Yes. The obvious one.

She already knew the answer.

Without the towel, she could move. She could use her knowledge of the castle — seven years of it — take the quieter routes, avoid the main staircases and the Entrance Hall entirely. Stick to the servant passages and side corridors where few students would have any reason to be at this hour. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was a plan.

Hermione stood in the alcove, her back pressed against the cold stone wall. The trapped towel hung behind her. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it.

She peered around the alcove edge one last time. Left—empty, just stone walls and flickering torches. Right—also empty. No voices. No footsteps.

I can't believe I'm about to do this.

She turned her back to the door, her left hand still holding the front of the towel closed—keeping herself covered for a few more seconds. Her right hand moved to join it. The fingers found the tucked edge above her breasts and buried themselves under it.

She hesitated. This is insane. I'm really doing this.

But it was happening.

Hermione steeled herself. No more hesitation. Her hands began to pull. The fabric came free easily—no longer held by the tuck, just draped around her, barely held in place by her hands. She knew that when she let go, the towel would fall. And she would be naked. Completely. Utterly.

Here it goes.

The towel responded to gravity immediately. It slid down from her shoulders first—cool air touching her collarbones, then her chest, the soft terry cloth dragging across her breasts and making them tighten from the sudden coolness. Her breasts were fully revealed — small and round, nipples tightening instantly in the cool air. The towel kept falling, over her stomach, past her navel, every new inch of skin sharp with the temperature difference. Goosebumps chased the fabric downward as it dragged over her hips and exposed the dark triangle of hair at her centre, then her thighs, her knees. Her legs fully bared all the way down. Finally, the towel pooled around her ankles, settling on the cold stone floor—still partially pinned in the door frame, the rest of it crumpled at her feet.

And there Hermione was. Standing there. Completely naked. Not a stitch. Bare to the world.

The cool air hit her all at once — shoulders, chest, stomach, everywhere — and she sucked in a sharp breath. Her arms moved before she'd even thought about it, left arm crossing over her chest, her right hand dropping low. She stood there for a moment, heart hammering, adjusting to the reality of what she'd just done.

Then she made herself move. She stepped to the alcove edge and peered out. Empty. Still empty.

That was all she needed.

Hermione stepped out into the corridor and ran.