Use magic, but sparingly.

That was the second thing I learned, right after the hat refused to burn like a proper metaphor should. I’d imagined this cinematic moment, standing in the moonlight like a tragic heroine, hair blowing in the wind, casting my past into the fire with dramatic flair and poetic closure. The kind of scene people whisper about later, in candlelit kitchens over tea. “She burned it all, you know. Her hat, her life, her name. Walked into the woods and never came back.”

But the hat didn’t burn.

It just sat there in the rosemary smoke, looking vaguely smug, like an old cat who refuses to move from your favorite chair. It sizzled a little. Maybe smirked. And then, nothing. No flash of flame, no freeing catharsis, just a stubborn piece of enchanted millinery doing what it does best, being cursedly, frustratingly indestructible. So I stood there for a while, holding the matchbox, staring at this absurdly defiant object on the stone, surrounded by all the ambiance I had carefully arranged: the wild garden, the moody candle, the judgmental moon. And I thought. “Alright. Fine. If you won’t die dramatically in a blaze of self-reinvention, then you’ll just have to change.”

Literally.

So I turned it into a bonnet.

Yes. A bonnet. A plain, brown, soul-crushingly dull bonnet. The kind of thing you’d wear while staring wistfully out of a farmhouse window, waiting for your husband to return from the war with a sack of turnips and a haunted look in his eyes. The kind of bonnet that screamed, “I have never hexed anyone in my life, and I do not intend to start now.”
It had no charm, no flourish, no hint of magic at all. Just this perfectly ordinary shade of disappointment-brown, with stitching so unremarkable it felt like a deliberate insult. It was the hat equivalent of saying,
“Don’t worry, I’m normal now. I blend in. I go to church on Sundays and fold my laundry and lie awake at night contemplating the bleak weight of existence like everyone else.”

In short, I turned the hat into a symbol of quiet resignation. It was absurd, of course. But at the time, it felt like survival. Because if the world wouldn’t let me stop being a witch, maybe I could at least look like someone who'd never owned a cauldron. Maybe I could pass for the kind of girl who didn’t keep bones in glass jars or talk to trees when she thought no one was watching. So there I was, standing in the garden in my freshly transformed disguise, already itchy from the too-tight bonnet band and starting to regret everything, but committed nonetheless. Because sometimes, when you can’t burn the past, the only option left is to hide it under something beige and boring and hope no one looks too closely.

It felt clever, at first. A quiet sort of genius, really, turning a cursed artifact of mystical headwear into something so aggressively average that even the nosiest of busybodies would glance over it without a second thought. I even patted myself on the back, metaphorically. Maybe even literally.  I was alone. Who was going to judge me? Bertrand? Yes. Actually, yes.
But the illusion of cleverness lasted precisely until Lady Pomfrey showed up. I was in the front garden, crouched among the thyme and the creeping mint, half-heartedly pulling at weeds that weren’t even weeds. I'd planted them there three weeks ago, on purpose, and they were thriving, unlike me. In truth, I was less interested in gardening and more occupied with staring down my neighbor’s goose from across the fence. His name is Bertrand. He watches me like he’s seen my sins scribbled across the stars. I’ve long suspected he’s some sort of divine punishment in feathery form. Anyway, there I was. Bonnet securely in place. Hands dirtied just enough to look rustic, unthreatening. Back hunched in what I hoped was a very peasant-core posture. Trying, really trying, to exude the quiet, wheat-scented aura of someone who churns butter on purpose and doesn’t know any incantations stronger than “please let this dough rise.” And then I heard them.

The footsteps. The clack of shoes on stone, too sharp, too self-assured to belong to anyone but one particular person with a spine forged of salt and sanctimony. A sound that could only ever herald the approach of one woman, and believe me, I’ve tried pretending otherwise. 

Lady Pomfrey.

The terror of the hedgerow. The absolute overlord of the neighborhood’s moral compass, despite the fact that she once drank three glasses of rhubarb wine at a funeral and accused the vicar of consorting with “celestial filth.” She is, in short, the self-appointed guardian of all things Proper and Respectable and Thoroughly Unmagical. And today? Oh, today she had that walk. You know the one. That stiff-backed, arms-crossed strut of a woman who has discovered Something and intends to weaponize it before lunch. She rounded the corner of my fence like a holy inquisitor arriving at the site of a rumored heresy. Her expression was carved from granite and judgement.

“Mirielle!” she called out while waving her right hand to the air and the other to the corner of her mouth, and her voice, my gods, her voice could curdle cream. It was the sound of lemon squeezed directly into a paper cut. I froze. Every part of me tensed like I was a rabbit in the presence of a very judgmental fox. The bonnet shifted slightly on my head, as if reconsidering its loyalties. The rosemary plant I had been fake-weeding practically leapt from the soil like it wanted to escape too. I hurriedly stuffed it back into the earth.

“Oh! Lady Pomfrey!” I said, my voice climbing two octaves higher than it had any right to. “What a—what a surprise!” A lie. I’d seen her approaching through the cracks in the garden gate for a solid three minutes. I’d even considered vaulting the herb patch and making a run for it, but Bertrand had blocked the escape route. As usual. She halted right by the edge of my garden, nose slightly wrinkled like she’d just gotten a whiff of something foul, or worse, unorthodox. Her gaze dropped to my bonnet.

“That’s a new bonnet,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Is it?” I replied, far too quickly.
She took a single, ominous step forward and tilted her head just slightly. “It smells… strange.” I blinked. “Strange?” She leaned in, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound on the scent of moral decay. “Like rosemary. And... is that regret?”
I deadpanned and looked at her, how can she smell regret?! I let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to a woman being haunted by her own hat. Too loud. Too bright. The laugh of someone trying to distract from the fact that their headwear was technically still humming with barely contained arcane energy. “I—I use herbs for skincare,” I said, desperately. “Very rural. All natural. Very... rustic peasantry chic.” Lady Pomfrey’s eyes didn’t leave my bonnet. “Hm,” she said, in the exact tone you might use if you’d caught someone shoplifting holy water.

Lady Pomfrey leaned in so close I could see the reflection of my impending doom in her spectacles. She sniffed once, sharp and discerning, like a snob at a perfume counter, except instead of floral undertones, she was picking up traces of witchery and lies.

“It’s just,” she said slowly, her eyes narrowing into paper-cut slits, “every time I see it, it’s the same shade of brown. Same stitching. Same little snag at the corner—”

She pointed.

I died.

Internally, of course, but still. I felt my soul crumple into a little paper ball and roll under the rosemary bush in sheer shame. She was right. The snag. I’d forgotten to fix the stupid snag. It had been there since Week One of The Great Bonnet Plan™, when I accidentally snagged the corner on my cauldron hook while dramatically spinning. Yes. I spin dramatically. It helps the spell settle. “Isn’t that strange?” she asked, in the tone of someone who had just stabbed you in the ribs but was offering you a very small bandage. Sweet. Too sweet. Sugar-laced cyanide. I coughed. “Nostalgic consistency,” I said, hoping she’d mistake panic for wit. “Like my emotional damage.” She did not laugh. She didn’t even smirk. Her expression remained frozen in its usual resting state: Tight-Lipped Condescension. It was the face of a woman who had never once danced barefoot under the moon, or considered using love potions recreationally. I, meanwhile, had done both. Twice.

And now, thanks to one slightly overworked glamour spell, the world’s most judgmental widow, and a bonnet that refuses to cooperate unless I bribe it with lavender oil and compliments, I’ve had to come up with no less than six fake reasons for why my Very Normal Bonnet™ always smells like a witch’s herb cabinet and occasionally hums during thunderstorms.

Here are the current working excuses, listed in order of descending believability:

1. “I’m in mourning. For a goat. The scent brings me peace.”
   This one almost worked, until she asked for the goat’s name and I panicked and said Christopher Robin.
   
   

2. “I make artisanal salad dressings in my spare time.”
   Believable! Except I accidentally added eye of newt to a vinaigrette last week and had to banish it mid-dinner.
   
   

3. “The scent wards off ticks.”
   Technically true. It also wards off men, children, and all forms of structured employment.
   
   

4. “It’s perfume. From the east. Very exclusive.”
   I said this while the bonnet was literally sprouting mint leaves. Lady Pomfrey asked if it was still growing.
   
   

5. “I have a deeply personal attachment to this bonnet. It belonged to my great-grandmother. She wore it while milking a cow that survived a tornado.”
   I blacked out halfway through the story and just started adding cows.
   
   

6. “I’m trying a new ‘earth witch’ aesthetic. It’s the latest thing. All the girls in the capital are doing it.”
   This only made her suspicious. Lady Pomfrey hates the capital. Something about corsets and progressive thought.
   
   

At this point, I should just tell her the truth. But instead, I smiled, took a slow breath, and reached into the herb patch to “pluck” a nonexistent weed while whispering a very small spell to make Bertrand the goose honk on command. Just in case I needed a distraction. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that Lady Pomfrey can smell deception from three leagues away! But she absolutely cannot handle loud birds.

The truth? Magic is lazy. It doesn’t just vanish when you want it to. It lingers, like that one embarrassing high school haircut or the scent of burnt toast in the morning.

If you lean on it too much, especially for small, pointless things like disguising a hat or hiding how you really feel, it starts to pile up. Like soap scum in the corners of your bathtub, or the creeping suspicion that your neighbors know exactly what you’re up to. Or worse, like your kitchen broom quietly plotting a revolt. But that’s a tale for another time. The glamour spell does work. Technically. It’s shiny and convincing, until it’s not. It’s a bit like putting on your fanciest mask, beautiful, but it starts slipping after a while. Here’s the catch: it only lasts if you don’t wear it for more than three hours straight, avoid direct sunlight like it’s got a vendetta against you, and stay far, far away from those over-curious aristocrats who haven’t smiled since the spring of 1421. Because those people? They see through magic like a window with no curtains. So yeah, magic’s a handy trick. But it’s also a slippery, lazy little beast that loves to give you away at the worst possible moment. I learned the hard way that magic has a scent. Not like roses or freshly baked bread, more like… old socks that tried to pass as perfume. Most people don’t notice it, but goats? Oh, goats definitely know. They wrinkle their noses and give you that look like, “Yep, you’re definitely not just wearing a bonnet, lady.”

And it’s not just goats. Children pick up on it too, probably because their noses are still in training, and dogs, who have zero chill about sniffing out your secrets. Then there was the tax collector, yes, that poor, unfortunate soul, who fainted right on my doorstep and later threatened to sue me for “phantom dreams.” I’m still not sure what those are exactly, but apparently, my magic gives off some seriously spooky vibes. But the absolute worst part? The hat knows. Every time I transform it, I swear I feel this little judgy pulse, like the thing’s keeping score on a tiny, invisible scoreboard strapped to my soul. It’s silently mocking me, waiting for the moment the spell slips, the glamour flickers, and the bonnet reveals itself as a five-foot-tall, shadowy, wide-brimmed monstrosity in the middle of the town festival while I’m standing there, awkwardly clutching a basket of overpriced plums like I own the place.

So yes, use magic.

But sparingly!

Because one day you’ll be right in your own yard, your hat smirking under its flimsy glamour, Lady Pomfrey glaring at you with all the subtlety of a ravenous hawk, and Bertrand the goose giving you the kind of judgment that hits deep in your soul.

And on that day?

You’ll realize the truth.

You never really hid the hat.

The hat was just humoring you.

Like a sassy best friend who knows you’re bluffing but plays along anyway.