We-ell here it be, me hearties. Sorry for the delay; this time, I have another real excuse besides writer's block – my boyfriend broke my computer so I had to rewrite this chapter from scratch and I've been flying all over the country for the last few weeks, but mostly… still writer's block. This story's almost 100 pages long – can you believe it? I can't…

Chapter Twenty-One: In which the stress builds up

- March 26, 1945 -

A week passed. Permission for vast amounts of Veritaserum that needed to be made for the interrogations had been granted by the Ministry of Magic, and within hours, Albus Dumbledore had begun making the powerful truth serum. The famous alchemist Nicolas Flamel arrived the next day, and the two of them became so absorbed in their work that Dumbledore was late for class more than once. Paul Garrett was cleared of any suspicions of his whereabouts on the night of March seventeenth; the three trustworthy Gryffindor students who had seen him believed his story about working on a potion in the dungeons, and their testimony was enough to rid Armando Dippet's overcrowded mind of one concern.

Minerva McGonagall was still not speaking to Dumbledore, and he was no longer attempting to make the peace. He knew enough about women to know that they were irrational, and it was better to let their anger run its course. The most irrational woman at Hogwarts, Indira Nay, was also having relationship problems. Though Dippet swore he was not the one who revealed her location to Grindelwald and she believed him, there was a degree of suspicion that would not be lifted until the mystery was solved. Furthermore, though neither could rid their mind of their encounter on top of the Astronomy tower that fateful night, both were acting as though it had never happened.

Tom Riddle, meanwhile, was trying to figure out a way to cover his tracks after the disastrous Grindelwald incident. In his mind, having so many close calls, being so close to succeeding, and then failing was worse than failing at the very beginning. Grindelwald was dead, Albus Dumbledore and Indira Nay were not, and now everyone at Hogwarts was going to be given Veritaserum and questioned. "Everyone" would certainly include himself and Paul Garrett. He and his accomplice spent hours at a time looking for an antidote to Veritaserum in the library, but none could be found. Paul was beginning to see a new side of his friend, a side he never imagined could exist and was starting to frighten him. Tom was obsessive, and when he set his mind on something, he didn't care how it got done, just that it did. He hadn't slept in days, devoting all his time to searching for an antidote, and he threatened to turn Paul in if he didn't do the same.

No one, however, was under more stress than Armando Dippet.

When news of Grindelwald's entrance into Hogwarts leaked out, the headmaster was bombarded with an endless wave of owls from every sort of person imaginable, from concerned family members of students to reporters from the Daily Prophet to the Minister of Magic himself. The people were not stupid; they knew there was a reason Grindelwald chose to attack Hogwarts at that time, and that he could not have entered the school on his own. Furthermore, the headmaster was plagued by Madam Tyburski's concerns that he may never be able to walk. He had no feeling in his legs and was confined to a wheelchair; a wheelchair charmed to go up and down stairs, otherwise he would never be able to get around Hogwarts, but a wheelchair nonetheless. It made him look as helpless as he felt. The nurse assured him that if there was a way to get him on his feet again, they would find it, but this was beyond her area of knowledge. His case had been referred to a hospital in Barcelona that specialized in non-magical illness and injury for wizards. It was the only one in Europe of its kind; wizards rarely fell victim to maladies that could not be cured by magic, and the majority of their healers had received training in Muggle medicine as well as magical. Though a small part of him looked forward to returning to his native Spain, if only for a short time, he knew that Barcelona was just like the rest of Europe: torn by the great Muggle war whose end looked near, but would never be forgotten.

So far, no information other than Grindelwald came into Hogwarts and soon met his death had been released, not even the murder of the two teachers. None of this would be able to remain secret for long. The outside world had a right to know what was going on at Hogwarts, but Dippet wondered if they had the right to know why.

Which brought his mind to another subject.

In the sixteen years he'd known her, no single person had ever caused him as much grief as Indira Nay. She was an endless source of mystery, anger, and obsession, as aloof and cold-blooded as the symbol of her house. She had changed little since the first time she came through the doors of Hogwarts, and though she quickly proved to be a brilliant student, she rarely spoke and was highly antisocial, which the other students perceived as arrogance, and consequently, made no more attempt to reach out to her than she did to them. To an extent, they were right; Indira was arrogant, but then again, she was a Rahmini, and the last of a powerful, respected line of purebloods that once held influence in not only Britain, but all over the world. And she was very, very good at what she did. Considering the danger Grindelwald's sick obsession with her put not only her, but Hogwarts in, Dippet often wondered whether or not it was prudent to have her on staff. In truth, they had hired her out of necessity, and her position was meant to be held by her only until someone older, more experienced, and less dangerous came along. Within a few weeks, though, the staff universally acknowledged that she was the finest Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor they'd had that century, and her job was made permanent. Dippet knew Grindelwald could not be kept away from her forever, though, and last week, his fears were realized.

The fault, however, was not Indira's. It was his.

She had every right to be suspicious of him. He was, after all, her Secret-keeper, or had been. Undoubtedly a switch had been performed while he was under the Imperius Curse, but in order for that to happen, one had to know she was being protected by a Fidelius Charm and that he was the Secret-keeper in the first place. Dumbledore's Legilimency theory was not just possible, it was likely, but what Hogwarts student would be powerful enough to become a Legilimens? He could only think of two – Minerva McGonagall and Tom Riddle. The Head Boy and Girl were both astonishingly clever for not only their ages, but for anyone. Both showed real promise, and both were unquestioningly loyal to Hogwarts. It didn't make any sense that one of them would be at fault, and if it weren't for Minerva, more people would have died. She was, after all, the one who saw Grindelwald.

Of course!

He wondered why he didn't realize it sooner. Minerva was the key to all of this. Someone wouldn't put a memory charm on her just because. Perhaps, if she could remember what she had been doing earlier that day, that would give them an idea of what could have led up to the placement of the charm. He needed to speak with her, and fast.

Dippet glanced at a clock on the wall on his way out of his office. The time read 1:28 P.M. Minerva would still be in class, but which one? He knew she had Defense Against the Dark Arts in the morning – he remembered it from when he substituted for Indira one day – so that was quickly ruled out as a possibility. Transfiguration was also a definite no – Dumbledore had the third-years on Monday afternoons. Potions, perhaps? No… all Potions classes had been cancelled indefinitely. He sighed and decided it was important enough to interrupt Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore was not in his classroom; he was in the dungeons with Nicolas Flamel, and the two had reached a critical stage in the making of the Veritaserum. There were four cauldrons, one for each of the houses, and the remaining potion from each would be used on the faculty. The liquid had to simmer for forty-eight hours, and as soon as that was complete, two tablespoons of powdered root of asphodel had to be each cauldron. Immediately. And it had been simmering for forty-seven hours and fifty-eight minutes.

"Get ready," Flamel said, taking the already-measured amounts of asphodel in each hand.

"Ready," Dumbledore said, doing the same.

The stream of sand in the hourglass on the end of the table was beginning to run thin. Both men were giving it their undivided attention.

After this, they would be able to relax for a while; the potion would have to sit, undisturbed, for seven days. However, if the timing wasn't perfect, they would have to start all over.

"Set…" said Dumbledore.

"NOW!" cried Flamel as the last grain of sand fell through.

The two men poured the vital ingredients into the cauldrons. A puff of blue smoke came out of each, quickly dissipating into the air.

Flamel let out a sigh and placed his hands on the table. "We did it."

They turned off the flames below the cauldrons, taking great care not to touch them. The slightest disturbance would damage the potion. Potions were very delicate, especially potions like Veritaserum; they had to be made exactly right, or they would be ruined.

"I'm glad that's over," Dumbledore admitted, crossing the room over to one of the desks. He sat down in the chair and began tapping his long fingers against the surface of the desk. "What time is it?"

"It is exactly one thirty in the afternoon," Flamel replied, following Dumbledore over to the desks. He studied his friend carefully for a moment, then said, "What is it?"

"What is what?" Dumbledore asked.

"Something is troubling you," Flamel said. "And don't say that it's not. I know you better than that."

Dumbledore knew it was useless to try and lie to him. Nicolas Flamel was not just brilliant; he was wise, far wiser than any other man that walked the earth. He knew exactly what to do in almost any situation because he had been in almost any situation. One did not endure six centuries of life without learning something from it. Flamel knew knowledge was power, but knowledge without wisdom was nothing.

"You're right, as usual," Dumbledore admitted. "There is something troubling me." Several somethings, but he refrained from mentioning that.

"Tell me." Flamel's grey eyes shone with concern.

Dumbledore stared at his hands. "I've… hurt someone I care about. I didn't mean to, but I did, and now we aren't speaking."

His vagueness didn't fool the alchemist. "In what context do you 'care about' this person?"

"I… I think I may be in love with her."

That helped. In matters of the heart, Flamel was an excellent authority; he had, after all, made his own marriage last for six hundred years. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, what did you do to make her so angry?"

He motioned toward the Veritaserum. "That. She's against the interrogation. She wants to find out who's behind this as much as any of us, but not like this."

Flamel couldn't say that he didn't blame her; this method was rather extreme, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and times didn't get much more desperate than these. "It sounds like the problem is more hers than yours," he said. "Perhaps if I spoke to her-"

"No," Dumbledore said quickly, fearful of what might happen if Flamel knew he was having an affair with a student. "No. This… this is between us, and I would like to keep it that way."

Flamel didn't like the excuse, but he was certain Dumbledore had a reason for it. "Very well," he said. "In that case, let me give you some words to reflect upon. Love – if that's what this is – doesn't just happen. You must work for it. You have to want it enough to make sacrifices, get uncomfortable, believe this person is important enough to you to endure the hard times. Do you understand what I mean?"

Dumbledore looked at Flamel, but didn't reply right away. When he did speak, he turned his head to the left, toward the entrance to the room, and said, "How long have you been standing there, Armando?"

"Since 'this is between us,'" Dippet answered, pushing the wheels of his wheelchair and guiding it across the room in order to join the two men at the desk. "Your classroom was empty. You know classes require my approval in order to be cancelled."

"I've never had a class on Monday at this hour," Dumbledore replied. "I have the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff third-years from noon until one, and then the Slytherins and Ravenclaws from two until three. You know this."

Dippet felt rather stupid as it came back to him. "Yes, of course," he said, touching his hand to his forehead. The wound he sustained in the battle with Grindelwald had not yet healed, and had a tendency to throb from time to time.

"This is a difficult time for you," Flamel said. It was more of an observation than a comment. "You cannot be expected to function as you normally would."

"And why not?" Dippet asked. "How can I expect anyone to recover from this if I do not first?" He sighed. "Indira thinks I tried to kill her."

"No she does-" Dumbledore began.

"Yes," Dippet interrupted, "she does, and I have no way to prove that I didn't."

Dumbledore motioned toward the cauldrons and said, "We do." Then he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder and said, "We will get through this."

"What, you too?" Flamel asked.

Dippet looked at the alchemist. "What?"

"Marital problems?" Flamel guessed.

For a moment, Dippet had a fleeting image of himself and Indira walking down a moonlit path together fifty years in the future. "I'm not married," the headmaster said firmly, "nor do I ever plan to be."

Flamel said nothing, but smiled knowingly.

Dippet could feel Flamel's words tugging at his mind, and decided to change the subject. "Albus, the reason I sought you out was to ask you a question," he said. "I've got to speak with Minerva McGonagall. Do you know what class she has at this time?"

"Alain's," Dumbledore replied quickly and coolly. "Why?"

"I have an idea."

"Paul. Paul!"

Paul Garrett lifted his head off the dusty old book lying open on the table in front of him in the library and looked at Tom Riddle. "Sorry," he muttered, wiping at his eyes. Tom previously had Potions at this hour, so he was off the hook, but Paul didn't know how much longer he could skip Professor Binns's class without being noticed. Not that he was taking much of a chance, of course…

Tom didn't even seem to notice that Paul had dozed off. "I have an idea."