She's to make an unexpected detour.

Hermione moved through the basement corridors with careful purpose, bare feet silent on the cold stone. The basement was dimmer than the upper floors, torches spaced far apart, and she stayed close to one wall where the shadows pooled deepest. Every sense was on high alert — eyes tracking ahead and behind, ears straining for footsteps, voices, anything. The ambient sounds of the castle were there, the distant creaks and whistles of a thousand-year-old building settling around her, but no immediate threats. Hermione kept moving.

She was watching for landmarks she'd memorised: a particular torch sconce with an unusual iron bracket, a worn patch on the wall where generations of students had brushed past. When she spotted them, relief flickered in her chest. Almost there. The side corridor was just around the next corner.

Hermione slowed, listened, then leaned around the edge to look.

Wooden barriers blocked the entrance. Bold red letters: UNSAFE — RECONSTRUCTION IN PROGRESS. DO NOT ENTER. Beyond them, she could see the damage clearly — cracked walls, rubble scattered across the floor, ceiling stones hanging at angles that made her stomach drop.

"No," she whispered.

She stepped closer to examine it properly, applying the same methodical eye she'd use on a difficult problem. The walls were genuinely unstable. Cracks webbed through the stone in every direction. Part of the ceiling had already come down, and the rest looked ready to follow at any vibration.

Hermione stepped back. Trapped under rubble, naked, waiting to be dug out. The thought settled the matter.

The frustration hit sharp and hot. She'd been counting on this route — the quietest path between the kitchens and a staircase, low-traffic, exactly what she needed. Now it was sealed off, and Hermione was standing in a basement corridor with no clothing and no wand, losing time she couldn't afford.

She **** herself to breathe. Anger wasn't useful. She needed to think.

Backtracking was the only option. The main basement corridor was out — it eventually opened near the Entrance Hall, which was suicidal. What Hermione needed was another servant staircase, and there was one more she could reach, though she'd have to backtrack to find it. The problem was where it came out: the first floor, somewhere near the library.

The library drew students even in the evenings. More exposure than she'd wanted. But it was the only alternative that didn't require walking through a main corridor.

Hermione turned around and started walking.

Every step felt like movement in the wrong direction. Her arms burned from their fixed position, and the cool basement air was unrelenting against her bare skin. She kept going — scanning, listening, watching. The corridors stayed empty.

Finally, in a narrower passage she'd doubled back to find, Hermione spotted it: a heavy wooden door, older and more weathered than the classroom doors around it. No nameplate. No markings. Just the kind of door that wasn't meant to be noticed.

She reached for the handle.