Bonnibel used to adore going on trips with her family to meet other pureblooded families. It had caused her to go all across the globe. Most times she had not the faintest clue what was happening, but there was something so invigorating about leaving her small hometown in North Carolina every once in awhile. Sure it could get exhausting, but it was nice to be able to discuss all the places she went with the people at her school. It made her feel like she belonged somehow.

After her time at Ilvermorny, her opinions changed drastically. Of course she still looked forward to exploring the world, but the thought of having to spend long hours with her family began to make her uncomfortable. She was independent now- she had spent an entire year at a school on her own, and it was far different. All of those times she thought she had been exploring the world were simply nonsense at its finest. She had to deal with different personalities- different beliefs. It was exhausting and invigorating.

She had hoped that she would not have to travel anywhere else during the summer; however, when she was informed they would be traveling to Haywards Heath she found that her desires had been crushed. Still, once she had gathered all of the minor belongings she required and got in her most casual-formal outfit a quick floo powder trip was all that was necessary to end up in the warm area. Luckily for her, her mother seemed to acknowledge her thirst for independence and informed her she could explore the area if she liked.

Bonnibel was thrilled. Of course, she did not show it, but she was absolutely thrilled. With a grateful "Thank you! I'll arrive before the event begins." she was on her way.

She mumbled the address to herself a couple times before beginning on her walk. It was hot out- she felt lucky she chose such a simple, light outfit. Still, Bonnibel was no fool. Anxiety began to creep up on her that perhaps she would start sweating, which would surely get her bad looks. She needed to find a cold place to enter and fast. She kept her pace slow as to not stick out like a sore thumb. Even though her anxiety was eating her away, It gave her time to look at all of the modern buildings. All were built wonderfully, but nothing truly stuck out to her until she saw a gigantic theatre.

It was aged in its appearance, but it was positively grand. It looked like it could have been made made by actual American wizards. People were swarming around it- a gigantic line leading out of it of people she could only assume were muggles. They were slowly shuffling in, holding pieces of paper that were shinier than gold. Bonnibel had made up her mind, she had to find out what was happening.

She joined the back of the line in hopes she would blend in just in order to get a better look at the building. Just as she suspected, it was even more fascinating up close, but that was not what she was looking for. On the side of the building there were framed posters that had gigantic letters on them. Bonnibel stared at them with perplexity on her face.

They looked like book covers, except she had never seen any books like them. If she had not known any better she would have said the place was a theatre- but that could not be possible. No no, the covers were far too magical. One would need genuine magic to make those effects, and clearly this was just made for muggles. She continued to stare at the posters until a voice interrupted her thought process.

"Hey, are you in line?"A man's voice inquired.

Bonnibel chirped up, her attention being dragged back to reality.

"Of course I'm in line, why else would I be standin-" she snapped before she cut herself off as she glanced in front of her, forcing herself to acknowledge the big gap in front of her and the rest of the line. Her cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, yes, I am in line." she forced herself to say before moving up closer, deciding this time she would keep her eyes on the line.

As she inched forward one by one, she could feel the sweat begin to bead on her neck. She hastily swiped it off. The man in front of her held the door open for her to enter, which Bonnibel acknowledged with a forced smile and a thank you. Cold air was so close she could taste it. Nothing was going to stop her except-

"Ticket Please" The man stated, offering his hand out.

The gears in her head began turning. This WAS a theatre, and not only that, she was about to humiliate herself. Insecurity and rage concocted in a fiery brew inside of her chest as she spat
"Ticket? Someone should make that more clear when I just entered the line." she lashed out in the most formal voice a 13 year old could.

"I can't control that ma'am, but you can always just buy one." The man stated, blatantly confused why he was being chastised by a child- an AMERICAN one at that.

She huffed "It should have been more obvious, but I would like one ticket." she reached into her simple black handbag and took out a fresh green 20 dollar bill and passed it to the man. The people behind her were blatantly getting impatient with her shenanigans, but she attempted to pretend not to notice. She had dug herself into a hole and she was not backing down.

The man clearly realized he was in for a long day as he looked at the bill. "Ma'am, We only take pounds." he informed her as he handed back the bill.

Bonnibel tensed up before putting the dollar back in her handbag. Despite all of the rude words she had learned at Ilvermorny she wanted to call him, she pressed them down within herself. "That makes sense, thank you." she walked out of line, standing next to the building as she comprehended her next move. So much for having a good time to cool off.

Interacting with @Celeste Wetherstead

Bonnibel could not help but berate herself for such trivial mistakes in her mind, but then again surely it could not entirely be her fault. How was she supposed to know it was a theatre. The posters that were evenly spaced out upon the ornate wall? The extensive wait line to even get a glimpse of what was inside? The shimmering, golden tickets? Please. She considered herself valuable when it came to picking up minor details that could frequently be overlooked, so clearly any typical person would have not a clue of what the building was supposed to be. In fact, she was so wonderful at picking up details that she did not notice the peculiar, petite future Ravenclaw approaching her until she proceeded to open up her mouth to say possibly the most bewildering inquiry she had heard in weeks.

The small girl had freed her from the wrath of her inner turmoil, only to confront her with a far worse, external one. Part of her wished she could go back to cussing out how much she despised England in her brain, but formalities were formalities. Of course, that was until they were not. Right now, Bonnibel could not even comprehend whether this little blonde girl was messing with her head or genuinely attempting to pay her a compliment.

Her... skull? Was that supposed to be some sort of funny trick? Was it something muggles said? Was it a THREAT? Still, she could not help but feel complimented. If someone was to look closely they would be able to see a faint smile on her lips- a rare sight for such a formal girl after a temper tantrum. It reminded her of how she was a horned serpent. It was a welcome sign when all she had been longing for over the last several weeks was to go back to Ilvermorny.

Bonnibel looked the girl up and down, her piercing, judgmental stare tracing every peculiarity she could find. The girl's face made her seem lost despite the fact she was clearly familiar with the area enough to talk to a random girl next to a theatre, but the fact she was wearing a cloak in such a horrendous temperature truly nailed it in for Bonnibel that this girl was not all there. There was no way this girl was not a bit scatterbrained- whether that meant she was a muggle or a very idiotic witch. Though she had looked her up and down a couple times, Bonnibel finally settled on staring a little above the girl's eyes- enough to make it seem almost like she was making eye contact, but it displayed the slight superiority that the girl desired in such a situation.

Bonnibel reached her hand up to rub the top of her own skull before recalling she had to look her best for the event that night. Not a hair was to be out of place. She hastily adjusted herself, keeping her arms at her side in order to not wrinkle up her dress.

"Thank you, I have been told I have a nice mind." she started off with as delicate of a tone as she could muster, deciding to lightly reference her commitment to the horned serpents while avoiding seeming peculiar to any muggle. She felt as if she was walking on eggshells. "I'm afraid that whether I got it from my mother or not is none of your business, though." she kept her tone formal.She moved her eyes down so she could examine the girl's pale eyes. "What makes you feel the need to ask?" she inquired, defensiveness covered up by a mask of sincere curiosity and formalities.

She was only testing the waters. This could be her redemption arc of the day. She would not have to return to the event feeling miserable- she could prove she was socially capable to herself once more. After all, there was no way she would ever see this girl again. When would she get the chance? She had the accent to never set a food in Ilvermorny.

Interacting with @Celeste Wetherstead

Much to Celeste’s relief, the girl did not throw another tantrum. Instead she swept her eyes up and down Celeste’s body several times, the point of which was unclear. Was she scanning for weapons? There wasn’t much point; it wasn’t like she could use spells outside Hogwarts anyway. Her eyes eventually came to a stop just slightly above Celeste’s own. How odd. Did all Americans—from the accent Celeste was relatively sure that the girl originated from the United States —refrain from looking people in the eyes? Had they regressed all the way back to the custom of not looking directly at emperors? Oh no, that was China. And the girl wasn’t an emperor. Oh, maybe she was seeing double. Inebriated perhaps. Yes, that was probably it.

Well, if the girl liked to look at people’s foreheads, Celeste didn’t mind reciprocating. She raised her own eyes to the girl’s hairline and, fixing her gaze on it firmly, replied, “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re clever. I’ve been told that I am, too.”

As a matter of fact Celeste had been referring to the girl's face, but interpretation was a tricky business. Indeed, she herself had once written a long essay on how the poem “The Sick Rose” was about a serial killer striking on a stormy night, only to find out that it was in actuality about the wickedly corrupting influence of the carnal desires. Mistakes happen.

Finally! Eye contact! She rearranged her features into what is commonly known as “the doge meme face”, compressing her lips upwards and widening her eyes, her go-to expression for social interactions. It was also largely the reason for her lack of the aforementioned interactions. She stared unblinkingly into the other girl’s eyes for a few moments before she deemed the eye contact satisfactory, relaxed her face, and remembered to reply to the question.

“I just thought you look aesthetically pleasing,” said Celeste. “Like a tortoise. You know.”

This was not an attempt to mock the girl. Quite the opposite, in fact; Celeste found the unwieldy, wrinkled reptiles to be incredibly endearing, to the point where she considered being compared to a tortoise to be a compliment of the highest order. Unfortunately not everybody felt the same, as she would discover when she used it to disastrous effect during an otherwise delightful Christmas gathering in her third year. However that event had yet to occur, and so she continued to operate under the illusion of the term's synonymity with pulchritude.

She paused to smooth down her fringe, mirroring the girl’s unfinished movement earlier. “My name is Celeste,” she added. “Wetherstead. That’s my favourite tree—" here she paused to pivot and point at the maple. She stared at it hard for a few moments, expression of intense concentration akin to that of a toddler selecting candy in a store during a Halloween sale adding a tinge of absurdity to her already strange countenance, before nodding, the tree apparently having passed her mental assessment. “and that’s a rock. In case you don’t have them in America. I’m not sure. I’ve never been there.”

The disjointed flow of topics came to a stop as she sensed that going any further about America would only result in grievously insulting the other.

Interacting with Bonnibel Grace @Ross Stephens

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Interacting with @Celeste Wetherstead

Oh wow, she was weird. Were all Americans like this?

After another brief eye malfunction, where the American twitched her eyeballs down the length of Celeste’s body again, she implied in an admirably frank manner that Celeste was bad at talking to people. She, Celeste! Socially inept? Benefit of the doubt? Was she being condescending? For the first time that summer, she felt prickles of uncertainty bringing out that long-forgotten instinct of hers—inhibition.

To add insult to injury, the American didn’t look at all appreciative of the tortoise comment, placing a hand on her hip in an ironically tortoise-like defensive movement. “I meant that you have a nice face,” Celeste explained, in the sort of tone you use with toddlers. “Because tortoises.”

Which did not really clear anything up.

At least the girl was relatively polite about the tree. That was good. Celeste held the maple tree in high regard, almost as high as tortoises and sand, and did not like it when people lacked the respect she believed worthy of such a nice tree.

Bonnibel, huh? Interesting name, that. “Were you born in the year of the rabbit?” Celeste asked, seizing Bonnibel’s hand happily and shaking it like the ground during a magnitude 7.9 earthquake. “You know, Bunny-bel?” It didn't seem likely, since those born under that zodiac animal were supposedly soft and tender in personality, mild in temperament and overall pleasant to be around, and from what she could see Bonnibel didn't quite fit those criteria. Well, there were always outliers. Plenty of people had doubted her suitability to be in Ravenclaw, similarly questioning her—well, it wasn't very nice to say, but some people thought she was of dubious sanity and belonged in a mental institution rather than Hogwarts. But that was irrelevant.

She did not imagine for a moment that her comment, made with the utmost sincerity, would be received with anything other than good humour.

And what an idea, that she shouldn’t look at the tree whenever she spoke of it! She turned to glance at it again. “I like it.”

And that, the unspoken words showing plainly on her face, was that.

“Of course I’ve taken science classes!” Celeste exclaimed, shocked. “And people say that I’m wise in— well—things, you know, in general. My friends say I give good advice. And there’s nothing like lying in a nice muddy puddle during a thunderstorm to make you contemplate life and appreciate towels.”

She trailed off dreamily before the latter part of Bonnibel’s statement registered in her head. She straightened, a delighted smile spreading across her face.

“Oh my crumpets. Did you say floo powder?” Celeste gasped. “I knew it! Or not. You’re a witch too! But you’re clearly American. And wrong. England is obviously better than America. But let’s not dwell on breadcrumbs!” she spun around without warning and traipsed towards the theatre, deftly dodging the milling throng of tourists and theatre-goers, gesturing that Bonnibel should follow. “It’s super hot, let’s go in instead!”

The ticket collector didn't even ask. He merely bobbed his head with an "Afternoon, Miss Celeste," and waved her inside, though he frowned slightly at the sight of her companion.

"My dad runs the theatre," Celeste said, staring intently into the dark surface of a polished marble pillar and patting down her hair, which had been ruffled by a gust of cool wind as they had entered. "So I can basically go where I like. He'll be happy to see I've made a friend." If Bonnibel could be called that. "What were you planning to watch?"

Interacting with Bonnibel Grace @Ross Stephens

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Interacting with @Celeste Wetherstead