Disclaimer: All Harry Potter people, places, and things, (all Harry Potter nouns) belong to J. K. Rowlings.

Chapter 2: The problem.

"Professor, I'm so sorry to have barged in like this but… were you ill on Tuesday?" Minerva questioned politely.

Albus paused awkwardly and sighed. "It's a bit worse than 'ill.' I had an appointment to see a healer… I suppose you could call it being ill," he tried to explain.

"I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore, but I don't quite understand what you are trying to say," she commented. She did not intend to be rude, merely to see if she could help him in some way.

She did not like the dim expression she saw in his eyes. Then she realized that his blue eyes had not twinkled since he had left to fight Grindewald last year. "Miss McGonagall, war brings out not only the worst in people, but the worst weapons, both in muggle destructiveness and in wizards' magic. Let me just say that my battle with Grindewald left more of a mark on me than I had planned on."

"Is there anything I can do?" Minerva asked.

He shook his head. "No, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't repeat what I have told you."

"I understand. I shall see you in class tomorrow then," she remarked as she began to leave.

"Good day, Miss McGonagall," he told her as she reached the door. What he did not realize was that her keen hearing had picked up what he had whispered to himself almost under his breath. "I wish things did not have to end like this."

Minerva quickened her pace as she headed down the corridor until she had broken into a dead run, not stopping until she had passed through the Gryffindor Common Room. When she reached her room, she was glad no one else had seen her and collapsed on her bed. She began sobbing, but the reason was slightly muddy.

This is so wrong, what has happened. There must be a way to help him. He can't be dying! It is so utterly unfair! He could have so many good years left, and so many more students could benefit from his teaching. Or he could choose to retire and travel. This is so unfair to him! Why is it bothering me so much? She got up from the bed and stared at her red-eyed reflection in the mirror.

He is only my professor, isn't he? My professor who I can tell anything to, who listens to me without complaining, who plays chess with me, who gives me superb advice… Oh Merlin! He's more than a professor to me. What is the truth about how I really feel about him? Oh Merlin, I don't know, she thought as she began crying again.

The idea came to her in the wee hours of that Friday morning. It was a simple idea that she berated herself for not having devised sooner. There might be a way to help him if I can see his medical files, she reasoned. Sneaking into the infirmary and accessing the file cabinet was easier than she expected, probably because it was only five o'clock in the morning. She quickly found his file and thumbed through it for the most current diagnosis. Gasping when she read the problem, she studied it closely to find any answers.

From what she understood, he had been hit by a certain draining curse that affected his blood and his bones. The conclusion she formulated was that he needed a bone marrow transplant. She found her hypothesis to be correct a few lines later. The problem was that no suitable donor could be found. Then something caught her eye, his blood type was the same as her own. This is probably crazy, but I might as well check this, she reasoned, setting his file on top of the cabinet and looking for her own.

Comparing the two files, she realized what the only possible solution was: she might be a match for him. She knew that she would have to exaggerate her age in order for them to take her. She had opened the file cabinet to put the files back when she head someone else yell, "Minerva!"