Blend In With the Nobles.

My current favorite trick? Folding the hat into my dress. Yes, folding it, like you would laundry, or maybe a particularly stubborn mess of emotional trauma you’re trying to shove out of sight. Specifically, I tuck it right into my bustle. Now, here’s the thing, I didn’t even know what a bustle was until recently. I mean, I’d heard the word tossed around, but when I saw one up close, I had a genuine, full-on existential crisis about how much fabric could possibly be allowed on a single backside. The nobles here? Completely obsessed with fashion that looks like they’re smuggling livestock under their skirts. It’s all puffed sleeves, ruffled collars, and skirts so wide you’d think they had their own postal codes.

So naturally, I saw an opportunity.

If they’re already carrying half the kingdom’s wool industry around their hips, what’s one more hat? It’s basically camouflaged in plain sight. The perfect hiding spot! Honestly, sometimes I half expect the hat to start whispering, “Nice try, Mirielle,” as it nestles in there, but hey,  it’s better than carrying it on my head like a neon sign screaming “WITCH ALERT!” It’s so snug in my bustle that I’m pretty sure it’s plotting revenge, or at least planning a dramatic escape during the next village gathering. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s doing its job, which means I’m one step closer to not getting burned at the stake. Win-win, right?

One problem is that my witch hat is... how do I put this delicately? Completely uncooperative. Maybe even possessed. Definitely shaped like a dramatic villain’s shadow at high noon, because of course it is. Like it’s waiting for its big, over-the-top entrance every time I try to sneak it around. And no matter what I tried, burning it which, surprise, didn’t work, disguising it because apparently a hat with an identity crisis is not easy to fool, bribery, don’t even ask, but let’s just say the hat does not respond well to promises of cake, it stubbornly refused to stay hidden for more than five minutes.

So, naturally, I had to get creative.

One afternoon, after a wardrobe-related disaster involving a sentient scarf which I swear rolled its eyes at me, and three very angry doves that now refuse to look at me without judgment, I stood in front of my mirror, eyeballing my ridiculous dress. That’s when it hit me; what if I just... shoved the blasted thing in there?

Cue me awkwardly wrestling the hat into my already complicated bustle, while simultaneously trying not to trip over my own feet or send the entire thing into an accidental, catastrophic collapse. The hat, as if it had a mind of its own, flopped dramatically like it was performing a Shakespearean monologue, probably complaining about the indignity of being stuffed into layers of frilly fabric. At that moment, I could almost hear it muttering, “Really? In here? I deserve better!” But hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, and if stuffing a spiteful, melodramatic hat into my dress is what it takes to avoid becoming a human torch, so be it.

I’m fairly certain the doves are still gossiping about it. And I’m pretty sure my bustle is developing a personality of its own. But for now, the hat is hidden. Sort of. And I’ll take that as a small victory. Thus, the bustle plan was born. Is it elegant? Absolutely not.
Does it technically count as smuggling a cursed, uncooperative object into every single social event I attend? Oh, without a doubt. But here’s the kicker: it actually works. The nobles, bless their over-starched souls, take one look at my ridiculously over-fluffed backside and gush with all the enthusiasm of people who’ve never questioned their life choices:

“Oh, how avant-garde! Such volume!”
“Très chic! Like an opera house had a baby with a sofa!”
“I adore your silhouette, darling. So bold, so daring!”

Meanwhile, wedged deep in the folds of tulle and satin, the hat sulks like an angry accordion. It occasionally creaks or mutters ominous things in Old Hexan, usually things like, “I dream of crows.” I just smile politely and pretend it’s my stomach complaining about the third helping of dessert.

Honestly, it’s a win-win. The nobles are distracted by my puffed-up fashion statement, and the hat stays under wraps… for now. But every so often, I swear I hear it plotting. Something about “next time, a shadowy brim wide enough to block out the sun.” I just hope it doesn’t hold me to that.

At parties, people compliment me, usually about the boldness of my silhouette or the sheer audacity of my backside’s volume. I smile sweetly, curtsy with all the grace I can muster, and the bustle wheezes. Yes, wheezes. Like an old accordion that’s been through one too many operas. Honestly, it sounds like the hat is trying to sigh in despair every time I move.

Once, someone, probably drunk on their third glass of elderflower wine, reached out to touch it, maybe thinking it was some kind of exotic fabric or a newfangled accessory. The moment their fingers brushed the folds, zap! They jumped back like they’d just been struck by lightning.

Did I mention that the hat can shock people? Of course, I played it cool and blamed static electricity. Because honestly, who doesn’t get shocked by their own clothes at a fancy party? It’s just so fashionably dangerous these days. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, trying not to laugh while the hat grumbles something about “infernal mortals” and “lack of respect,” and I’m like, yep, just your typical evening mingling with aristocrats and an emotionally unstable piece of headwear. Welcome to my life.

And if you’re probably wondering, “How does a commoner like you even get invited to a noble’s party?”

Well, that’s all thanks to Mrs. Pomfrey. She’s got this habit of dragging me along whenever her noble friends invite her to those lavish gatherings. Honestly? I don’t enjoy it one bit. The endless small talk, the glances, the endless pretending to care about embroidery patterns, it’s exhausting. But how could I say no? Especially when the food is involved. Oh, the food. The way they pile those platters with roasted pheasant, glazed root vegetables, and cheeses that taste like little bites of heaven, I mean, seriously, how much do they pay those cooks? They must be magicians. And don’t even get me started on the desserts. Fluffy pastries, fruit tarts that look like jewels, creams so smooth they practically melt on your tongue… Honestly, if I ever got my hands on their secret recipes, I’d hire those chefs in a heartbeat.

So yeah, Mrs. Pomfrey might drag me there for the gossip, but I stay for the food. Because even a poor witch knows where to find the best feasts in town.

So yes. Blend in with the nobles. Stuff your cursed hat into your fashion like a well-meaning burrito, careful not to let any of that magical sass peek out and spoil the illusion. Smile like you just heard the juiciest secret but aren’t about to spill it. Curtsy with the grace of a swan who’s desperately trying not to trip over their own feet. Sip tea with women whose smiles are sharper than their diamond necklaces, and whose sweet words hide the kind of plotting that could sink a ship.

And if, when, someone comments that your bustle creaked? Oh, lie. Lie so hard your lungs start questioning your life choices. Claim it’s just the fabric settling, or that your corset is a little too eager to join the party. Maybe even say it’s your new avant-garde dance move “The Bustle Bounce,” very exclusive, very chic. Because let’s be real, the hat’s life depends on it. That sneaky, grumbling bundle of brim and brimstone tucked under all those layers is basically alive. It’s like it’s silently keeping score of every fib you tell, every suspicious glance you dodge, every inch you manage to keep from turning into a dramatic shadow monster in front of the entire noble court.

So yes. Lie with the conviction of a cat burglar caught mid-heist. Because if you don’t, the hat will let everyone know exactly who you really are, and it’s not the quiet, well-behaved commoner they think they’re sipping tea with.

So, if you really don’t want to get caught in the bright daylight looking like a witch who forgot her invisibility cloak, here’s the secret: hide your hat. Stuff it into your bustle, fold it like laundry, heck, treat it like your emotional baggage. Because trust me, that hat knows when you’re trying to keep it a secret. It’s got a mind of its own, and it’s not above throwing a little tantrum right when you need it to behave.

Blend in. Smile like you’ve never cast a spell in your life. Nod politely when Lady Pomfrey squints at you like she’s about to call the witch hunters. And for the love of all that’s holy, when your bustle creaks or your bonnet starts muttering ominous things, just lie. Lie like your hat’s reputation, and your social life, depend on it. Because honestly? Between you, me, and the judging goose next door, sometimes survival is just about convincing everyone, including your own magical hat, that you’re nothing more than a very boring commoner with an unfortunate taste in headwear.