#cedricdiggiory

Minnie didn’t have her heart set on anything. She was too sensible for that. Although Ravenclaw was looking far friendlier now that the boy who had the same thoughts on Quidditch as her was seated at their table….

“McGonagall, Minerva.”

She stepped forwards, heart thrumming. This was it. 

The hat was warm–possibly because it was sentient, possibly because it had been atop quite a few heads before hers. All of which were turned towards her, like she was on a funeral pyre, or in a casket, or–

She decided to close her eyes. It helped.

“Hmmmm,” whispered the Sorting Hat, as though it was like a cat curled right next to her brain. Minnie shivered involuntarily. “I see you are quite the responsible girl, Minerva.”

Her lips tugged downwards. She was sick of being the responsible girl, the girl who cleaned up everyone’s messes. It would be much better to be valiant, and brave–like her mother, when she stood up to the pastor’s wishes–or intelligent and wise, like the one girl in the village who found a way to get all her chores done in twice the time so she could study to become a nurse to better the world. 

Minnie was sick of being the older sister.

“Ah, so you tend towards Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, then?” the hat mused. 

Minnie pressed her lips together. “Yes,” she thought back. “I’d rather be a hero or a scholar than a stand in for Ma.”

“Why can’t you be both?”

Minnie thought about it, and sighed. The hat had a point, as strange as it sounded. “I can’t be both. How can knowledge be heroic? How can being a hero be smart?”

The hat chuckled, which screamed condescension. “You will find out.”

“Can you not be confusing?”

Another laugh. Minnie crossed her arms, putting on the expression that she used when her brothers were acting up and she was having none of it.

“You’re plenty wise enough to make this choice, and plenty brave enough to pick the right one for you.”

There it was: the truth. She thought about it long and hard, exchanging more words with the Sorting Hat before whispering what she wanted. 

Minerva McGonagall wasn’t always a legend, or a strong witch, or the best in her year. Once upon a time she had been a small little girl who was forced to grow up too soon with a penchant for magic and following her father’s advice. Once upon a time, she had just been “Minnie”. 

 he’s dressed in that suit that always makes her go oh when she sees him, and it’s like he’s deliberately lathered himself in that perfume she says suits him. his hair is as it always is; a hurricane, an unamendable yet intriguing whirlwind of hair – something she loves to run her hands through, it’s like she can almost feel the soft texture slipping through her fingers oh god

she’s wearing that cute sundress which he remembers he first kissed her in; that cute sundress which he told her she looked beautiful in; that cute sundress which also happens to be yellow, his favourite colour. like the sun, he thinks, as he looks into the green pools of her eyes and falls in love all over again. her hair’s done in that really casual style; the little ponytail with a matching yellow hair tie – she’s done it deliberately, and he knows it, he wants to pull the tie out of her hair so badly and feel the softness of it on his fingertips, he wants to touch her face and feel her freckles and kiss her on the neck, kiss her, just kiss her forever and let her sober him up

she sees him again and he’s holding someone else in his arms, and he’s laughing with her. she can feel that feeling in her stomach, that dizzy feeling, the feeling that wants to make her do weird things. she feels like she’s drunk, but she’s not, she hasn’t had anything at all, she’s just tipsy in love, too far in to ever come back out. she’s staring at him from the other end of the room, wanting so badly to be the girl he’s holding in his arms, wanting so badly to be the girl he kisses tonight, but she can’t, she can’t she can’t. she’s not good enough. her yellow sundress is not good enough. her hair is not good enough. the shoes she’s worn are not good enough. she’s not good enough. but the girl in his arms is. and that’s what kills her. every. single. time.

he sees her and his heart breaks cause she’s talking to someone else, a someone with curly hair and brown eyes, and she seems so infatuated with him, so oblivious to everything else. he wants to shout that she’s his, claim to everyone in the room that the girl in the yellow sundress is his, but he can’t, cause that courage he had was gone long ago. he can see the sadness in her green eyes all the way from across the room and he wants to scream, cause he knows the boy with curly hair doesn’t see it; he knows that the boy with curly hair doesn’t really know what she feels, and it makes him happy, cause he’s the only one who does.

she’s sitting on the footpath of some rundown street, some street she doesn’t know the name of, and she’s telling herself that she’s waiting for a taxi, but she knows she isn’t. she’s waiting for something else. for love, the voice yells in the back of her mind, she’s waiting for him to come and take her away, somewhere far, far away. but he’s not going to come, and the dizzy feeling in her stomach is growing now, attacking her fingers and her arms and her feet and her face and her thoughts – all she can think of is him, oh how stupid she was, thinking she’d be the girl he’d kiss tonight–

he’s walking aimlessly, letting his feet lead him, wherever they can go. he wants to see her again, talk to her, hold her in his arms and tell her that she’s his again. but he doesn’t know where she’s gone – she’s probably driven off with the curly-haired boy somewhere, not knowing who the hell that messy-haired tuxedo guy was, not knowing who was deeply in love with her all this time. he wants to kick a rock, anything to prove how much he wants her right now, when he sees it.

it’s the sun, alight on a dark street, and it’s sitting with its head in its hands quietly, silently, unaware of its surroundings. he feels like a hole has opened beneath his feet and he’s going to fall through it cause he’s so happy, an indescribable sort of happy, a relief washing through him, seeping through his bones and soaking into his veins. but then he feels empty, something tugging at his strings, something wrong, when he sees the sad frown on her face, the sadness illuminating her features. had the curly-haired boy broken her heart? he’d fight her, he thought, he’d fight the bastard, he’d make him regret it, he surely would. he hears a heart-wrenching sob from across the street and something within him breaks – his composure is gone, his knees are broken and he almost collapses to the floor cause he feels a physical stab of pain as she cries into the darkness. he wants to shout her name, soothe her by telling her that don’t worry, you’re mine, but he doesn’t know if that would calm her or make her worse.

she’s wiping her tears away slowly, even though more are falling out of her eyes as she does, and her throat is tingling in that horrible way, her face is ruined and she is ruined. but when was she not ruined? he had not noticed her. she was not good enough. she was ruined right from the start. she was, she was

you’re beautiful, a voice calls from the end of the street, and she starts, wanting to know who had heard her, who had been able to read her thoughts. she can see a silhouette forming at the end of the street, but she can’t see who it is, not even if she squints. who are you, she calls helplessly down the street, but the silhouette is still there, only it’s becoming clear. she can see the suit that makes her go oh, she can smell the perfume that she says suits him so strongly, oh god. and the hair. she can see the messy mop of hair from miles away, a hurricane, an unamendable yet intriguing whirlwind of hair.

he can see her better now, and she truly is beautiful. he can see the cute sundress that reminds him of when he first kissed her, her fluorescent green eyes, her hair held back by a yellow hair tie – barely held back. he can almost envision himself running his fingertips through her soft hair and admiring the constellation of freckles smattered all over her nose. you’re beautiful you’re beautiful you’re beautiful, he repeats into the darkness, enough for her to understand that it’s true.

i’m beautiful, she whispers to herself, like it’s a mantra. i’m beautiful i’m beautiful i’m beautiful. she’s waiting for him to come and take her away, somewhere far, far away. and he’s going to come and the dizzy feeling in her stomach is growing now, attacking her fingers and her arms and her feet and her face and her thoughts – all she can think of is him, oh how happy she is, knowing she’d be the girl he’d kiss tonight –

he’s walking quickly, letting his feet lead him, wherever they can go. he’s going to see her again, talk to her, hold her in his arms and tell her that she’s his again. and he knows where she’s gone – she’s here, right in front of him, in love with him, in love with the messy-haired tuxedo guy.

and then he’s kissing her. she’s kissing him forever, sobering him up, and pushing herself further into the drunkenness of love.