Hermione Granger hated fancy dress. She hated heels. She hated having her hair done, and she loathed makeup.
Why had she decided to do this again?
Ginny, on the other hand, loved all of this - including the ugly duckling looks Hermione kept giving her.
Harry had offered to help, but Hermione thought that was just because he knew he'd be worse than useless (he always did enjoy making her laugh with that earnest expression of his. He did a good deadpan, Harry did.)
Ginny was actually good at this. She had Hermione wearing a deep forest green gown, not too deeply cut, but enough to see at least some skin. And, wonder of all wonders, it had a brown broom skirt, so Hermione could actually dance. Not that she wanted to dance, necessarily, but it was Important To Have Options, and when she thought that, she wasn't sure if she was doing it in the voice of Moody or of Snape. Either was just the least bit disquieting - Wartime Memories intruding on her day to day existence.
Well, in times of stress, one often reverts to what makes one comfortable, Hermione Granger thought. "Now Why does a War make me more comfortable than going to His House? Hermione sniped at herself. Oh, right, the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, and the cursed Drawing Room. If Narcissa Malfoy instructed the women to withdraw, Hermione was just going to go into the Smoking Room and pour herself some brandy, and get smashing drunk while Draco Malfoy watched, presumably in horror.* Then again, he might just join her.
"There! All done!" Ginny smiled at Hermione, who really just wanted to spit nails at something. Or some flaming hexes. This was the ninth dress, after all, and that was before Ginny decided to Do Something about her hair. Hermione thought a bun looked just fine, but apparently there were variations on buns, and a Slightly Mussed Bun was quite different from a Bedraggled Moptop (which was apparently what she generally looked like when arriving at Ginny's).
"Are you certain I can't talk you into letting me do your face?" Ginny wheedled.
The look Hermione Granger gave her could have frozen glass. And then shattered it.
Bracing herself, Hermione Granger headed (slowly, oh so slowly) towards the kitchen where the portkey was, trying not to stumble over her dress or crack an ankle from her heels.
*Thus breaking all norms about the divisions of the sexes.
[a/n: Hermione has inherited all my hatred of such stupidities. And the practicality to know when to wield the stiletto as a weapon. Reviews?]
