AN: I thought of several titles for this chapter, including, "The Plaidness of Mr. Crouch," but settled on deadness as being more sensible. Look for a reference to a classic film.
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Chapter 11. The Deadness of Mr. Crouch
Bartemius Crouch Senior had worked until the previous year at the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry of Magic. Ron's older brother Percy had been his office assistant. Crouch had been murdered on the Hogwarts grounds by his son, also named Bartemius, who had then transfigured him into a bone and buried him in Hagrid's garden. Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge had insisted on concealing the fact that the younger Bartemius Crouch had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts for a full year, disguised as Mad-Eye Moody and working as an agent for Lord Voldemort. The real Moody was actually teaching this year's Dark Arts courses (as far as anyone knew).
The ghost of Mr. Crouch gazed at Harry in silence for a moment as they approached each other. In contrast to their last meeting, when Crouch had not known who he was, this time Crouch looked at Harry with recognition. "Harry Potter," he rasped. "I remember you."
"Yes, Mr. Crouch," said Harry.
"I saw what happened two days ago," Crouch's ghost told him.
"I watched everything through Hagrid's window. I saw how the Slytherin girl betrayed you to Malfoy's son."
"But you haven't told anyone, have you, sir?" Harry asked sharply, remembering Salazara's fangs and Ivy's threat. He glanced at Neville, who looked back at him a bit apprehensively.
Crouch's ghost looked angry and put-upon. "No, Potter, I've told no one. But I and mine have also suffered injustice at the hands of the Malfoy family. I still have a score to settle with Lucius Malfoy." He paused for a moment, then muttered, "I must get back to the office—it's been far too long. Weatherby can't handle the department by himself and I don't know if my messages are getting through."
"But Mr. Crouch, your son—" began Harry.
"My son," said Crouch heavily, "was wrongly accused, convicted, and sentenced to Azkaban. It was Lucius who convinced me—convinced everyone—that he was guilty. But I saw through Lucius in the end. An old servant of his came and hinted at certain things, and I pieced together the rest of it."
"Dobby," whispered Hermione. Dobby had been the Malfoys' house-elf until Harry had freed him.
"Probably had to whack his head on something when he tried to spill the beans," surmised Ron.
"And I knew how deceived I had been," Crouch finished.
"Frank Longbottom told me," said Harry.
"Longbottom /told/ you?" demanded Crouch.
"Not about Lucius Malfoy. But he said that your son didn't do what he'd been accused of. Torturing him and his wife."
"But Longbottom is—he hasn't spoken to anyone for—"
Harry perceived that Crouch's ghost was not up to speed on the Longbottom situation. "You haven't been listening in on all our meetings, then?"
"Not until I saw young Malfoy going in with Frank Longbottom's son," said Crouch, sitting down on the garden wall and sinking through the top layer of stones without noticing. "I could see that some deep plot was afoot and I came to the window to watch. Never trust a Slytherin, Potter."
Next to Harry, Ron was nodding vigorously. "Right," said Harry glumly. "I expect I'll remember after this."
"I knew there would be trouble when my son went to Hogwarts and joined Slytherin House," Crouch went on, knitting his transparent brows. "The Crouch family has habitually produced highly distinguished Ravenclaws. But I confess I had no idea how bad it would be. When he came to trial I was forced to show him no mercy. My reputation and livelihood—the good name of the Ministry—all depended on it. And at the time I was convinced of his guilt."
Harry opened his mouth, but Crouch held up a smoky hand to stop his next words.
"I know, Potter—you're going to tell me that my son was guilty of many other crimes. I don't deny it. But who knows if my own actions drove the boy deeper into the service of Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Oh yes, I got him out of Azkaban, according to my wife's wishes, but only to subject him to more captivity. I learned what it was like when he did the same to me. Knowing that things at the Ministry were falling to pieces without me, and that my son was at large, gave me no peace. I tried to warn Dumbledore, but it was too late. I suppose my son is in Azkaban again. I've sent instructions to Weatherby to make inquiries about him, but I've heard nothing."
"I'm afraid it's even worse than that, Mr. Crouch," said Harry. "Your son received the Dementor's Kiss. His soul is gone."
Hermione, Ron, and Neville watched silently as Crouch took this in. The conversation had quickly moved out of their depth. "By whose authority was this done?" Crouch asked ominously.
"No one's," said Harry. "But Cornelius Fudge let a dementor into Hogwarts on his own responsibility, even though Professor Dumbledore had expressly forbidden it. When the dementor saw your son it just …"
"Stop," said Crouch, covering his eyes with his hand, although it made little difference. "Fudge. Malfoy," he brooded. "If it hadn't been for them, things might have gone very differently."
"But Mr. Crouch," Hermione spoke up timidly, "Harry's been seeing Frank Longbottom and his condition is improving. We know who really tortured him now. Your son's name might be cleared of that one charge at least."
But Crouch was shaking his ghostly head. "It's too late. Nothing can be done for him. The only thing that remains is to make Lucius and Cornelius pay for their crimes, even a tenth as much as my son has paid for his." Crouch gazed at Ron for a moment and said, "You're related to Weatherby, aren't you?"
"Slightly," replied Ron, trying not to laugh.
"Please ask him to get in touch with me without delay," Crouch requested severely. "I've let things slide long enough."
"I'll do my best," Ron promised.
Then Crouch turned to Harry again. "Longbottom is recovering, is he?"
"As far as we can tell," said Harry.
"I am glad to hear it," said Crouch. "Longbottom deserves a better fate than to rot away at St. Mungo's for the rest of his life." And with that he drifted away over Hagrid's garden and disappeared.
The sky had grown completely dark except for a scattering of stars. The four Gryffindors looked at each other, all more or less stupefied. "Harry …" Ron croaked.
"Don't ask me anything," Harry snapped. "I don't want to talk about it."
"All right, Harry, take it easy," Ron reassured him. "But I was just thinking that Ivy would sell her soul, her snake, and her suspenders to hear what we've just heard."
"If she had any suspenders," said Neville ingenuously.
"Ron," Hermione exclaimed suddenly, "what makes you think she hasn't?"
Ron looked at her. "Hasn't got suspenders? Oh …" as he took in her meaning. "You think she's probably hiding a few feet away, laughing up her sleeve at us." He listened for a moment, but no telltale rustling, as of someone making a break for it, came to their ears. He stalked around the corner of Hagrid's hut, saying, "Come on out, Ivy, we know you're there." After a pause, the rest of them heard, "/Lumos!/" and saw a flash of wandlight. A few moments later Ron reappeared with the Slytherin girl in front of him, her arm twisted behind her. By unspoken agreement they all moved a short distance away from Hagrid's cabin.
"It's a slimy, poisonous little sneak, isn't it?" Ron grated, his voice shaking with anger.
"I believe it is," Hermione judged.
"What did you hear?" Ron demanded roughly, his fingers tightening on Ivy's arm.
"I heard everything, just the way I meant to," Ivy returned calmly. "Mr. Crouch doesn't seem to realize that he's dead, does he?"
"Did it ever cross your mind that it wasn't your business?" Ron hissed, twisting her arm further. "Say you're sorry," he ordered her. "Say you won't tell anyone."
"I'm not sorry," she retorted. "And I'll tell whomever I choose." Her jaw clenched as Ron increased his leverage on her arm.
"Ron," said Harry quietly, "if you don't leave off, you'll dislocate her shoulder."
"Maybe that's the idea," Ron fumed, but he eased off just a hair. "If you weren't a girl," he threatened, "Wouldn't I just …!" He raised his fist, and Ivy started but held her ground.
"I may not be quite as brawny as you are," she defied him, "but I'd take you on in a duel any day, Ron Weasley."
"That's because you know I'd play fair," Ron said hotly.
"You must really be looking for a snakebite," Ivy informed him frostily. "I'd be only too happy to provide one for you."
"Just what I'd expect from a Slytherin," he taunted her. "Maybe I should break your wand and see how you like it. Or maybe you'd like to steal Malfoy's and turn it over to us, you two-faced little cheat."
"Ron, she's not worth getting into trouble over," Harry said, shivering. It was a cold night and he wanted to go inside, even though he had no appetite for dinner.
"How could you have done such a rotten thing? Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Ron harangued, determined to get something out of her.
"Not to you, I don't," she declined, glaring back at him.
"Being a Slytherin is reason enough, I suppose," he said disgustedly.
Neville looked at Ivy sadly. "Hagrid's awfully upset, you know," he told her. "He may have sounded mad, but he really misses you and Salazara."
Ivy actually looked stricken for a moment. "I know, Neville," she said. "I /am/ sorry about that."
"How touching," sneered Ron. "At least the hardened criminal has something on her conscience."
"Well, we'll have to let her go, but we can't send her away scot free," said Hermione, pulling out her wand. "/Otohoto!/" she exclaimed, and two pointed, furry donkey ears emerged from Ivy's hair and lengthened until their their tips reached well above the top of her head. Hermione finished the job by pointing her wand at the front of Ivy's robes and chanting, "/Virglutinate/," thus cementing Ivy's wand firmly in place. "There, that should do it. It may not teach her a lesson but it'll make me feel better."
"Me too," Ron agreed. When he released Ivy, she did not rub her arm where he had gripped it, Harry noticed, nor did she reach up to feel her ears. She turned her back without a word and melted into the night.
"Pinocchio was always one of my favourite films," said Hermione. "Maybe I should have done her nose too. But as far as I know she hasn't lied to us."
"You can keep that one in reserve," said Ron, rubbing his hands.
"Will she be all right?" worried Neville. "She can't use her wand …"
"Oh, a spot of Mrs. Skower's will put that right in a jiffy," Hermione told him. "She might need to ask for help. She'll hate that."
"Think she'll rat on us?" Ron wondered aloud as they walked back to the school.
"Not to the teachers. She's not a tattletale," said Neville.
"It'd be too embarrassing for her, you mean. But you have to admit she's got more guts than Malfoy," Harry conceded.
"More brains, too," added Hermione.
"That just makes her more dangerous," said Ron.
* * * * * * * *
As the situation finally started to sink in and become real to Harry, a terrible apathy crept over him. Nothing seemed worth the effort. He had lost his zeal for the cause of Frank Longbottom's recovery. I can't do it anymore. It's too hard It's too much to ask. Why does it have to be me? Why can't someone else take a turn? He might as well have said what Malfoy wanted to hear and got his wand back, for all the good he would be to Neville's Dad without it. All his heroic posturing meant nothing.
He couldn't even work up a healthy rage against Ivy, Malfoy, Wormtail, or anyone else. He felt empty, leaden, burned out, more hopeless even than Crouch's ghost, who at least still wanted revenge. At meals his silence was so forbidding that Hermione didn't dare press him to eat more. He looked right through anyone who mentioned his missing wand, as if they didn't exist. He sleepwalked through his classes, doing as little as possible to get by, and even missed a Quidditch practice. He flatly refused to attend his Wednesday night tutorial with Snape, and Neville unhappily went without him and made his excuses, taking Hermione with him for moral support. Ron wouldn't go either; he muttered darkly about Snape being in on Ivy and Draco's dirty dealings. But Snape sent Neville and Hermione away, saying that without Potter there was no point in wasting his time.
Harry tried to talk himself out of his funk. It was only a wand, after all. No one had died or anything. Neither he nor Neville even had a single scratch (although Neville was a bit jumpier than usual and found it even more difficult to concentrate in class). Nothing really tragic had happened. Ron's wand had been broken in an encounter with the Whomping Willow on the Hogwarts grounds, and the next year he had got a new one. But reminding himself of those things didn't help. Harry felt as if his right arm had been torn off. His wand was part of him. The way it had happened was the worst of it—not in an accident or in a fair fight, but by underhanded trickery. He had expected nothing better of Malfoy, but Ivy's betrayal had shaken them all and made them doubt themselves, Hagrid most of all.
The obvious thing to do was to go to Ollivanders and buy a new wand for himself. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was odd, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he just hung tough, things would return to normal, as if the scene in Hagrid's cabin had never happened. He tried to dismiss it as wishful thinking, but it persisted.
He saw a wordless encounter between Hagrid and Ivy in one of the Hogwarts corridors. (Ivy had apparently taken care of her ear problem with no on the wiser.) Hagrid caught sight of her between classes one morning and shot her a furious, beetle-browed glare. Ivy braced herself visibly, but faced Hagrid without flinching. As she passed the gamekeeper, she appeared pale and shaken but determined, and Hagrid looked after her sadly. Harry studied her expression thoughtfully. She looked as if she were hanging tough—waiting for some resolution still in the future, but trying to hold it off as long as possible. Her manner contrasted oddly with Malfoy's unbearable smugness. He strutted around as if he had done something amazingly clever, yet whenever his eyes met Harry's he dropped them hastily. "Knows it'll catch up with him someday," Ron murmured in Harry's ear.
Harry had still another difficulty to complicate his life. His substitute wand showed a growing tendency to pull to the left when he used it. If the wand had done it consistently he could have learned to compensate, but the problem was completely erratic and unpredictable. It ruined his aim for any kind of distant work, for one thing, and also had an odd effect on his transfigurations. On Thursday Professor McGonagall instructed the class to turn pigeons into candlesticks. When Harry attempted the assignment he produced a candleholder with a candle hovering a few inches to the left of the empty socket. The candle immediately fell to the desktop with a clunk, and Harry hastily picked it up and jammed it into the proper hole. Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes caught this little maneuver, and she was behind him in a moment. "What happened, Mr. Potter?" she asked with interest.
"Well, you see, it … it … the candle was in the wrong place," Harry admitted uncomfortably.
"So I see," remarked Professor McGonagall. "What happens when you change it back?"
Harry reversed the spell. The pigeon returned, but something about it wasn't quite right. A ghost image overlapped the bird a little to the left, and their movements were perfectly synchronised, reminding Harry of a malfunctioning television screen (one of the arguments Dudley had used to convince his parents to get cable television for his bedroom).
"Can you explain this, Potter?" the professor asked him. Harry's predicament had by now caught the attention of the whole class.
"My—this wand seems to be a bit off."
"Indeed. Try the transformation again." Harry did so, and this time the candle materialized twice as far from the candleholder as it had been the first time. Professor McGonagall watched silently as Harry put it back in, to the accompaniment of some giggling from Parvati and Lavender.
"Well, Potter, if you choose to make do with that wand, you'll need to learn how to use it," the professor decided at last. "I want you to practice until you can perform the transformation properly. Continue to experiment for homework if necessary." She lowered her voice and added, "I doubt that any of the other spare wands would serve you better."
Harry heaved a sigh. "Yes, Professor."
Hermione, whose own transformation had gone without a hitch as usual, asked, "May I please help Harry, Professor?"
"Certainly, Miss Granger," the teacher told her. "And if either of you wishes to submit a written report on your findings, I will consider giving you extra credit."
For the rest of class time Harry made the switch between pigeon and candlestick numerous times, while Hermione assisted by holding up the candle at different distances from the candleholder. But the wand's capricious behaviour continued to thwart his efforts. The only thing he could count on was that no matter which way he held the wand, it always made a leftward hitch when he cast the spell.
"Well, Harry, it's a student-made wand. What did you expect?" Hermione asked him.
"I think I know why the student who made it left it behind," muttered Harry, shaking the wand and rapping it on the edge of the desk in an attempt to restore its proper balance. Finally, more by luck than skill, he got the pigeon back in one single, solid piece. Professor McGonagall dismissed the class, but allowed Hermione and Harry a few extra minutes in the classroom to continue. Neville and Ron stayed to watch. Harry had just hit on a method of twirling his wand at the moment of magical discharge, which seemed to be helping. It took him a few more tries to get the hang of the wrist movement involved, but with it he was able to improve his control over the resulting transfiguration. At length Harry put the wand away and massaged his arm.
"Thanks for the help, Hermione," he said.
"Good show, Harry," said Ron.
"That's well done, Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall. "Learning to use a faulty wand can be a valuable skill. You have completed the assignment with full marks. Now off you go to your next class; don't be late."
Harry hadn't been so absorbed in his schoolwork since the ill-fated Monday meeting at Hagrid's. But now that Transfiguration was over he felt the familiar hopelessness settling over him again. All he had done was to make the best of a bad job.
"You did good work today, Harry," Hermione told him as they left the classroom, sensing the droop in his spirits and trying to lift them.
"Thanks," he said dully.
They arrived at Hagrid's for Care of Magical Creatures just as class was beginning. They had finished with the fire crabs and now they were working with horned toads, whose various body parts made important potion ingredients, as Neville had cause to know from a certain hair-raising detention with Professor Snape.
"Now, class," Hagrid explained, "all of yeh should know that horned toads are pickled when they're bein' bottled for potions work. An' it works even better when yeh can start ter pickle 'em while they're still alive. They need ter be pickled from the inside out, and these special picklin' pickles"—he held up a stone crock—"do the trick nicely. The simple thing would be ter feed the pickles ter the toads, right? But horned toads won't eat pickles. They like spiders best. But spiders won't eat pickles neither. So what we do is feed pickles ter the flies that the spiders eat, cause flies'll eat anythin'. Turns their blood ter vinegar. Then we feed the flies ter the spiders an' the spiders ter the toads."
Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be having difficulty following this. They scratched their heads and looked puzzled. Ron muttered to Harry, "I can't stand spiders, you know I can't. Can't we just feed the flies to the toads?" he asked Hagrid.
"Yeh can try, but horned toads are mighty pertickler in their eatin' habits, Ron. So firs' we need lots of flies an' spiders," Hagrid went on. "I've been collectin' some flies so we can make a start." He held up several sheets of flypaper, all generously speckled with flies. Draco Malfoy made a noise of disgust. Hagrid took out a large pair of scissors and started cutting up the flypaper into pieces, one for each student.
"But won't they be dead by now?" Pansy Parkinson asked in disbelief, receiving her portion and holding it at arm's length with the tips of her fingers.
"No, this sort o' flypaper keeps 'em alive," said Hagrid. "'S got a bit of food on it for 'em. But not much, so they'll be hungry." And so they appeared to be, flapping their wings in frustration but still stuck fast. Each member of the class got a pickle to cut up and distribute among the captive instects.
Harry managed to get close enough to Hagrid to speak to him privately.
"Hagrid, I suppose you know there's someone haunting your garden," Harry murmured, watching his flies slurp up pickle juice.
"Yeh mean Crouch, Harry?" Hagrid asked in a low voice as he prodded some unresponsive flies with a stick. Harry nodded. Hagrid sighed. "Somethin's eatin' away at 'im, tha's plain enough," he told Harry, "but he doesn' talk about it. Mos'ly keeps to himself, on'y comes out at night. Doesn' bother me much. Dunno why he sticks around here, though."
"Don't you know he's buried here?" Harry's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Figgered it was somethin' like that," Hagrid answered.
"He talked to me last night," said Harry. "He wants to pay back Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy for what they did to his son. He saw Draco Malfoy break my wand. He says never trust a Slytherin."
Hagrid looked unhappy. "I dunno much abou' what happened to his son. But even though Slytherin's made a name fer itself fer producin' dark wizards, it's not true Slytherins're all bad, Harry. Some of 'em's all right."
"Name one," said Harry gloomily.
"Professor Dumbledore trusts Professor Snape," Hagrid argued.
"And he's the best example you can come up with? What about Rita Skeeter?" Harry and Hagrid had both run afoul of the Daily Prophet reporter's malicious quill. But Hagrid looked so miserable that Harry didn't have the heart to press the matter further.
* * * * * * * *
Harry was alone in his dorm room one afternoon, lying on his bed staring at nothing in particular, when Neville came up and found him. He said diffidently, "Harry, could I ask you something?"
"Sure, Neville," said Harry without moving, as if nothing would ever matter again.
Neville sat on the floor with his back against Harry's bed. He said, "I know this probably sounds silly, but—would it help you if I broke my wand, too? I wouldn't mind doing it."
"What possible good would that do?" asked Harry, still staring blankly upward.
"I don't /know/, Harry," said Neville miserably. "I knew it would sound stupid."
"Hey, Neville," said Harry. "You've gone through everything with me. If your wand got broken the way mine did, you'd probably handle it way better than I am. I don't think I want you to show me up that way. It's bad enough that you're better at being tickled."
Neville laughed. "I haven't done the real stuff. Just the practice. I'm the understudy, like Hagrid said."
"But I haven't had to watch my Mum and Dad waste away in hospital all these years," Harry reminded him. "That's you."
"Dad saw me," marveled Neville. "He knew who I was, Harry. Do you know how amazing that is, after all this time?"
Harry smiled for the first time in days. "Lucky you look like your Mum, Neville."
"Gran says Dad was always a great one for noticing family likenesses."
"Listen, don't break your wand, okay? Not without a better reason. It just wouldn't be the same. But thanks for the offer," said Harry.
"There's something else, Harry." Neville paused, and Harry waited. "Ivy. I know it looks bad, but …"
"You're too trusting."
"No, Harry, it isn't that. She just—there must be something behind it that we don't understand. The way she's acting—it just doesn't fit. It doesn't feel right."
Harry was silent.
"You've noticed it too, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"And you've been telling yourself it's just your imagination," Neville went on.
Harry sat up and Neville turned to look at him.
"I've been doing the same thing," said Neville. "I think we should stop."
"Then I'll start hoping I'll get my wand back after all. And that's impossible."
"All right then, you can give up if you want. I'm going to try to figure this out. I'll bet Hermione has some ideas. I left her down in the common room with Ron." Neville got up and went to the head of the tower stairs. "See you, Harry."
Harry gave a deep sigh and heaved himself off of his bed. "I'm coming too, Neville."
The common room was empty except for Ron and Hermione. The rest of the school was out getting ready to watch Ravenclaw play against Hufflepuff at Quidditch.
"Did you forget today's Quidditch match, Harry?" inquired Ron. "Cho Chang is playing. You should be cheering her on, especially since Hufflepuff is ahead of Ravenclaw in the standings. If you're not going, I am."
Harry had forgotten. He actually felt a flicker of interest.
"Just one thing before we go," said Hermione. "We've been so stunned by what Ivy did that we haven't been able to think straight. But lately I've been asking myself some questions."
"Me too," said Neville.
"Why did Malfoy break Harry's wand in front of so many witnesses? Even a teacher?"
"I've been wondering that myself," said Harry. "Very risky."
"In fact, completely senseless," added Hermione.
"It looked like it was Ivy's idea," said Ron. "She had to egg him on."
"Yes, but why?" Hermione persisted.
"Blamed if I know," said Ron.
"Seems to me it would have been simpler for Ivy just to get Harry and Neville in an empty classroom with Malfoy and Salazara already there," Hermione said thoughtfully.
"Then I probably would have had to promise not to tell the rest of you," Harry realized.
"That would have been really rough on you, Harry," said Ron.
"Well, she did get me to go into an empty classroom, except that Malfoy was there," said Neville. "She said she wanted to talk about something to do with my Mum."
"That's plausible," said Hermione. "We never did hear what happened when Ivy went to see your Mum."
"Who knows if we ever will," gloomed Ron.
"Next question," Hermione went on. "The wand that Malfoy broke. Are you sure that was actually your wand, Harry?"
"I know my wand when I see it," replied Harry, a little annoyed. "Besides, when Malfoy broke it, I felt it here." He put a hand to his scar.
"And why," Hermione continued, "did Ivy give you back the tip?"
"Well, it does have the twin to my scar on it, if that's what you're wondering," Harry assured her. "I checked. Maybe she returned it to prove that it was my wand."
"May I see it, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"Sure." Harry reached into his right wand pocket and pulled out the wand tip.
Hermione took it and examined it carefully. "Yes, it has the scar on it, and it's just like yours. That sort of mark is difficult to fake." She held it up and compared it with Harry's scar. Her eyes widened. "Harry, I bet you didn't notice this!"
"What?"
"Harry, when I compared these two scars the first time, they were exactly the same shape."
"They still are," said Harry.
"Yes, except for one thing. This one is backwards."
Harry took the wand tip back and stared at it, running a finger over the scar on his forehead. "You're right."
"You know what this means, don't you, Harry?"
Harry grinned suddenly, feeling lighter than air. "It means I'd better take really good care of this wand tip," he said, closing his fingers on it and carefully putting it back. "And I think I'd better talk to Ivy, and call another meeting."
"Well, you can't do it now," said Ron. "She's probably on the Quidditch pitch with everyone else. Let's go—they're probably about to start!"
* * * * * * * *
It didn't take long for Harry to find an opportunity to talk to Ivy privately. She apparently was waiting to be asked. They stepped into a handy broom closet, and Harry got straight to the point. "Ivy, I think it's about time you gave me my wand back. I really need it."
"What makes you think I have it?" she asked, humouring him.
He indicated his wand pocket. "This isn't the tip of my actual wand. It's part of a mirror-double."
Ivy drew a deep breath, and a smile broke over her face. "Took you long enough, Harry Potter."
"You have it?" Harry exclaimed.
"Safe and three-quarters sound."
"It was Hermione who figured it out," Harry gave credit where it was due, "and Neville who insisted that there was something to figure out."
"I was afraid I was going to have to start dropping hints …"
"So when can I get it back?" Harry asked. "Can you come to Hagrid's tomorrow?"
"Not if he won't let me in the door," said Ivy sheepishly.
"I'll vouch for you, Ivy," said Harry. "And so will Neville. You'd better come, because you have a lot of explaining to do."
Ivy pulled a long-suffering face. "You have no idea."
"And if you're planning any more tricks, you won't catch us off guard so easily," Harry warned.
"Well, I should hope not," said Ivy. "It's high time you started showing a little reasonable caution."
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AN: Disney's Pinocchio is one of my favorite films too. In the next chapter, "Bargain with Destiny," Ivy explains her actions.
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Chapter 11. The Deadness of Mr. Crouch
Bartemius Crouch Senior had worked until the previous year at the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry of Magic. Ron's older brother Percy had been his office assistant. Crouch had been murdered on the Hogwarts grounds by his son, also named Bartemius, who had then transfigured him into a bone and buried him in Hagrid's garden. Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge had insisted on concealing the fact that the younger Bartemius Crouch had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts for a full year, disguised as Mad-Eye Moody and working as an agent for Lord Voldemort. The real Moody was actually teaching this year's Dark Arts courses (as far as anyone knew).
The ghost of Mr. Crouch gazed at Harry in silence for a moment as they approached each other. In contrast to their last meeting, when Crouch had not known who he was, this time Crouch looked at Harry with recognition. "Harry Potter," he rasped. "I remember you."
"Yes, Mr. Crouch," said Harry.
"I saw what happened two days ago," Crouch's ghost told him.
"I watched everything through Hagrid's window. I saw how the Slytherin girl betrayed you to Malfoy's son."
"But you haven't told anyone, have you, sir?" Harry asked sharply, remembering Salazara's fangs and Ivy's threat. He glanced at Neville, who looked back at him a bit apprehensively.
Crouch's ghost looked angry and put-upon. "No, Potter, I've told no one. But I and mine have also suffered injustice at the hands of the Malfoy family. I still have a score to settle with Lucius Malfoy." He paused for a moment, then muttered, "I must get back to the office—it's been far too long. Weatherby can't handle the department by himself and I don't know if my messages are getting through."
"But Mr. Crouch, your son—" began Harry.
"My son," said Crouch heavily, "was wrongly accused, convicted, and sentenced to Azkaban. It was Lucius who convinced me—convinced everyone—that he was guilty. But I saw through Lucius in the end. An old servant of his came and hinted at certain things, and I pieced together the rest of it."
"Dobby," whispered Hermione. Dobby had been the Malfoys' house-elf until Harry had freed him.
"Probably had to whack his head on something when he tried to spill the beans," surmised Ron.
"And I knew how deceived I had been," Crouch finished.
"Frank Longbottom told me," said Harry.
"Longbottom /told/ you?" demanded Crouch.
"Not about Lucius Malfoy. But he said that your son didn't do what he'd been accused of. Torturing him and his wife."
"But Longbottom is—he hasn't spoken to anyone for—"
Harry perceived that Crouch's ghost was not up to speed on the Longbottom situation. "You haven't been listening in on all our meetings, then?"
"Not until I saw young Malfoy going in with Frank Longbottom's son," said Crouch, sitting down on the garden wall and sinking through the top layer of stones without noticing. "I could see that some deep plot was afoot and I came to the window to watch. Never trust a Slytherin, Potter."
Next to Harry, Ron was nodding vigorously. "Right," said Harry glumly. "I expect I'll remember after this."
"I knew there would be trouble when my son went to Hogwarts and joined Slytherin House," Crouch went on, knitting his transparent brows. "The Crouch family has habitually produced highly distinguished Ravenclaws. But I confess I had no idea how bad it would be. When he came to trial I was forced to show him no mercy. My reputation and livelihood—the good name of the Ministry—all depended on it. And at the time I was convinced of his guilt."
Harry opened his mouth, but Crouch held up a smoky hand to stop his next words.
"I know, Potter—you're going to tell me that my son was guilty of many other crimes. I don't deny it. But who knows if my own actions drove the boy deeper into the service of Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Oh yes, I got him out of Azkaban, according to my wife's wishes, but only to subject him to more captivity. I learned what it was like when he did the same to me. Knowing that things at the Ministry were falling to pieces without me, and that my son was at large, gave me no peace. I tried to warn Dumbledore, but it was too late. I suppose my son is in Azkaban again. I've sent instructions to Weatherby to make inquiries about him, but I've heard nothing."
"I'm afraid it's even worse than that, Mr. Crouch," said Harry. "Your son received the Dementor's Kiss. His soul is gone."
Hermione, Ron, and Neville watched silently as Crouch took this in. The conversation had quickly moved out of their depth. "By whose authority was this done?" Crouch asked ominously.
"No one's," said Harry. "But Cornelius Fudge let a dementor into Hogwarts on his own responsibility, even though Professor Dumbledore had expressly forbidden it. When the dementor saw your son it just …"
"Stop," said Crouch, covering his eyes with his hand, although it made little difference. "Fudge. Malfoy," he brooded. "If it hadn't been for them, things might have gone very differently."
"But Mr. Crouch," Hermione spoke up timidly, "Harry's been seeing Frank Longbottom and his condition is improving. We know who really tortured him now. Your son's name might be cleared of that one charge at least."
But Crouch was shaking his ghostly head. "It's too late. Nothing can be done for him. The only thing that remains is to make Lucius and Cornelius pay for their crimes, even a tenth as much as my son has paid for his." Crouch gazed at Ron for a moment and said, "You're related to Weatherby, aren't you?"
"Slightly," replied Ron, trying not to laugh.
"Please ask him to get in touch with me without delay," Crouch requested severely. "I've let things slide long enough."
"I'll do my best," Ron promised.
Then Crouch turned to Harry again. "Longbottom is recovering, is he?"
"As far as we can tell," said Harry.
"I am glad to hear it," said Crouch. "Longbottom deserves a better fate than to rot away at St. Mungo's for the rest of his life." And with that he drifted away over Hagrid's garden and disappeared.
The sky had grown completely dark except for a scattering of stars. The four Gryffindors looked at each other, all more or less stupefied. "Harry …" Ron croaked.
"Don't ask me anything," Harry snapped. "I don't want to talk about it."
"All right, Harry, take it easy," Ron reassured him. "But I was just thinking that Ivy would sell her soul, her snake, and her suspenders to hear what we've just heard."
"If she had any suspenders," said Neville ingenuously.
"Ron," Hermione exclaimed suddenly, "what makes you think she hasn't?"
Ron looked at her. "Hasn't got suspenders? Oh …" as he took in her meaning. "You think she's probably hiding a few feet away, laughing up her sleeve at us." He listened for a moment, but no telltale rustling, as of someone making a break for it, came to their ears. He stalked around the corner of Hagrid's hut, saying, "Come on out, Ivy, we know you're there." After a pause, the rest of them heard, "/Lumos!/" and saw a flash of wandlight. A few moments later Ron reappeared with the Slytherin girl in front of him, her arm twisted behind her. By unspoken agreement they all moved a short distance away from Hagrid's cabin.
"It's a slimy, poisonous little sneak, isn't it?" Ron grated, his voice shaking with anger.
"I believe it is," Hermione judged.
"What did you hear?" Ron demanded roughly, his fingers tightening on Ivy's arm.
"I heard everything, just the way I meant to," Ivy returned calmly. "Mr. Crouch doesn't seem to realize that he's dead, does he?"
"Did it ever cross your mind that it wasn't your business?" Ron hissed, twisting her arm further. "Say you're sorry," he ordered her. "Say you won't tell anyone."
"I'm not sorry," she retorted. "And I'll tell whomever I choose." Her jaw clenched as Ron increased his leverage on her arm.
"Ron," said Harry quietly, "if you don't leave off, you'll dislocate her shoulder."
"Maybe that's the idea," Ron fumed, but he eased off just a hair. "If you weren't a girl," he threatened, "Wouldn't I just …!" He raised his fist, and Ivy started but held her ground.
"I may not be quite as brawny as you are," she defied him, "but I'd take you on in a duel any day, Ron Weasley."
"That's because you know I'd play fair," Ron said hotly.
"You must really be looking for a snakebite," Ivy informed him frostily. "I'd be only too happy to provide one for you."
"Just what I'd expect from a Slytherin," he taunted her. "Maybe I should break your wand and see how you like it. Or maybe you'd like to steal Malfoy's and turn it over to us, you two-faced little cheat."
"Ron, she's not worth getting into trouble over," Harry said, shivering. It was a cold night and he wanted to go inside, even though he had no appetite for dinner.
"How could you have done such a rotten thing? Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Ron harangued, determined to get something out of her.
"Not to you, I don't," she declined, glaring back at him.
"Being a Slytherin is reason enough, I suppose," he said disgustedly.
Neville looked at Ivy sadly. "Hagrid's awfully upset, you know," he told her. "He may have sounded mad, but he really misses you and Salazara."
Ivy actually looked stricken for a moment. "I know, Neville," she said. "I /am/ sorry about that."
"How touching," sneered Ron. "At least the hardened criminal has something on her conscience."
"Well, we'll have to let her go, but we can't send her away scot free," said Hermione, pulling out her wand. "/Otohoto!/" she exclaimed, and two pointed, furry donkey ears emerged from Ivy's hair and lengthened until their their tips reached well above the top of her head. Hermione finished the job by pointing her wand at the front of Ivy's robes and chanting, "/Virglutinate/," thus cementing Ivy's wand firmly in place. "There, that should do it. It may not teach her a lesson but it'll make me feel better."
"Me too," Ron agreed. When he released Ivy, she did not rub her arm where he had gripped it, Harry noticed, nor did she reach up to feel her ears. She turned her back without a word and melted into the night.
"Pinocchio was always one of my favourite films," said Hermione. "Maybe I should have done her nose too. But as far as I know she hasn't lied to us."
"You can keep that one in reserve," said Ron, rubbing his hands.
"Will she be all right?" worried Neville. "She can't use her wand …"
"Oh, a spot of Mrs. Skower's will put that right in a jiffy," Hermione told him. "She might need to ask for help. She'll hate that."
"Think she'll rat on us?" Ron wondered aloud as they walked back to the school.
"Not to the teachers. She's not a tattletale," said Neville.
"It'd be too embarrassing for her, you mean. But you have to admit she's got more guts than Malfoy," Harry conceded.
"More brains, too," added Hermione.
"That just makes her more dangerous," said Ron.
* * * * * * * *
As the situation finally started to sink in and become real to Harry, a terrible apathy crept over him. Nothing seemed worth the effort. He had lost his zeal for the cause of Frank Longbottom's recovery. I can't do it anymore. It's too hard It's too much to ask. Why does it have to be me? Why can't someone else take a turn? He might as well have said what Malfoy wanted to hear and got his wand back, for all the good he would be to Neville's Dad without it. All his heroic posturing meant nothing.
He couldn't even work up a healthy rage against Ivy, Malfoy, Wormtail, or anyone else. He felt empty, leaden, burned out, more hopeless even than Crouch's ghost, who at least still wanted revenge. At meals his silence was so forbidding that Hermione didn't dare press him to eat more. He looked right through anyone who mentioned his missing wand, as if they didn't exist. He sleepwalked through his classes, doing as little as possible to get by, and even missed a Quidditch practice. He flatly refused to attend his Wednesday night tutorial with Snape, and Neville unhappily went without him and made his excuses, taking Hermione with him for moral support. Ron wouldn't go either; he muttered darkly about Snape being in on Ivy and Draco's dirty dealings. But Snape sent Neville and Hermione away, saying that without Potter there was no point in wasting his time.
Harry tried to talk himself out of his funk. It was only a wand, after all. No one had died or anything. Neither he nor Neville even had a single scratch (although Neville was a bit jumpier than usual and found it even more difficult to concentrate in class). Nothing really tragic had happened. Ron's wand had been broken in an encounter with the Whomping Willow on the Hogwarts grounds, and the next year he had got a new one. But reminding himself of those things didn't help. Harry felt as if his right arm had been torn off. His wand was part of him. The way it had happened was the worst of it—not in an accident or in a fair fight, but by underhanded trickery. He had expected nothing better of Malfoy, but Ivy's betrayal had shaken them all and made them doubt themselves, Hagrid most of all.
The obvious thing to do was to go to Ollivanders and buy a new wand for himself. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was odd, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he just hung tough, things would return to normal, as if the scene in Hagrid's cabin had never happened. He tried to dismiss it as wishful thinking, but it persisted.
He saw a wordless encounter between Hagrid and Ivy in one of the Hogwarts corridors. (Ivy had apparently taken care of her ear problem with no on the wiser.) Hagrid caught sight of her between classes one morning and shot her a furious, beetle-browed glare. Ivy braced herself visibly, but faced Hagrid without flinching. As she passed the gamekeeper, she appeared pale and shaken but determined, and Hagrid looked after her sadly. Harry studied her expression thoughtfully. She looked as if she were hanging tough—waiting for some resolution still in the future, but trying to hold it off as long as possible. Her manner contrasted oddly with Malfoy's unbearable smugness. He strutted around as if he had done something amazingly clever, yet whenever his eyes met Harry's he dropped them hastily. "Knows it'll catch up with him someday," Ron murmured in Harry's ear.
Harry had still another difficulty to complicate his life. His substitute wand showed a growing tendency to pull to the left when he used it. If the wand had done it consistently he could have learned to compensate, but the problem was completely erratic and unpredictable. It ruined his aim for any kind of distant work, for one thing, and also had an odd effect on his transfigurations. On Thursday Professor McGonagall instructed the class to turn pigeons into candlesticks. When Harry attempted the assignment he produced a candleholder with a candle hovering a few inches to the left of the empty socket. The candle immediately fell to the desktop with a clunk, and Harry hastily picked it up and jammed it into the proper hole. Professor McGonagall's sharp eyes caught this little maneuver, and she was behind him in a moment. "What happened, Mr. Potter?" she asked with interest.
"Well, you see, it … it … the candle was in the wrong place," Harry admitted uncomfortably.
"So I see," remarked Professor McGonagall. "What happens when you change it back?"
Harry reversed the spell. The pigeon returned, but something about it wasn't quite right. A ghost image overlapped the bird a little to the left, and their movements were perfectly synchronised, reminding Harry of a malfunctioning television screen (one of the arguments Dudley had used to convince his parents to get cable television for his bedroom).
"Can you explain this, Potter?" the professor asked him. Harry's predicament had by now caught the attention of the whole class.
"My—this wand seems to be a bit off."
"Indeed. Try the transformation again." Harry did so, and this time the candle materialized twice as far from the candleholder as it had been the first time. Professor McGonagall watched silently as Harry put it back in, to the accompaniment of some giggling from Parvati and Lavender.
"Well, Potter, if you choose to make do with that wand, you'll need to learn how to use it," the professor decided at last. "I want you to practice until you can perform the transformation properly. Continue to experiment for homework if necessary." She lowered her voice and added, "I doubt that any of the other spare wands would serve you better."
Harry heaved a sigh. "Yes, Professor."
Hermione, whose own transformation had gone without a hitch as usual, asked, "May I please help Harry, Professor?"
"Certainly, Miss Granger," the teacher told her. "And if either of you wishes to submit a written report on your findings, I will consider giving you extra credit."
For the rest of class time Harry made the switch between pigeon and candlestick numerous times, while Hermione assisted by holding up the candle at different distances from the candleholder. But the wand's capricious behaviour continued to thwart his efforts. The only thing he could count on was that no matter which way he held the wand, it always made a leftward hitch when he cast the spell.
"Well, Harry, it's a student-made wand. What did you expect?" Hermione asked him.
"I think I know why the student who made it left it behind," muttered Harry, shaking the wand and rapping it on the edge of the desk in an attempt to restore its proper balance. Finally, more by luck than skill, he got the pigeon back in one single, solid piece. Professor McGonagall dismissed the class, but allowed Hermione and Harry a few extra minutes in the classroom to continue. Neville and Ron stayed to watch. Harry had just hit on a method of twirling his wand at the moment of magical discharge, which seemed to be helping. It took him a few more tries to get the hang of the wrist movement involved, but with it he was able to improve his control over the resulting transfiguration. At length Harry put the wand away and massaged his arm.
"Thanks for the help, Hermione," he said.
"Good show, Harry," said Ron.
"That's well done, Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall. "Learning to use a faulty wand can be a valuable skill. You have completed the assignment with full marks. Now off you go to your next class; don't be late."
Harry hadn't been so absorbed in his schoolwork since the ill-fated Monday meeting at Hagrid's. But now that Transfiguration was over he felt the familiar hopelessness settling over him again. All he had done was to make the best of a bad job.
"You did good work today, Harry," Hermione told him as they left the classroom, sensing the droop in his spirits and trying to lift them.
"Thanks," he said dully.
They arrived at Hagrid's for Care of Magical Creatures just as class was beginning. They had finished with the fire crabs and now they were working with horned toads, whose various body parts made important potion ingredients, as Neville had cause to know from a certain hair-raising detention with Professor Snape.
"Now, class," Hagrid explained, "all of yeh should know that horned toads are pickled when they're bein' bottled for potions work. An' it works even better when yeh can start ter pickle 'em while they're still alive. They need ter be pickled from the inside out, and these special picklin' pickles"—he held up a stone crock—"do the trick nicely. The simple thing would be ter feed the pickles ter the toads, right? But horned toads won't eat pickles. They like spiders best. But spiders won't eat pickles neither. So what we do is feed pickles ter the flies that the spiders eat, cause flies'll eat anythin'. Turns their blood ter vinegar. Then we feed the flies ter the spiders an' the spiders ter the toads."
Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be having difficulty following this. They scratched their heads and looked puzzled. Ron muttered to Harry, "I can't stand spiders, you know I can't. Can't we just feed the flies to the toads?" he asked Hagrid.
"Yeh can try, but horned toads are mighty pertickler in their eatin' habits, Ron. So firs' we need lots of flies an' spiders," Hagrid went on. "I've been collectin' some flies so we can make a start." He held up several sheets of flypaper, all generously speckled with flies. Draco Malfoy made a noise of disgust. Hagrid took out a large pair of scissors and started cutting up the flypaper into pieces, one for each student.
"But won't they be dead by now?" Pansy Parkinson asked in disbelief, receiving her portion and holding it at arm's length with the tips of her fingers.
"No, this sort o' flypaper keeps 'em alive," said Hagrid. "'S got a bit of food on it for 'em. But not much, so they'll be hungry." And so they appeared to be, flapping their wings in frustration but still stuck fast. Each member of the class got a pickle to cut up and distribute among the captive instects.
Harry managed to get close enough to Hagrid to speak to him privately.
"Hagrid, I suppose you know there's someone haunting your garden," Harry murmured, watching his flies slurp up pickle juice.
"Yeh mean Crouch, Harry?" Hagrid asked in a low voice as he prodded some unresponsive flies with a stick. Harry nodded. Hagrid sighed. "Somethin's eatin' away at 'im, tha's plain enough," he told Harry, "but he doesn' talk about it. Mos'ly keeps to himself, on'y comes out at night. Doesn' bother me much. Dunno why he sticks around here, though."
"Don't you know he's buried here?" Harry's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Figgered it was somethin' like that," Hagrid answered.
"He talked to me last night," said Harry. "He wants to pay back Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy for what they did to his son. He saw Draco Malfoy break my wand. He says never trust a Slytherin."
Hagrid looked unhappy. "I dunno much abou' what happened to his son. But even though Slytherin's made a name fer itself fer producin' dark wizards, it's not true Slytherins're all bad, Harry. Some of 'em's all right."
"Name one," said Harry gloomily.
"Professor Dumbledore trusts Professor Snape," Hagrid argued.
"And he's the best example you can come up with? What about Rita Skeeter?" Harry and Hagrid had both run afoul of the Daily Prophet reporter's malicious quill. But Hagrid looked so miserable that Harry didn't have the heart to press the matter further.
* * * * * * * *
Harry was alone in his dorm room one afternoon, lying on his bed staring at nothing in particular, when Neville came up and found him. He said diffidently, "Harry, could I ask you something?"
"Sure, Neville," said Harry without moving, as if nothing would ever matter again.
Neville sat on the floor with his back against Harry's bed. He said, "I know this probably sounds silly, but—would it help you if I broke my wand, too? I wouldn't mind doing it."
"What possible good would that do?" asked Harry, still staring blankly upward.
"I don't /know/, Harry," said Neville miserably. "I knew it would sound stupid."
"Hey, Neville," said Harry. "You've gone through everything with me. If your wand got broken the way mine did, you'd probably handle it way better than I am. I don't think I want you to show me up that way. It's bad enough that you're better at being tickled."
Neville laughed. "I haven't done the real stuff. Just the practice. I'm the understudy, like Hagrid said."
"But I haven't had to watch my Mum and Dad waste away in hospital all these years," Harry reminded him. "That's you."
"Dad saw me," marveled Neville. "He knew who I was, Harry. Do you know how amazing that is, after all this time?"
Harry smiled for the first time in days. "Lucky you look like your Mum, Neville."
"Gran says Dad was always a great one for noticing family likenesses."
"Listen, don't break your wand, okay? Not without a better reason. It just wouldn't be the same. But thanks for the offer," said Harry.
"There's something else, Harry." Neville paused, and Harry waited. "Ivy. I know it looks bad, but …"
"You're too trusting."
"No, Harry, it isn't that. She just—there must be something behind it that we don't understand. The way she's acting—it just doesn't fit. It doesn't feel right."
Harry was silent.
"You've noticed it too, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"And you've been telling yourself it's just your imagination," Neville went on.
Harry sat up and Neville turned to look at him.
"I've been doing the same thing," said Neville. "I think we should stop."
"Then I'll start hoping I'll get my wand back after all. And that's impossible."
"All right then, you can give up if you want. I'm going to try to figure this out. I'll bet Hermione has some ideas. I left her down in the common room with Ron." Neville got up and went to the head of the tower stairs. "See you, Harry."
Harry gave a deep sigh and heaved himself off of his bed. "I'm coming too, Neville."
The common room was empty except for Ron and Hermione. The rest of the school was out getting ready to watch Ravenclaw play against Hufflepuff at Quidditch.
"Did you forget today's Quidditch match, Harry?" inquired Ron. "Cho Chang is playing. You should be cheering her on, especially since Hufflepuff is ahead of Ravenclaw in the standings. If you're not going, I am."
Harry had forgotten. He actually felt a flicker of interest.
"Just one thing before we go," said Hermione. "We've been so stunned by what Ivy did that we haven't been able to think straight. But lately I've been asking myself some questions."
"Me too," said Neville.
"Why did Malfoy break Harry's wand in front of so many witnesses? Even a teacher?"
"I've been wondering that myself," said Harry. "Very risky."
"In fact, completely senseless," added Hermione.
"It looked like it was Ivy's idea," said Ron. "She had to egg him on."
"Yes, but why?" Hermione persisted.
"Blamed if I know," said Ron.
"Seems to me it would have been simpler for Ivy just to get Harry and Neville in an empty classroom with Malfoy and Salazara already there," Hermione said thoughtfully.
"Then I probably would have had to promise not to tell the rest of you," Harry realized.
"That would have been really rough on you, Harry," said Ron.
"Well, she did get me to go into an empty classroom, except that Malfoy was there," said Neville. "She said she wanted to talk about something to do with my Mum."
"That's plausible," said Hermione. "We never did hear what happened when Ivy went to see your Mum."
"Who knows if we ever will," gloomed Ron.
"Next question," Hermione went on. "The wand that Malfoy broke. Are you sure that was actually your wand, Harry?"
"I know my wand when I see it," replied Harry, a little annoyed. "Besides, when Malfoy broke it, I felt it here." He put a hand to his scar.
"And why," Hermione continued, "did Ivy give you back the tip?"
"Well, it does have the twin to my scar on it, if that's what you're wondering," Harry assured her. "I checked. Maybe she returned it to prove that it was my wand."
"May I see it, Harry?" Hermione asked.
"Sure." Harry reached into his right wand pocket and pulled out the wand tip.
Hermione took it and examined it carefully. "Yes, it has the scar on it, and it's just like yours. That sort of mark is difficult to fake." She held it up and compared it with Harry's scar. Her eyes widened. "Harry, I bet you didn't notice this!"
"What?"
"Harry, when I compared these two scars the first time, they were exactly the same shape."
"They still are," said Harry.
"Yes, except for one thing. This one is backwards."
Harry took the wand tip back and stared at it, running a finger over the scar on his forehead. "You're right."
"You know what this means, don't you, Harry?"
Harry grinned suddenly, feeling lighter than air. "It means I'd better take really good care of this wand tip," he said, closing his fingers on it and carefully putting it back. "And I think I'd better talk to Ivy, and call another meeting."
"Well, you can't do it now," said Ron. "She's probably on the Quidditch pitch with everyone else. Let's go—they're probably about to start!"
* * * * * * * *
It didn't take long for Harry to find an opportunity to talk to Ivy privately. She apparently was waiting to be asked. They stepped into a handy broom closet, and Harry got straight to the point. "Ivy, I think it's about time you gave me my wand back. I really need it."
"What makes you think I have it?" she asked, humouring him.
He indicated his wand pocket. "This isn't the tip of my actual wand. It's part of a mirror-double."
Ivy drew a deep breath, and a smile broke over her face. "Took you long enough, Harry Potter."
"You have it?" Harry exclaimed.
"Safe and three-quarters sound."
"It was Hermione who figured it out," Harry gave credit where it was due, "and Neville who insisted that there was something to figure out."
"I was afraid I was going to have to start dropping hints …"
"So when can I get it back?" Harry asked. "Can you come to Hagrid's tomorrow?"
"Not if he won't let me in the door," said Ivy sheepishly.
"I'll vouch for you, Ivy," said Harry. "And so will Neville. You'd better come, because you have a lot of explaining to do."
Ivy pulled a long-suffering face. "You have no idea."
"And if you're planning any more tricks, you won't catch us off guard so easily," Harry warned.
"Well, I should hope not," said Ivy. "It's high time you started showing a little reasonable caution."
*******************
AN: Disney's Pinocchio is one of my favorite films too. In the next chapter, "Bargain with Destiny," Ivy explains her actions.