She has a few close calls.

The Restricted Section was exactly as she remembered — narrow aisles, tall shelves on both sides, volumes packed so densely the wood bowed slightly under their weight. Hermione moved quickly down the first aisle, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Warmer than the stone had been. She barely noticed.

As she moved deeper into the section and the stairwell door disappeared behind her, her eyes landed on the shelves and an idea formed. Books. Large ones, held in front of her, would give her actual coverage rather than just what her arms could manage. It wasn't a dignified solution, but dignity had left the picture some time ago.

She pulled a thick tome from the nearest shelf — some ancient text on dark curses — and positioned it open across her front, holding it with both hands. It covered her from chest to hip, which was more than her arms alone had managed. But her back was completely exposed, and one book required both hands to hold it open, which meant nothing covering her from behind.

She grabbed a second volume and tried reaching back to hold it there.

The configuration lasted approximately ten seconds. The open front book kept shifting, threatening to close or slip entirely. The back book required her arm at an angle that wasn't sustainable while also moving. She was slower, more awkward, and constantly readjusting — which was worse than just moving quickly.

Hermione made the decision quickly: front only. She returned the back book to its shelf and repositioned the remaining two — one covering her breasts, one covering her crotch — and immediately felt the difference. Her back would be bare, but she could actually move. She could sprint if she had to.

She hated using books like this. Even now, even here, some part of her flinched at treating them as props. But the need outweighed the principle, and she started moving.

The aisles of the Restricted Section created a relatively safe corridor — tall shelves on both sides blocking sight lines, the path clear ahead. Hermione moved quickly between them, slowing only at intersections where the shelves broke and the aisles crossed. At each gap, she stopped, checked both directions, listened, then bolted across the open space and resumed her pace on the other side.

The pattern was working. She was making progress.

Then, at the third intersection, she heard voices.

Hermione froze mid-step. The voices were coming from her right — two students, from the sound of them, walking through one of the crossing aisles. Not in the Restricted Section itself, but close to its edge, somewhere in the main library sections. They were chatting casually, unhurried. Moving perpendicular to her.

She pressed herself flat against the bookshelf to her right. The wood was smooth against her bare back, solid and cold. She could feel the individual shelving planks against her skin, pressing into her bare back and the soft curve of her bottom. Books held tight to her front, she stood absolutely still and watched the intersection.

The students crossed through it without looking her direction. Their voices continued past, faded, disappeared.

Hermione waited until she couldn't hear them anymore, then crossed.

The next intersection she reached almost caught her off guard. She was moving faster now, momentum carrying her, and she nearly stepped into the open space before she registered movement in her peripheral vision — a single student, cutting across at an angle, closer than the last pair and moving quickly. Hermione pulled herself back hard, shoulder hitting the bookshelf, one of her books nearly slipping from her grip.

She caught it. Pressed back against the shelves. The student passed through the intersection barely six feet away, close enough that Hermione could see the title of the book tucked under their arm. They didn't look sideways. Didn't slow.

When they were gone, Hermione let out a careful breath and crossed.

She was shaking slightly as she resumed her pace. That had been close — much closer than the first time. She made herself slow down a fraction.

Finally, the last row of shelves ended. Hermione stopped at the threshold and looked out into the main library.

The space opened up dramatically — higher ceiling, better lighting, the long checkout desk positioned near the centre with Madam Pince's particular lamp casting a warm circle of light over it. The exit was on the far wall. Between Hermione and it: open floor, a few freestanding display cases, and two students in the process of checking out books. Madam Pince stood behind the desk helping them, her back partially turned to the main area.

Hermione stayed at the edge of the shelves, assessing.

The students were almost done — she could tell from the way they were gathering their things, tucking books under their arms, reaching for their bags. Madam Pince was focused on them entirely. The main area was otherwise empty.

She couldn't take the books with her. The moment she left the library she'd have nothing, and she could hardly walk out carrying borrowed volumes from the Restricted Section. She'd have to put them down before she crossed, which meant crossing with nothing but her arms.

The students finished. They thanked Madam Pince, shouldered their bags, and walked to the exit — passing through the space Hermione needed to cross. She pressed back slightly and waited, watching through the gap between the last two shelves.

The students left. The exit door swung shut behind them.

Madam Pince remained at the desk.

Hermione watched her. The librarian was tidying the checkout records, organizing returned slips, fussing with the arrangement of items on her desk. Not going anywhere. Not turning away.

Come on, Hermione thought. You always reshelve after closing. Go and reshelve.

As if she'd heard it, Madam Pince gathered an armful of returned books from the cart beside her desk, turned away from the main area, and disappeared between the stacks.

Hermione moved immediately.

She set both books on the nearest shelf — properly, spine out, as they deserved — and crossed the main library at a sprint. Her bare feet made almost no sound on the wooden floor. The open space felt enormous, every lamp seemed aimed directly at her — pale skin, bare legs, the dark triangle of hair visible below her pressing hand, her back completely exposed as she ran.

She hit the exit door, pulled it open, and slipped through into the corridor beyond.

She'd made it through the library.