The corridor outside the Potions classroom had already emptied. The stone walls carried faint echoes of distant footsteps and voices. The other students had long since gone about their business, but Harry, Ron and Hermione had stayed behind longer than anyone else. At Snape's insistence, they had been cleaning up after the others: scrubbing cauldrons, collecting spilled ingredients, and even scouring the tables their classmates had worked at.
When Snape finally let them go, delivering his usual line in a thinly veiled tone of contempt, "Miss Granger, I trust that next time you will learn to respect other people's property… though I doubt it," they left the classroom completely worn out.
"I can't feel my hands," Ron complained, rubbing his reddened palms. "Did you see what was left of that disgusting slug? It was like some nasty snot with eyes. I scrubbed it for half an hour, and it still looked like it might come back to life any second."
"And I can't get rid of the smell of burnt snakeweed root," Harry said, pulling a face and sniffing his fingers. "Now my hands smell like dead frogs."
Ron snorted.
"That's nothing. There are worse smells. Remember when Neville brewed the wrong potion and it stank like a troll's socks after a marathon?"
Harry nodded, and Hermione cut in at once,
"As it happens, snakeweed root is very useful. I've read it's used in memory-enhancing potions," she said, unable to resist showing what she knew. "Though it does give you a headache for a week afterwards."
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, hiding their smiles from their friend. Hermione walked beside them.
"Snape was especially nasty today," Harry said after a short pause.
"He's always like that," Ron muttered. "I reckon he enjoys it most when he's dreaming up new ways to make our lives miserable. Especially yours or Hermione's."
Hermione turned on him sharply.
"It's all because of those ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion," she said.
"Well…" Ron hesitated. "To be honest, I'm surprised he didn't go straight to Dumbledore and demand you be expelled."
"Or McGonagall," Harry added.
"He did try," Hermione said, almost casually. "I just forgot to tell you. On the very first day, when I'd only just ended up in the hospital wing. But McGonagall said I'd already been punished enough after turning into a cat."
"Clearly Snape doesn't think so," Ron said darkly.
They fell silent for a moment. Then Harry turned to Ron.
"So, what do you say, fancy a broomstick ride? Or should we get something to eat first?"
"I think we can do both," Ron said, scratching the back of his head. "We could grab a pie and take it out to the pitch."
Harry nodded and was about to ask what Hermione's plans were and whether she wanted to join them, when he suddenly noticed she had fallen behind. She was standing a little way back, her gaze fixed on one of the paintings on the wall, a portrait of an ugly woman in a green robe. The woman seemed to be watching sternly anyone who dared look at her for too long.
"Hermione, come on! I want out of this bloody dungeon," Ron said impatiently.
"Shh, don't interrupt!" Hermione waved him off without taking her eyes off the portrait. There was a tense look in her eyes, as if she were trying to burn a hole through the canvas by sheer force of thought. "There's something at the back of my mind, but I just can't work out what it is!"
Harry and Ron exchanged a glance and shrugged. But before they could say anything, Hermione suddenly widened her eyes, as if something had just clicked.
"Of course!" she cried, so loudly her voice echoed down the corridor. "Everyone sees it!"
"What?" Harry and Ron asked together, staring from her to the painting and back again.
But Hermione spun round, waved a hand, and threw over her shoulder, "Nothing! I'll tell you later!"
With that, she bolted down the corridor, leaving her friends completely baffled.
"That's just like her!" Ron groaned. "Bet she's gone straight to the library again!"
"Probably. Come on, let's get something to eat," Harry said with a sigh. "Maybe she'll turn up there and explain it to us."
***
Ron was right. Hermione burst into the library, ignoring Madam Pince's sharp "unacceptable behaviour." She headed almost at a run to the far corner, to one of the tables. Miranda Ravenclaw was sitting there, exactly where they had agreed to meet. She looked up from her book in surprise as Hermione practically dropped into the chair opposite, gasping for air.
"Hermione? What happened?" Miranda asked warily.
"Miranda!" Hermione panted, her eyes blazing, a strange half-smile flickering on her lips. "Do you remember telling me how you put your ring into that painting with the castle?"
"Of course I remember," Miranda said, frowning. "But why are you so worked up? What's going on?"
Hermione glanced around, checked no one was listening, and blurted out, "I think I've found the Green Cloak!"
"What? Where?" Miranda shoved her book aside and leaned forward.
"In a painting!" Hermione rushed on, almost breathless, words tumbling out. "You remember the portrait of Lady Blackstone outside the Potions classroom? The one where she's wearing a green robe? That's it. The Green Cloak. I've only just realised!"
She was almost bouncing in her seat with excitement.
"And her face…" Hermione went on. "We always joked she looked like a toad, remember?"
"Y-yes…" Miranda said, unsure.
"Well!" Hermione slapped her hand on the table. "It's not a toad. It's a Verdilisk. Trust me, I've looked at so many of them these past few days I'd recognise one with my eyes closed."
Miranda looked stunned at first, but then her expression shifted. She narrowed her eyes, as if something had just come back to her.
"Wait…" she said slowly. "There might be something in that. Do you even know who founded our Magical Arts club? Long before Professor Abernathy?"
Hermione blinked, thrown off.
"N-no… What's that got to do with anything?"
"It has everything to do with it!" Miranda burst out. "It was founded by Lady Blackstone!"
Hermione froze, stunned.
"That explains everything!" she said after a moment. "She must have painted her own portrait and hidden the cloak inside it! The painting isn't even signed! And remember what Helena Ravenclaw told you?"
"'Everyone sees it, but no one notices…'" Miranda repeated. Shock and excitement mixed in her eyes. "But how do we get it out? I doubt Lady Blackstone will part with it that easily."
"Miss Granger, Miss Ravenclaw!" came a sharp, very annoyed voice.
They both flinched and turned. Madam Pince stood between the shelves, gripping a long, soft duster.
"This is a library, not a shop in Diagon Alley! If you cannot speak in whispers, you will leave at once!"
Hermione pressed her lips together; Miranda gave an apologetic smile.
"Looks like it's time to go," Hermione muttered.
"Yeah," Miranda nodded, quickly gathering her books.
With that, they hurried out, leaving behind the rows of shelves and Madam Pince bristling with indignation.
***
Toward evening, after dinner, when Hogwarts had fallen quiet and the students had drifted back to their dormitories, Miranda and Hermione made their way along the corridor toward the Potions classroom. They moved quickly, trying not to draw attention. The torches crackled, and the corridor was unusually empty.
"Do you think this will work?" Hermione whispered.
"If we're polite, I think she'll at least hear us out," Miranda replied just as quietly. "But be ready for the worst. From what I've found out about her, she can be very stubborn and hard to shift."
"Not exactly reassuring," Hermione muttered.
They turned the corner and slowed. Up ahead, a portrait of Lady Blackstone hung on the wall. In the dim light, her figure looked even more grim. Dark eyes stared into the distance, and her green cloak seemed to stir.
Miranda stopped first.
"There she is," she murmured, not taking her eyes off the portrait.
Lady Blackstone's face, calm and distant until now, shifted almost imperceptibly. She slowly turned her head toward them, her brows lifting slightly, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. For a few seconds she studied the girls, openly wary.
"What do you want?" she said coldly.
"Good evening, Lady Blackstone," Miranda said politely, giving a small nod.
"Good evening," Hermione added. "We'd like to speak with you for a moment, if you don't mind."
Lady Blackstone narrowed her eyes.
"Don't you have anything better to do? As I recall, your teachers don't encourage wandering the corridors at this hour."
"We just want to learn more about you," Miranda began, a bit too quickly. "I'm in the Magical Arts club. The one you founded."
Lady Blackstone raised an eyebrow slightly. A hint of a smile flickered on her lips, whether from surprise or memory. Miranda caught it and grew a little bolder.
"And… well… it's all so interesting. And when I found out it all started with you, I got really curious. I wanted to hear the story from you."
Lady Blackstone's gaze softened. She looked at the girls more closely.
"What exactly are you interested in?" she asked. Her voice was still firm, but the earlier chill had gone.
Hermione stepped in quickly, before the mood could shift.
"We've heard you invented some rather unusual magical techniques," she said, hesitating slightly but clearly interested. "Could you tell us about them?"
Lady Blackstone paused for a moment. Then a familiar spark lit up in her eyes.
"Yes, that's true," she said, and for the first time there was warmth in her voice. "For example…"
She began to speak. At first restrained, but soon she warmed to it. She talked about spells that could "listen" to a person, about enchantments woven into fabric, into ink, even into sound. At times her tone turned almost theatrical, and in those moments she seemed more alive than ever.
Hermione and Miranda listened without interrupting, nodding, occasionally whispering to each other. It was far more interesting than they had expected. When Lady Blackstone finally fell silent, as if surprised by how much she had said, Hermione carefully took the lead.
"I've heard you also created enchanted paintings," she said, keeping her tone light. "Ones that can store sound, emotions, or even objects. Is that true?"
Lady Blackstone nodded.
"Yes. I wanted a painting not just to capture a moment, but to live. I wanted the viewer to feel that a piece of the real thing remained inside it. Real emotions, real objects, real magic."
Then Lady Blackstone let out a quiet sigh. For the first time, there was a trace of sadness in her voice.
"However, as you can see, my creation has also become my prison."
"That's not fair," Miranda said. Her voice was genuinely sympathetic.
"And there's something else…" Lady Blackstone hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to go on. "It's cold in here," she added at last.
Her expression hardened again at once, as though she had cut herself off.
"But you didn't come here to listen to my complaints. You had something else to ask, didn't you?"
Hermione and Miranda exchanged a glance. Both hesitated, but at last Hermione stepped forward.
"Your green robe… I mean, the cloak…" She shot a quick look at Miranda and, swallowing, finished, "That is the Green Cloak, isn't it?"
Lady Blackstone's face went still at once. Not a trace of a smile, not a flicker of movement. Only a tense stare. Hermione felt her throat go dry, but she pushed on.
"We'd like to borrow it. Just for a short while. We'll bring it back."
"Ah, I see. I might have guessed." The face in the portrait shifted slightly, and her voice hardened at once. "That's out of the question," Lady Blackstone said flatly. "My duty is to guard this artefact, not hand it over to just anyone."
She turned her head sharply, as if to end the conversation, but then added, "And besides, you clearly weren't listening. It's very cold here. This is the only warm thing I have. Why should I take it off and give it to you?"
Without hesitation, Miranda unfastened her robe, warm and heavy, with embroidery along the edge, and held it out.
"Please. It's not magical, but it's very warm. Take it."
Lady Blackstone looked at her with interest, lifting an eyebrow slightly. For a few seconds she said nothing. Then she slowly shook her head.
"Your gesture… admirable," she said. "But completely useless."
Miranda lowered her hand, disappointed. Meanwhile Hermione kept her eyes on Lady Blackstone, then asked quietly, "Lady Blackstone, when was the last time you looked in a mirror?"
Lady Blackstone frowned, clearly thrown off.
"Look in a mirror? At my reflection?" she repeated. "Why would I do that? I'm a painting."
"Just take a look," Hermione said calmly. "It might… er… interest you."
Miranda pulled a small mirror from her bag, muttered a quick spell, and it seemed to melt into the air, reappearing on the other side of the canvas.
Lady Blackstone took it with a hint of suspicion, but the moment her eyes met her reflection, she went pale. Her eyes widened in horror.
"This… no… it can't be… that's not me," she whispered, her voice shaking.
She slowly raised a hand to her face, as if hoping to feel something familiar, as though a touch might prove the mirror wrong. But it didn't help. From the depths of the silver surface, the twisted, alien face of a verdilisk stared back at her.
"What is this?" she gasped in panic. "It shouldn't affect me. I'm only an image!"
"That cloak… it's a very powerful artefact," Hermione said. "It affects those who wear it. Over time, its magic starts to change a person. It's not your fault. It's just… the longer you wear it, the more it changes you."
Hermione gave a small, guilty shrug.
"That can't be…" Lady Blackstone whispered, still running her fingers over her face. "I… I didn't know," she said at last.
She went still, staring into the mirror. Her hands trembled. A few seconds passed, then, with a sharp movement, she tore off the Green Cloak, as if it were burning her skin. The cloak flew aside, and she stared at it with open hatred.
"She didn't tell me…" she whispered, anger, hurt, and confusion in her eyes.
Hermione understood. Lady Blackstone was talking about herself, but her real self. The one who had painted this portrait, given it consciousness, and put the Cloak on her, never warning her what it would do.
"Can we take it?" Hermione asked carefully.
Miranda held out her robe again. Lady Blackstone shot them an angry look, but then the corners of her mouth twitched into a bitter, vindictive smile.
"Well then, take it. If, of course, my experience hasn't taught you anything!"
She kicked the cloak hard towards the edge of the painting. Hermione and Miranda both whipped out their wands and, in sync, almost in unison, cast the extraction spell. They hadn't spent all day practising for nothing. The canvas rippled like water, and Miranda carefully pulled the green cloak out. In its place, she pushed her warm robe in.
Lady Blackstone immediately threw it over her shoulders and wrapped it tightly around herself.
"Thank you," she muttered, almost under her breath. There was weariness in her voice now.
"Goodbye, Lady Blackstone," Hermione said.
"Thank you," Miranda added.
They turned and ran back down the empty corridor, clutching the heavy fabric. Now they had the Green Cloak. The way to the marshes was open.