Nope. She pauses at the door as it closes, with predictable results.

Clutching her towel with both hands, Hermione made her way across the kitchen, weaving between working elves and long preparation tables. Her bare feet padded softly on the stone floor, the warmth from the cooking fires still prickling against her exposed skin. She kept both hands firmly on her towel, acutely aware of how little separated her from complete exposure.

The exit was just ahead—a heavy wooden door set into the far wall. Through that door lay the corridor, and beyond that, the route back to Gryffindor Tower. Back to safety. Back to clothes.

She tried to think practically about the journey ahead, her strategic mind automatically plotting the route. From the kitchens up to the ground floor, then navigating to the staircases that would take her up to the seventh floor. It wasn't ideal, walking through the castle in a towel, but it was manageable. The towel covered her completely—from above her breasts down to mid-thigh. Modest enough, technically.

Just walk quickly and calmly, she told herself. It's after dinner. Most people are probably in their common rooms or studying. The corridors should be relatively empty.

And if she did run into someone, well... she could explain. House elf mishap. It sounded ridiculous, but it was the truth. People would understand. It would be embarrassing, yes, mortifying even, but survivable.

She'd been through worse. Much worse. Last year she'd faced **** Eaters, lived on the run, been tortured at Malfoy Manor. She could handle walking through Hogwarts in a towel.

She reached the door and paused, taking a steadying breath. One hand released the towel briefly to check that it was secure—tucked properly above her breasts, hanging straight. Everything covered. She was fine.

Okay. Here we go.

Hermione grasped the iron door handle. The metal was cool against her palm, a sharp contrast to the warm kitchen air. She pulled it open carefully and peered out into the corridor beyond.

Empty.

Relief washed through her. The stone corridor stretched away in both directions, lit by the familiar flickering torches mounted on the walls. No students. No professors. No one at all. Just empty castle corridor, silent and still.

Good. That was very good.

She stepped through the doorway into a small alcove just outside the kitchen entrance. The temperature dropped immediately—the corridor was noticeably cooler than the kitchens, and goosebumps rose on her bare arms and legs. The stone floor was cold beneath her feet.

Hermione paused in the alcove, the reality of her situation settling over her more fully now. Before she ventured out into the main corridor, she should make sure everything was properly secure. She released her grip on the towel with her right hand and used both hands to adjust it—checking the tuck above her breasts, making sure it was secure. Her fingers smoothed over the towel fabric, making sure it hung straight and covered her adequately down to her mid-thigh, ensuring there were no gaps or loose spots.

Behind her, she heard the heavy door swing closed with a soft thud, followed by a decisive click as the latch caught and the lock engaged.

She didn't think anything of it at that moment, focused on her adjustments. Satisfied that the towel was secure, she returned both hands to clutching it at her chest. Now she was out of the kitchen. Standing in a Hogwarts corridor. In just a towel. Anyone could walk by at any moment.

The self-consciousness intensified. She was suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin—her bare shoulders, her arms, her legs. The towel felt thinner than before, less like adequate covering and more like the single flimsy barrier between her and complete exposure. Her breasts pressed against the fabric from inside, and she could feel the way the towel clung to the curve of her hips.

Stop it, she told herself firmly. Just move. Get going.

Hermione took a step forward, heading down the corridor toward the route that would lead upstairs.

And felt immediate resistance.

Something was holding her back. Tugging on the towel. Keeping her from moving forward properly.

"What—?"

Confused, she tried to take another step. The resistance increased, pulling more firmly at the towel around her body. It was caught on something. But what?

She turned around to look, her heart beginning to beat faster with the first stirrings of alarm.

The towel was caught in the door.

The kitchen door she'd just come through.

The heavy wooden door that had swung closed behind her.

Her burgundy towel—her only covering—was pinched in the closed door frame, the fabric trapped between the door and the jamb.

"No." The word came out as barely a whisper. "No, no, no."