She tries multiple ways to free herself.

"Alright," Hermione muttered, forcing her breathing to steady. "Just stuck. I can fix this."

The alcove was small—six feet across, stone on three sides, corridor opening ahead. It provided some concealment, at least. She looked down at where the problem was: the bottom left corner of her towel was caught in the gap between the heavy kitchen door and its frame, pinched near the base. Just a corner. Surely it would come free easily enough.

Hermione grasped the trapped corner and pulled, testing the resistance. Then tried again with more ****, adjusting her grip, pulling from different angles—left, right, downward. Each time the towel stretched slightly but refused to come free. The door had it clamped like a vice.

She reached for the iron door handle next, hoping to open it and release the pressure on the fabric. The handle turned but the door didn't budge—locked from inside, standard kitchen security. Hermione should have anticipated that. Her wand was back in her dormitory, so Alohomora wasn't an option either.

Then she thought, the elves were still right on the other side of that door. She knocked—gently at first, then harder, then hard enough that the sound echoed in the small alcove. She called out, quietly, then desperately. The sounds of the busy kitchen continued unchanged through the heavy oak. Pots clanging, water splashing, elves calling to each other. No one came to the door.

Next, She planted her feet and tried brute ****—both hands on the fabric, leaning her full weight back, pulling with everything she had. The weave strained. Her hands slipped on the fabric and she stumbled back a step, catching herself. The towel remained exactly where it was.

Finally, she tried one last approach—crouching to work the fabric through the gap with her fingers, pushing at it from different angles, trying to compress it enough to slip free. Her fingertips pressed and prodded for several minutes until they throbbed. Nothing.

Dejected and frustrated, Hermione stood up and just stared at the trapped fabric. She'd tried everything. Every angle, every method. And still it held fast.

She then turned to look out at the empty corridor. It was quiet. Completely quiet. There was no reason for anyone to come this way—not after dinner, not down here. She could be standing in this alcove in an hour. Two hours? Six hours? She had absolutely no way of knowing.

The thought settled over her like cold water. Waiting wasn't a plan. It was just hoping. And hope wasn't going to free her towel.

She was completely and utterly stuck.

*Unless...*

The thought formed unbidden, pushing its way through her resistance.

*Unless she left the towel behind.*

Her stomach clenched at the very idea. No. She couldn't. She wouldn't. That was insane.

But what other choice did she have?

The question hung in the air, unanswered and terrible.