Searching For A Face
"I'm looking for a place
I'm searching for a face
Is anybody here I know?"
Albus Dumbledore ran quicker than his feet could carry him, and he stumbled through the corridors. Inwardly he could not suppress a well meant curse- a curse at Armando, his friend and employer who had- despite his repeated pleas!- told his favourite pupil about her mother's death himself.
It wasn't that Armando wasn't tactful or nice, but Albus knew, felt, that she would have wanted him to tell her. Because Armando, despite having been Headmaster of Hogwarts for decades and decades, still hadn't got a clue about how other people's minds worked. He still hadn't understood that Minerva McGonagall, despite her strong and impeccable façade was actually a highly vulnerable girl.
Perhaps that had exactly been the reason for the façade in the first place- fear for her own weaknesses. She couldn't understand how anyone could ever like her through those weaknesses, but it was exactly her façade that kept her from making friends easily.
Not, Albus admitted, that life hadn't been hard on her. Life- or her fellow students. She'd always been kind of an outsider, being intelligent and older than expected for her actual age. Her grades were always the best, even though she was perhaps not even the most studious of her class. Such a girl simply had to make enemies easily- even though she was a dear in every possible way.
For that she was, and therefore he ran. The figures on the paintings he passed muttered silent curses at him- "running through the corridors" and that "for a Head of House"- but he did not care.
He had a feeling- an undeniable feeling, that she, that beautiful, intelligent, wonderful girl with her radiant green eyes and her long, soft, black waves or hair, always so rigidly pulled back into a braid or bun.
He saw trough the bun, through the thin, pressed together lips, through the mask of flawless, noble bravery. She was brave, yes. Braver than any person he knew.
But ever bravery has its borders, he knew, and therefore he ran.
"I'm looking for a place
I'm searching for a face
Is anybody here I know?"
Albus Dumbledore ran quicker than his feet could carry him, and he stumbled through the corridors. Inwardly he could not suppress a well meant curse- a curse at Armando, his friend and employer who had- despite his repeated pleas!- told his favourite pupil about her mother's death himself.
It wasn't that Armando wasn't tactful or nice, but Albus knew, felt, that she would have wanted him to tell her. Because Armando, despite having been Headmaster of Hogwarts for decades and decades, still hadn't got a clue about how other people's minds worked. He still hadn't understood that Minerva McGonagall, despite her strong and impeccable façade was actually a highly vulnerable girl.
Perhaps that had exactly been the reason for the façade in the first place- fear for her own weaknesses. She couldn't understand how anyone could ever like her through those weaknesses, but it was exactly her façade that kept her from making friends easily.
Not, Albus admitted, that life hadn't been hard on her. Life- or her fellow students. She'd always been kind of an outsider, being intelligent and older than expected for her actual age. Her grades were always the best, even though she was perhaps not even the most studious of her class. Such a girl simply had to make enemies easily- even though she was a dear in every possible way.
For that she was, and therefore he ran. The figures on the paintings he passed muttered silent curses at him- "running through the corridors" and that "for a Head of House"- but he did not care.
He had a feeling- an undeniable feeling, that she, that beautiful, intelligent, wonderful girl with her radiant green eyes and her long, soft, black waves or hair, always so rigidly pulled back into a braid or bun.
He saw trough the bun, through the thin, pressed together lips, through the mask of flawless, noble bravery. She was brave, yes. Braver than any person he knew.
But ever bravery has its borders, he knew, and therefore he ran.