The mirror and the robe

"I'm not wearing this."

"It's quite warm, I've heard tell," the mirror subtly prodded.

"Is there a torch in here?" Hermione spun around, refusing to look at the lingerie.

"There might be one out in the hall." Hermione cursed to herself. She couldn't possibly go out there in the nude. Prefects and teachers were patrolling the halls, looking for students out of bed, not to mention Mr. Filch and his despicable cat, Mrs. Norris. Oh, if only she hadn't had to put Crookshanks in the kennel for the move. "You could always call a house-elf, I suppose." The mirror tittered, giggling to itself.

Hermione scowled, "Shut up!" but a cold breeze stirred, and she shivered in spite of her attempts not to. "Well," she thought, "I could always put on the robe. It's better than being naked." But when she reached for the robe her hand passed right through it. She found her hand touching the rigid side of the corset, icy metal grommets running under her fingers like silver pearls.

"Why can't I touch the robe?"

"One thing at a time, dearie. Everything in its proper place, and order."