Draco was wrong. The dress was both fire and ice. It started at her throat in glowing red embers that encircled her throat in a choker. Whoever had made it had done an incredible job—the stones looked like they were part of the dress and not sewn on. It gave it an organic appearance like she had peeled the crust from a volcano and weaved that and its lava into cloth. The stones were arranged in a tight, intricate pattern and wound down to larger ones, gleaming cruelly as they burned. It was stiff—at the bodice was a mixture of umber and obsidian with garnets and dragon opals placed strategically so as she breathed and her breasts and stomach moved it gave the appearance of molten lava peeking out from underneath rock. The skirt flared a little way down past her hips and here the stones were smaller to keep it light so that when she took a step it was like a wave of liquid fire rippling; a pet flame at her feet, waiting to be commanded. Two slits at the tops of her hips ran down the length of her legs. As she moved her legs a tantalizing side-view of her ass was exposed beneath the fabric.