Tastes the Sweetest

Part Three

Hermione didn't know what the heck she was going to wear to that party.

She should wear a costume. After all, it was All Hallow's Eve. Halloween. That implied wearing a costume, dressing up as something creative, or someone famous.

Godric, she hated holidays.

Malfoy had suggested they meet by the Great Hall during supper so they could sneak down to the kitchens and talk to the House Elves. According to him, it was the only time when every authority figure in the castle was preoccupied in one place, and the House Elves were relaxing.

After her last class of the day, she went up to the Eighth Year dorms to try on everything she had. Hermione wanted to figure her costume out now because once they talked to the Elves, they were going to be busy getting the food up to the Room of Requirement before the party started.

She was in over her head with this Malfoy thing. What was that nonsense about bite wounds, anyway? What was he doing, going around biting people and healing the wounds right after?

And Merlin, would that hurt. Being bitten so hard it broke the skin. The rapid build-up of pain as the teeth pressed down harder and harder, until the flesh had no choice but to split.

Only animals enjoyed that sort of thing. Animals, for one. Vampires, for two.

But Malfoy wasn't a vampire. He couldn't be. His parents would disown him. He'd lose his Pureblood status, his fortune, his surname. He'd be a nobody.

Yet he'd stared at her blood running over his hand like it was the answer to life after death.

In her dorm room, she rummaged through her trunk, tossing clothing onto her bed until it piled up. There was no use buying a costume in Hogsmeade. There wasn't any time, and charming her clothes into a costume when she couldn't think of what she wanted to be was just as stupid.

She tried everything on—skirts, shirts, dresses, jumpers, trousers. The only dress she had that was anything formal was a black dress with a hem that brushed her ankles. It was as hideous as it sounded and made her look frumpy and elderly.

That was gonna be a no.

She needed to face it: she wasn't a costume person.

But maybe that was just it—wearing a costume was about being someone you weren't. So by those standards, she just had to wear something she wouldn't normally wear.

Turning to face the mirror, she lifted her wand, gave it a twirl, and watched the dress she wore transform. The ankle-length hem shrunk and clung, until it was contoured to her body and stopped somewhere mid-thigh. The straight line sharpened to several points, like the dress a female character in the old American Muggle show The Flintstones wore. The short sleeves lengthened to points over the back of her hands and the neckline of the dress plunged to a V somewhere below her breasts. With another wave of her wand, an oversized hood appeared on the back of the dress, which she promptly pulled up over her head.

She looked like the sort of witch to kiss a random man in a pub. The sort that didn't get nervous when men boxed them in against tables. The sort that didn't feel intimidated by people that were supposed to be cowards.

Because Malfoy was supposed to be a coward. He'd always been a coward. Now he looked at her like he wanted to devour her, and she knew that wasn't a good thing.

Perfect.

After lacing up her boots, she took one last look at herself in the mirror.

There was no way she could walk down to the Great Hall dressed like this. She'd gotten the impression from Dean that this All Hallow's party was a secret.  If she blew everyone's cover by walking up to the doors in a bloody costume, she'd never be invited to a party again.