MINERVA FALLS. AND FOR A GIRL AT THAT. But someone’s there to catch her. Everytime.
Her name is Dion. No last name. She told her that they do not matter. The first name determines enough. So, it is only Dion.
Dion.
Dion. Dion. Dion.
Minerva loves her.
. . .
IT STARTS LIKE THIS:
It is summer and the sun hangs high, few clouds peeking here and there but there is sun. So much sun.
She’s at a park. And Minerva lazes on the grass with a book tucked neatly into her hands, flipping the pages with the utmost of care. Her skin is dewy, feeling the heat as it nestles on her but then a shadow is poised above her, and she’s in the shade she longed for.
She lifts her eyes from her book, slowly, idly, and looks to the person above her and meets her eyes. Her breath’s stolen away but she recovers soon enough. “Yes?”
As a response, they sit down on the spot next to Minerva, spreading out, but there’s something almost predatory about it. Something like leonine grace and arrogance. Like a lion waiting in the dark as if almost boredly, tracking every movement with sharp eyes, ready to pounce on its next victim. She hopes the victim is not her.
They look at her, and she realises in panic that she didn’t brush her hair today or wear her rings she always wore on a norm. If it were with her, if she had worn it, there would’ve been something to distract herself with. The book’s left open, lying on the ground, discarded but still with care as Minerva turns to face the unknown person.
When they do open their mouth they say, “The Great Gatsby, huh?” And it surprises her because she had not been expecting it. Especially a question as vague and normal as that. And something else surprises her too. She didn’t know what she expected but it was not this. Definitely not this.
“Yes, the Great Gatsby,” she answers in return, face blushing scarlet which she doesn’t know the reason for, (but she actually does, she just doesn’t want to admit it.) but she thinks it’s because of her voice. It was calloused, rough around the edges but yet so indefinitely soft and warm as if imperium bled from her.
Minerva might be thinking too far ahead but she wants to fall in love with them. Rather them than anyone else but she’s sounding way too ridiculous about a person she just met right now.
“It is a nice book,” they muse, “but not to my particular taste.”
Before she could stop the question she blurts out, “And what is your particular taste?”
They meet her eyes, a mischievous gleam in them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Minerva flushes, looking away and they laugh.
“I’m Dion.”
“Dion. No last name?”
“They do not matter. The first name decides enough for you.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” she hums. “I’m Minerva.”
“See? First name determines enough. It is a very pretty name Minerva. Goddess of arts and crafts?”
She nods her head, “Yes.”
Minerva lays on her side, head slanted to look at her as she asks, “I don’t mean to sound intrusive or anything but are you a girl or boy or no gender? I just want to know how to refer to you as.”
“I identify as a girl Minerva,” she tells her, a smile lighting her face that is so pretty it’s not fair (she’s so pretty it’s not fair). It makes Minerva’s heart stop for a beat and then start thundering with her pulse roaring in her ears along with blood.
But there is a garden planted in Minerva’s bones that only Dion can tend to.
. . .
MEETINGS BETWEEN THEM BECOME A REGULAR OCCURENCE. All of them at the park where they first met, holding a sentiment so dear to their hearts. And so does recommending books, trading them, talking about them become a regular occurrence too.
It evolves into dates (well that’s what Minerva considers them as. She doesn't know about Dion.)
And Minerva likes her so much. But she knows for a fact that Dion doesn’t and will never return the feelings back. She shouldn’t get her hopes up for nothing or like someone and start falling in love with them but she can’t help it even with how much she’s tried. It’s happening and there is nothing she can do to make it stop.
She’s stopped trying and let herself be swallowed by them.
And the only thing she can do at least, maybe try to stop even if in vain, is to hope things work out between them and she starts losing interest so her heart doesn’t get broken.
Minerva McGonagall might not like it but what can she do?
Nothing. So she leaves it alone and wishes for her heart to eventually not be crushed and to have something for once that doesn’t just die out.
But Minerva likes her.
Minerva likes her.
She likes her so much that she feels her heart is going to give out any moment she is with Dion going thump thump thump boom boom boom ilikeyou ilikeyou ilikeyou and that she will die with her heart in her hands as it bleeds out for her — for Dion. dion dion dion — with so much love (no, like) that she can not handle inside or keep.
Minerva likes her.
(Now she hopes Dion feels the same. But she’s going to keep it to herself for a while until she’s comfortable in telling her. This is a sin after all and Minerva is breaking enough rules as it is. And she doesn’t want any judgement passed, even if it is unlikely dion would do that but she’s cautious and she’ll remain cautious until she’s ready.)
(Until then, she could wait.)
. . .
THE TIME HER FEELINGS GO ON OVERRIDE IS WHEN Dion gets too close. She gets too close but by accident, having no idea what her actions do to Minerva. She reaches out to get something and brushes by her and her heart starts to beat a little faster and she turns pink and her hands are clammy.
Dion doesn’t notice.
Minerva does.
And she does not mind the close proximity between them, the sliver of space between them (where with the slightest of movement a kiss could happen or something of the sort) with the searing heat sinking into Minerva’s skin heart body soul, where intimate feelings fly so high high high . Her fingers ache to touch Dion, her fingers tremble too. She aches as well and her eyes flutter and she wants wants wants but she doesn’t act upon it. Dion doesn’t like touch unless she says it’s okay and Minerva doesn’t want to intrude on it, doesn’t want to disrespect it how ever much she wants to but she wasn’t raised like that. Minerva knows better. She does better. So she doesn’t do it even though she wants to, how much she needs to, how much she aches to, for Dion’s touch on her for a mere moment, second, minute, minutes, hours — time doesn’t matter. (It does not matter when with her.)
But she treasures it. She treasures the close almost contact.
(And she’s repulsed by the feelings she harbours. She’s so ashamed. She is so ashamed ashamed ashamed repulsed repulsed repulsed by it because the world will kill her for this. The world will kill her for the feelings felt. The world will kill her about Dion, because of Dion, for Dion. The world will kill her. The world will kill her. They will kill her. They’re already killing her. This is no way to live. No way to die. No way to survive. But she is and she does and can do nothing about it. It’s the way of the world and the world takes takes takes until there’s nothing to give back and nothing left. The world might take her life too if she comes out with this heavy heavy secret, this heavy heavy weight and she will have no anchor. She has no anchor. But she does and that anchor is Dion. Dion Dion Dion. She’s the only one keeping Minerva’s world on axis.)
And of course Dion notices now and looks at her with something like concern on her face and a half smile while she’s panicking internally and having those thoughts again (she will never be free of those thoughts ever in her life and she hates it so much but not at the cost of dion. Never at the cost of Dion.) And she doesn’t want her to see her like this because she likes dion. She likes Dion so much.
And then Dion opens that pretty mouth of hers and asks her if she’s alright which she promptly answers Yes I am don’t worry and her heart bursts almost then and there and her thoughts scream worry. worry about me. worry about me as much as you want. i am yours. worry worry worry.
(worry worry worry. i am yours, dion. my heart and soul belongs to you. i like you.)
(But she clamps those thoughts shut and smiles at Dion and asks her where they’re going.
“Anywhere you want Minnie,” she answers so smoothly, so warmly, tenderly that Minerva almost cries. But then she pauses as she realises the words spoken, as it settles in and her head’s screaming again but this time along with her heart.
She called me Minnie. Minnie Minnie Minnie.
Minerva allows it but only for her. Only Dion can call her that and gets to call her that.
And then Dion holds her hands and looks to her for confirmation if this is okay. Minerva nods. And she feels like she’s going to give out from all the things happening to her today, all the surprises. And if she’ll go, she wants to go in a moment like this, with her love (love? lover? almost lover?), with Dion.
She wants to cry because Dion never initiates contact or anything like that or the first step and here she is doing that, doing exactly that. Minerva’s heart is so full that she’s sure it’s going to explode at any given moment and cover them in gory honeysuckle love remnants.
Then, then Dion tightens her grip on her hand — Minerva’s hand — so delicately and almost imperceptibly (but she notices, she always notices. It’s Dion after all.) and interlaces their fingers properly and they’re off. Off into the sunset, off into an adventure, off off off.
The only thing she can do is fall into like with her.)
. . .
DION DOESN’T TALK MUCH. SHE LIKES TO LISTEN INSTEAD and stay silent, with a few words and sentences here and there but she enjoys the quiet. She prefers to listen to others talk about their interests and things they like while she steadfastly pays attention to every little detail they speak about.
She sees in touch, movement, body language. She likes to read people of that than words. Dion’s language is that, she likes that rather than talking but she doesn’t mind it when people do. Their excitement is wonderful and she is so honoured to be seeing it and hearing it and that they trust her to tell her tales.
So Dion stays silent and lets Minerva talk as much as she wants to, about anything she wants to. She doesn't mind and she listens with a soft smile and moon eyes. She likes the girl named after the Roman goddess.
Today wasn't any different. As Minerva comes to a stop she blushes and Dion glides a finger down her cheek in adoration and that sends Minerva’s cheeks aflame more. And Dion tucks the stray lock of hair behind her ear as well as Minnie gazes up at her with those pretty pretty eyes of hers and long eyelashes fluttering as she displays a quiet beam.
And Dion becomes too aware of the caterpillars that metamorphosed into butterflies in her stomach spinning spinning spinning dancing dancing dancing going round and round and round that she slightly feels sick. She becomes too aware of her feelings for Minnie. And she keeps it to herself in the meantime, maybe later she’ll tell the goddess what she feels towards her. She has to keep quiet in a world like this just like she already is doing but this is a violent kind of silence, made by macabre boneyards, lost stars and ruination.
But she likes Minerva. And she sees in touch, speaks in touch body language movement. So she sees Minnie say peace-happiness-comfort-sadness-desperation-wonder-awe— and is that love she reads? No. She couldn’t be sure. She’s reading it wrong but that is a lie because she knows and her subconscious is calling her a liar. Minerva doesn’t love her. Or maybe she does. She’ll keep it to herself and keep quiet for now though.
. . .
THEY DO NOT KNOW HOW IT HAPPENS but it does. Someday they find themselves dancing just before dusk as the sun’s still in the sky bright. The sky bathed in various shades of purple with bits of blue here and there. There is no music and Minerva snuck out to meet Dion.
She meets her there at the park they first met in and continues to do so. But this part of the park is filled with more flowers, all blooming and bright and beaming.
Dion forwards a hand. Minerva looks at it dumbstruck before she comes to her senses and takes it. “What’s this for?” she asks.
“I want to dance,” Dion tells her, solemnly. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
So they do. They dance. As the sun sets, as the moon emblazons the sky, as the stars flare, they dance. In silence with only the company of their heartbeats and hushed breaths and little noises and faint laughter, giggles smattering the air. The world is their friend right now.
Minerva hugs herself and brings herself closer to Dion and if Dion notices she doesn’t say anything, she just hums and puts her head on top of Minerva’s. It would be a lie to say Minerva didn’t almost shed a tear in happiness because Dion — this girl is here and she’s dancing with her and making contact now, when she never used to before, and her head is on top of hers.
Dion catches that tear when it does fall and brushes it away so carefully, so gently that Minerva thinks she’s never going to get used to it, to the doe-like warmth she portrays. And Dion smiles at her softly.
Minerva tucks herself deeper into the heat she emits and the love and rests her head on her shoulder and Dion just holds her.
(And she thinks that this is something like love, something a lot like love, and she loves love and that she’s falling in love with Dion no matter how hard she tried to stop it at first but she doesn’t mind. She almost loves her.)
If Dion drops a kiss of Minnie’s forehead that’s only for them to know.
. . .
DION IS — DION SIMPLY IS. She is everything. And she is more. In words Minerva can’t ever say. To her. She just is .
She’s the rushing tides, she’s the slow seafoam, the maelstrom of thunder, the background pulses of a heart, of love, of touch. She’s the dawns, the mellowed light, the whispered breaths, the sonata, the gilded shadows, the pinpricked stars, the wicking ancient, mortal reign. She’s everything and more. She is.
And she is so beautiful, oh my god, Minerva has to take several breaths in. In and out. In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Minerva likes her.
They’re out with the stars tonight and if her parents notice her absences they don’t say anything, don't speak up, nothing but what did she expect? She’s just a burden to them and unwanted. They don’t love her. Dion loves her and provides her with it, not the exact love she wants but she’ll take it because she’s love-starved and touch-starved and affection-starved, all the starved related to emotions or something to do with parents. They don’t love her. They never will. But Dion can. And she does.
But they’re out with the stars tonight, laying underneath them and Dion's heart twists in something like nostalgia. She remembers a bit, although it is hazy, something like this with her parents. She misses them. And so in turn she nudges Minnie and she lets out a What? And points at all the shapes the stars are formed in, tells her they’re called constellations and that she already probably knows this because of taking Astronomy and lists them.
(Minerva does definitely know the stars and constellations but she doesn’t stop Dion from telling her the knowledge she already knows. There’s something about gaining more knowledge that she loves and maybe Dion can tell her things she herself has no idea of. And there’s also something so sweet and beautiful when you get to see someone light up with passion in what they love and capture their interest and that they trust you with it, are sharing it with you and it’s touching and honouring. Minerva loves it. And she loves her.)
She’s never heard her speak so fervently but it’s beautiful. She’s beautiful so Minnie listens on with sharp eyes, easy gentle smile, hair haloed, dressed in spartan.
. . .
SHE IS DROWNING. Drowning drowning drowning.
But she finds it nice this time instead. And she welcomes it with open arms. This feels better. She likes drowning in love.
This is no way to die. This is no way to live. Especially not in a world where you die for things like this. For feeling. For living the human way.
But it’s nice. It’s all too consuming but she loves it.
Better in the waters of love than anything else at all. If she dies that’s alright. She wants it to be with her or in a moment as if painted by Claude Monet himself with her in love and happiness, so so happy and drowning.
Drowning drowning drowning.
She’s far too deep to swim out of the treacherous waters or even to try and swim out. She is submerged and happily so and is drowning.
Drowning.
She loves her.
. . .
MINERVA CONFRONTS HER ONE DAY.
She marches right up to Dion steadily, holds her gently (gently and with care because Dion is tentative with touch), and sits her down. And then tells her everything, anchoring her down and with an arduous ridden mind.
(Minerva gradually got used to the feelings Dion gave her and made her feel. She accepts it too. There’s nothing she can do about it and she doesn’t want to keep her feelings bottled up anymore. And she knows Dion feels the same for her as she does.)
“You make me feel. You make me feel a lot. And a lot of things. I do not like it. I do not like how you make me feel but at the same time I do.” She speaks, words although shaking which betrays her because this wasn’t how she wanted it to go.
And Dion looks at her with an expression so soft and silent mirth as her shoulders tremor a bit and she flits her eyes down towards Minerva’s lips and tilts her head asking permission. (Oh, she thinks, oh this is happening. She’s been wanting this for so long and has waited for this and it’s finally, finally happening at long last and after so long anticipating it, aching for it.) Minerva lets out a small firm nod barely noticeable, barely trackable, and then she’s kissing her. She’s being kissed. Dion’s kissing her and she is surrounded in her and engulfed and consumed and she feels on fire (in a good way) and electric, and she can only hear Dion, feel Dion, touch Dion, love Dion. Dion kisses her. Dion Dion Dion.
Then the moment ends as fast as it happened and Dion pulls back and Minerva looks at her with so much wonder and is trembling in love and looks so alive and is flushed.
Dion smiles easily and softly. “Better?”
Minnie opens her mouth and closes it, trying to find her voice but she eventually does. “Yes.”
“If you wanted a kiss then all you had to do was ask me,” she says teasingly and Minnie whacks her arm slightly before realising what she did and a guilty expression marring her face. “It’s fine. It was an accident. Don’t worry I’m not mad or anything like that. It’s alright Minnie,” she reassures.
Minerva still looks at her guilty and, “Are you sure?” she says hesitantly.
Dion nods. “Positive.”
“Okay,” she lets it go. “And shush you.”
Dion laughs.
“I’ve waited for this for ages.”
“Well. Then you don’t have to wait that long,” she smirks and Minnie whips her head around so fast and asks the silent question which she returns with a yes and Minnie sits there waiting, eagerly, anticipating. She doesn’t have to wait that long because Dion is leaning forward nice and slow, careful and gentle and languid and showing how much Dion loves her (but then she’s devouring her, pressing against her, and pouring herself onto her like an engrave, an etch, a mark on her soul, tying themselves to Earth and all the planets and galaxies and universes expanded within. It’s rushed now and needy but it’s love.) and it’s so so otherworldly what Minerva gets caught up with.
She pulls back a second time and they giggle about it.
“This calls for a celebration,” She lends forward a hand, “would you like to do me the honour Ms. McGonagall?” And her voice is just like honey; warm and sweet and smooth and everlasting.
“I would.” Minerva murmurs back.
They dance under Selene's domain again. (Tons of kisses are shared and sneaked in.)
. . .
IT’S A SURPRISE AT FIRST. It comes as a surprise. She never wanted to fall in love or be in love. With a girl no less because of what society does and places you upon. But she does. And she lets herself wilt under Dion’s touch. With a gasp they conquer the worlds, succumbing to mortality. They sink into the divinity and despair. A whisper she comes undone and a hiss she withers within.
Minerva could get used to this as she lazily drags Dion down for a kiss.
. . .
THERE ARE constellations hidden beneath and charred raw stardust dancing. Months pass (they don’t notice.) and summer is coming to an end soon. Dion has to leave, she didn’t mean for this holiday to transcend into something else, something more . For her to find love and fall and Minerva. But stories always have to come to an end.
But they don’t have to come abruptly for an end. So this is before the story comes to a close. These are the moments left to treasure and remember and love. The final ones. The ones before a collision comes that strikes everything off-kilter, before the aftermath.
Dion felt as if she was and her heart was a garden. With withered flowers woven into one, tightly around her fraying broken ribcage. (metaphors of course, not literally. Figuratively.) She tends so much she’s tired. But this time she was tending of her own needs not anyone else's and that’s what set her alight. Just Minerva and her. For Minerva. Minerva Minerva Minerva. She’s never heard a name much prettier and better than hers although she would argue that Dion’s is much prettier. Minerva tells her she’s born right from the stars, from moonshine, from heaven but a fallen angel. Wings ripped from stellar bodies, godhood no longer, saccharine blood coating her as poison as they laugh cruelly from above. This is her death. But it isn’t. She knows. That isn’t her death. That isn’t how she goes. She’s seen it from the moon herself and the nebulas told her. She’ll die with Minerva, before Minerva. She needs to go. She’s doing more harm than good. She’s stayed longer than necessary. She needs to, she’s caused more harm than good. She needs to leave leave leave .
“Minerva,” she speaks and Minnie turns to look at her, “Minerva I—” I need to leave. I need to go. I want to stay. I want I want I want. But this is not about her wants. It’s about following rules, obeying. “I love you.” is what she settles for instead.
Minnie smiles. “I love you too.” and her heart ricochets.
“Please forgive me.”
“Of course.” But she wouldn’t have if she knew what was happening, what was going to happen.
And then Dion pulls her in for a kiss (it’s hypnotic, it’s silver, it’s carnal, it’s perennial and so many other things she can not describe) and she forgets everything, all her worries melt away. She’s in a wintertime hued haze.
She thinks, she thinks that this is how gods die. From so much power that they combust. The power that is unbridled and they cannot keep bottled up. She feels like one; a god dying. She wonders how they don’t.
Dion Dion— celetiality is bestowed upon her and she drifts in the heavens, bathe in empyrean. Minerva knows for sure that the girl is a goddess. There is no other reason she isn’t. And she grows flowers in the hollow of her bones for her, blooming and never stopping. (metaphorical again.)
Minerva knows that Dion is made of moonbeams but has heartbreaks scattered underneath her skin. She wishes that Dion didn’t, wishes she could take away the pain but she can’t and even if she could she wouldn’t be able to handle it with her own tragedy’s going on.
Dion tells her she’s leaving, she needs to go and it suddenly makes sense why she asked Minerva to forgive her. She says no. And Dion has ghosts of tears in her eyes and Minerva’s pretty sure she can feel her own well up.
“I love you,” she whispers forlorn to her, into the night, into whatever.
“Take me with you.” she cries.
Dion shakes her head no and Minerva understands, she’s never told her about her home life just like Dion has never told hers but that doesn’t mean she wants her to go.
“I can’t. Otherwise I would. Believe me I would,” she doesn’t meet her gaze, “but I can’t.” she murmurs in frustration, picking clumps of grass and then tossing it away and repeating the cycle again.
“I love you.” Minerva says again.
Dion leans over. “I know. I know. I love you.” and she kisses her again (their final kiss) and it’s sad and angry and there’s desperation. “I love you,” she breathes out.
“I love you too,” Minerva returns. And she can’t do anything about it, about the current situation and she hates it, hates it with a burning passion.
“Just pray we meet again,” she calls out to the parting figure.
“We will.” Dion murmurs to herself and then, “I will,” she tosses over her shoulder.
Those midnight girls love to break us starlight girls’s hearts, Minerva thinks to herself. She should’ve known but she had no reason to know. She didn’t know and that was her biggest downfall. She could’ve saved herself all of the pain.
She was doing so good without love, without Dion . why did it happen to come in so suddenly and in the form of her.
She should’ve known Dion would be a leaver. After all people come and go, they never stay. They aren’t a constant. People are leavers. It’s sad that she had to be one as well.
Minerva doesn’t know if Venus has cursed her or if this is by her own will. (It’s definitely by her own will. She just wants someone to blame it on.)
And she just can’t help hate her with her whole being but that falls flat. Minerva hates her. But she doesn’t. Not really. She just hates that she’s left her. She could’ve gone with her, she didn’t have to stay. Their story didn’t have to end. They didn’t have to end. But they did. It’s too late. What’s done is done. And Minerva hates her.
(She doesn’t. She loves. She still loves her with her whole being and soul and existence and heart and Dion does the same. Feels the same for Minerva. Dion still loves her. She’ll never get over her. They both won’t. Unknown to Mineva, Dion has the locket Minnie gifted her and keeps it with her at all times sake. And wears it always, in her protective hold. Dion loves her. Minerva loves her. It’s bittersweet.)
. . .
EVER SINCE Dion’s departure from her life she feels and seems destructible, everything fell out of place and the world is no longer on its axis. It fell apart just like her daydreams did. Shattered, crumbled, no more. It hurts. Minerva doesn’t want to hurt. But she does anyway.
There weren't any tears that day, she recalls. No tears, desperation yes, but no tears. As if they knew that their story wasn’t meant for the stars, the nebulas, the constellations, the worlds. It wasn’t made for them either. As if they accepted it before it came. Their story died with them.
She remembers Dion’s words clearly to this day.
“Be the lion Minerva. Be the lion,” Dion told her and sealed it with a kiss. One of the last kisses shared between them.
So she does. She becomes the lion. She stays the lion.