corridors like this. They simply didn't have the context to understand.

"Fine," she muttered under her breath, resigned. "I'll just... go back myself."