Hermione pulled the gloves up and spun one last time.  She hated to admit that the Malfoys had taste because they were all, with the exception of Draco,  awful, but this dress was amazing.  The black brocade skirts flared around her and she’d had to tear herself away from admiring the way the structured neckline framed her face.  She hadn’t felt really beautiful in a long time.  She’d been ill, and before that had been the war, and before that, well, she hadn’t ever really felt pretty as a girl.   She hadn’t known how to do her hair, and her teeth had been horrible, and her parents had emphasized that books mattered, not looks, and, as a result, she’d looked down her nose at anyone who used her time to fuss with makeup charms and fashion magazines.