The First Signs of a Storm - Prisoner of Azkaban - Book 1

Chapter 32: Will You Wear a Crown, Your Grace?

Storm

     Sure enough, on the last day of term on Friday 17th, Storm was greeted by a proud looking, pure white Eagle Owl swooping down from the above, accompanied by Alandra, whose long periods of disappearance were usual. Nevertheless, when Storm spotted the vibrant plumage of her companion, she jumped to her feet with her arms outstretched.
"Alandra!" She beamed in a thick Portuguese, her dialect slipping as she made a perfect switch from the subtle English that her tongue had adopted. "I've missed you my darling!" She grinned as the Water Phoenix landed on her shoulder, the birds talons sinking into her skin. But Storm welcomed the sting. "Sorry about the weather." She added as Alandra nuzzled the top of her head, her wings spreading slightly as she did so. The Eagle Owl had departed, leaving a think envelope of crisp silver parchment, with emerald ink beside her goblet of pumpkin juice.

     "Knew you'd get one." Huffed Liberty, whose sour mood had returned the night before, the upcoming Christmas holiday doing nothing to lift her spirits. Storm waved Alandra off her shoulder, pointing to the empty seat opposite her, beside Evan, who was staring at the Phoenix in wonder. She tried to catch his eye, but he avoided it. Just like he'd avoided talking about the almost-kiss.
     In fact, his hot and cold mood swings were starting to annoy her. She just wished he'd grow a pair and tell her exactly what he wanted. Because she was not going to be playing any guessing games.
     As Alandra perched on the bench, taking a piece of bacon before taking flight, Storm grabbed the letter, bile rising in her throat at the address written in immaculate handwriting;

Her Majesty,
Queen Ellestormé of the BlueBloods,
Hogwarts Castle,
Scotland,
United Kingdom

     Theo, who was sat on the left of Storm, peered over her shoulder, letting out a whistle.
"Ooo," he teased, winking at her as she met his eye. "Fancy. Will you wear a crown, Your Grace - ouch!" He hissed when Storm punched him hard on the arm, Liberty sniggering on her other side.
     Storm rounded on Liberty. "Do you want one?" She snapped, gripping the invitation tightly, her knuckles turning white. Liberty rolled her eyes.
     "Open it." The skinhead said. Storm shook her head and made a face.
     "No!" She whined loudly. "Do I have to?" Storm had been dreading this ever since it had been mentioned. What the fuck would she do? What she wear? What would she say? Because it wasn't a simple case of being herself - she didn't know what was expected from a - from a - one of those. Would she have to bring a plus one? Who the hell would she ask? And anyway, who would want to be subjected to the form of torture that came in bowing, curtsies and titles and downright awfulness?
     Storm - wanting to avoid opening it for as long as possible - searched for Professor Lupin frantically, knowing that he at least would be able to offer some form of advice. Or better yet, a solution.
     But he wasn't there. She got to her feet, taking her letter with her, not stopping to explain to her friends where she was going - fifteen minutes before the first days' lesson. 

     Storm fell against the wall outside the Great Hall, not really going off in search of Professor Lupin, but simply to take a breather and decide what she was going to do. Without all the questions.
     Could she even attend the Ball? Her first ever outing in such a capacity being that of a soirée of those who thought themselves above people with a Muggle background. How would that go down? Especially since she shared one thing in common with (probably) most of them - her house.
     She couldn't accept.
     But then, could she decline? Could she snub the very same people who just so happened to hold a considerable amount of power within the Ministry? Was it not her responsibility, to monitor such authoritative figureheads, who also had - should she say - particular sentiments? Was it not her duty, to investigate potential threats behind the smokescreen of diplomacy, before rather than after tragedy on however big a scale it may be?
     Storm sighed, pulling her light curls from its charm. She knew it would probably go against tradition or protocol or whatever laws kept the institution going. But Storm could not simply be a decorative flower. And she simply would not.
But even so, could she go? She didn't think she could stomach nor uphold the act of prestigious nobility for five minutes, let alone however many hours she would be expected to endure.