In her dorm room during her 8th year at Hogwarts (This story done with the help of Claude).

The door to Hermione's dormitory closed with a soft click as she stepped inside, shutting out the sounds of Gryffindor Tower's corridors. Late afternoon light filtered through the window, painting the familiar room in warm amber tones. Her bed sat neatly made in the corner, her desk cluttered with books and half-finished parchment essays, quills scattered beside an inkwell. Everything exactly as she'd left it that morning.

She dropped her school bag beside the desk with a satisfied exhale. Another day finished. Her muscles ached pleasantly from sitting through hours of lectures, her mind still turning over the finer points of advanced Transfiguration theory Professor McGonagall had covered.

"Still need to work on that essay tonight," she muttered to herself, glancing at the partially completed parchment. "And review the Charms reading for tomorrow."

But first—a shower. The thought made her smile. After everything last year, after the constant running and hiding and fighting, there was something profoundly comforting about having a routine again. Simple pleasures. Hot water. Clean towels. The luxury of planning her evening around homework rather than Horcruxes.

Hermione began unbuttoning her white school shirt, her fingers working methodically down the front. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and she hung it carefully in her wardrobe. Her skirt came next, pooling at her feet before she stepped out of it and draped it over a chair. She reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, sighing with relief as the pressure released. The garment joined her shirt in the wardrobe, and she hooked her thumbs into her knickers, sliding them down her legs.

For a moment she stood naked in her room, completely unselfconscious in her private space. The cool air raised goosebumps on her bare skin.

She was slender but not without curves — the kind that had appeared gradually over the last couple of years and still occasionally surprised her. Small, round breasts, a soft waist, hips that flared gently. Her skin was fair, her nipples a pale pink. A neat triangle of dark brown hair at the apex of her thighs. Not the kind of body she'd ever thought much about, in the ordinary run of things. It was simply hers.

She stretched, working out the kinks in her shoulders, then padded over to her wardrobe.

Her hand found a clean towel on the shelf—soft, fluffy, burgundy red. She wrapped it around herself with practiced ease, tucking the corner securely above her breasts. The towel hung to mid-thigh, covering her modestly. She'd done this hundreds of times before.

Her mind was already drifting ahead to the evening's schedule. Shower, maybe twenty minutes. Get properly dressed in pajamas. Then settle in with her Transfiguration text and that troublesome essay. Maybe she should ask Professor McGonagall about that question from class tomorrow...

She was reaching for the door handle when the air behind her suddenly cracked.

Hermione spun around, her heart jumping. A house elf stood in the middle of her room—small, with enormous tennis-ball eyes and bat-like ears. Young, she could tell immediately. Juvenile. His tea-towel clothing hung awkwardly on his thin frame, and he was staring at her with an expression of **** urgency.

"What—?" Hermione clutched her towel reflexively, making sure it was secure. "Hello? Can I help you?"

House elves didn't usually come to student dormitories. Especially not unannounced like this. Her confusion warred with a creeping sense that something was wrong.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, more firmly. "Is there an emergency?"

The elf's words tumbled out in a rush, high-pitched and rapid. "Miss Granger! Miss Granger must come! There is dispute among the elves. They need Miss Granger! Miss helps house elves, yes? Miss Granger must come fix!"

"Wait, slow down—" Hermione tried to process what he was saying. A dispute? "What kind of dispute? Who sent you?"

But the elf was already moving, darting forward with surprising speed. His small hand grabbed her wrist.

"Wait, what are you—"

The world twisted.

Hermione's stomach lurched as the familiar, deeply unpleasant sensation of apparition seized her. Colors blurred and compressed. The walls of her dormitory stretched and vanished. She felt herself being squeezed through an impossibly tight space, the elf's grip iron-strong on her wrist.

Her last coherent thought before the world dissolved: I'm in a towel!

Then everything shifted, and she was somewhere else entirely.