"What precisely do you want of us, Mister Weasely?" Spears scribbled something in his ledger.
Percy was glad that he'd taken to refining his checklists and thinking carefully about his goals. He found that it helped enormously to be able to articulate them. "In the short term, I want Gringott's to protect my gold. In the medium term I hope to advance my cause, and perhaps occasionally rely upon the bank's advice and business services to gain more gold. In the long term, should I be lucky enough to have descendants of my own, I hope to leave them financially comfortable with their inheritance held safe under the stewardship of the bank."
The goblin peered at him. "So it seems that you propose to distance yourself from the specific terms of service that apply to the Weasely account and begin your relationship with Gringotts Bank as completely new business, as if a wild born wizard. This could prove advantageous, but there is perhaps greater advantage to be had in simply taking up the Prewitt vault."
Frowning, Percy considered what he knew of the Weasely fortunes. "I had no idea that Gringotts offered differing levels of service based upon one's bloodline. Can you outline the advantages and disadvantages of each of these courses?"
"The Weasely service agreement is the most basic that the bank has. We provide a lockable vault and guard the shaft that leads to it. Nothing more, in accordance with the instructions of one Armand Weasely." Spears noted the wizard's startled reaction, feeling a sense of justice done. An intolerable family had been brought low by their insults to Goblinkind, but these recent and more pleasant generations, tempered by privation, had no memory of it. The goblin king insulted by Armand had long fallen and Bill Weasely had a fine reputation, having risked death to rescue goblin curse breakers on his team.
Percy swallowed, viscerally understanding the reason that his ancient pureblood family was so poor. "Can these instructions be renegotiated?"
The goblin shrugged. "I imagine that the vault holder in question may be able to raise his status in the eyes of the bank to at least become the equal of a wild born. All it would take is a visit to a teller."
Percy nodded. He would have to find a way to inform his father. "What does that level entail?"
Spears suppressed a grin. "Wild blood wizards or starter accounts as they are more accurately termed, are provided a vault with full security and with financial advice offered if solicited, but management is handled at a lower level with no full time manager appointed, unless the vault grows large enough to warrant one. We goblins feel it a waste of our time to swear to a new vault that will most likely closed within a few years as the average wild blood soon abandons this country or goes back to the mundane world."
Percy winced, thinking about the vast unused portion of Hogwarts. "I see. I suspect that the third option would be the best, but I do not want to claim Galleons that should go to my Mother or Bill, as eldest."
The goblin looked pleased. "I appreciate your honesty, Mister Weasely, but the vault was liquidated in the aftermath of the war. The contents were split in accordance with the Prewett will between Myrtle Wainwright, Molly Weasely and the low magic adept Samuel Prewett, who accepted his share as an equivalent weight in gold."
Percy belatedly remembered that his second cousin was a squib accountant. "I see. Very well then, are there any significant drawbacks to claiming the vault?" The only think that he could think of was some sort of outstanding loan or debt against the balance, but he did not think that Spears would care about the paltry sum in his pouch.
"None at all. The Prewett option will secure you my services as your vault manager. We goblins often follow one particular family and my clan has managed the Prewett vault for centuries. It was rather jarring to lose them."
Percy stared at the goblin and decided that he would take the deal. All he had to lose was his stolen money. "I accept, Spears."
lf
"What is this unsightly rubbish?" Draco sneered at the overgrown and rust splotched corrugated iron building, untidy, unkempt with sheets missing from its roof. He had seen it from a distance before but paid it no mind, as it was on the far side of the estate beyond the fields.
Reminding herself that expecting a twelve year old to change his attitude overnight was foolish, Narcissia worked to retain her patience. "This rubbish is a tobacco barn, the only remnant of Wiltshire Silverleaf, the most profitable business of the Malfoy estate. The Malfoy family lived on and was known for this magical pipe tobacco until your fool of a grandfather gambled away his inheritance and then sold the elves."
"But… why are we here?" Draco frowned, trying to put it all together in his mind.
"To introduce you to the magnitude of the task before us." She pointed at the shed. "Somehow, we have to turn ruins like THAT into an income. That may spell the difference between the Malfoy success and failure."
Draco stared at the rusty old ruin. "Why?"
Narcissia sighed, hoping that he would understand this time. "We have no income, Draco. In spite of what your father told you, we are not royalty. Your father held no special place in the dark lord's regard. We were simply slaves, held under control by his magic, disposable bodies to be branded as larger house elves. Your father served a purpose in his apparent role, so we appeared to hold power, but the dark lord shared nothing."
"So we're poor, like the Weasels?" Draco already knew this, but a part of him was trying to forget. To be a Malfoy was to be rich! His father had said… His father, the slave. Of a mudblood. His shoulders slumped.
Narcissia frowned at her son's stubbornness. "Do not mock, Draco. Insults are a fool's game and civility costs nothing. Our family is in no position to make casual enemies, especially well connected ones. To answer your question, yes, we are poorer than the Weaselys. After all, they are a large clan of powerful wizards with a decent income and considerable influence in the Ministry, while we are two survivors with little goodwill and meager resources with which to turn the fortunes of this estate around."
Draco stared at the building, unable to grasp any of it. "But… I don't know what to do."
Narcissia was impressed that he was showing signs of actually thinking. She didn't expect him to be of any real use for years yet, but perhaps she could break him of his unthinking arrogance and encourage him to unlearn his father's nonsense. "Your tuition was prepaid so you will be able to research the subject in the Hogwarts library as well as ask questions of your teachers. In the meantime, perhaps you should start by reading the family grimoires and speaking with the portraits. You may learn how the Malfoy came to this point." Narcissia had already hidden the portrait of Abraxus. The echo of the criminally insane fool would never speak to Draco alone.
Draco nodded, but he hadn't actually known that such documents existed. "Are… Will we be okay, Mum?" His tone was subdued.
She laughed and folded him in her arms. "It will be difficult, but it could be so much worse, Draco. We are free of debt and free of the dark lord. I am a rather proficient brewer and we will manage so long as we tread carefully."
lf
Fudge waited, nerves alight as the interminable Wizengamot agenda worked its way to its end, and very possibly his. He remained Minister by the very skin of his teeth and he understood the absolute peril of his position well.
His primary backer had been killed in order to set the stage and send the proper message. With his death, the 'donations' supporting many a lavish lifestyle had dried up and it seemed that no one was willing to raise a finger for old times' sake. The rest of the coup had been shoddily presented as a 'Death Eater' uprising, but only his allies were vanishing in the curiously limited internecine carnage.
The wholesale elimination of the Malfoy machine and its backers by 'Death Eaters,' meant that Fudge's only possible allies were Dumbledore's people, some of the proxy holders still mindlessly voting on old instructions and the bureaucratic inertia of the Ministry Department Heads, who had obviously been caught off guard and reflexively saved him, unwilling to allow significant change without a proper succession plan. It hadn't stopped Dumbledore losing his post as Chief Warlock though. It seemed that without the pressure of the Traditionalists, the whole mutually supported deadlock had broken down and remarkably few of Dumbledore's usual supporters had been inclined to save him. Not that it was a good thing now.
Glittering eyes shifted rapidly about as Fudge tried to understand the new political reality. The architects of the coup were not ready to put the new regime into play yet, so they were still in the disposal phase. Loose ends were being trimmed under what was technically still his watch. His fault. The natural final move would be to pin it all on him and then throw him neatly to the wolves, or much more likely, to a dementor.
Sweat popped out on Fudge's brow and he fiddled ineffectively with the hat. He couldn't attack and bluster his way out of the trap, as there was no one to attack. He couldn't defend, as to try would have him accepting the blame. His only remaining option was to flee with what he already had. The trick would be to successfully resign and make his escape without vanishing down a rat infested sewer after being hit with the macerato spell.
Standing at the podium reserved for Department Heads and the Minister, Madame Bones took a drink of water and continued her report. "The following Wizengamot members were found dead today, all victims of those known to be marked Death Eaters, previously released with no trial after claiming coercion."
There was a roar of outrage from the Members.
Watching Bones with narrowed eyes, Fudge warily dismissed her as either a before-the-fact participant or prime mover of the coup. She was a woman, too weak and too tightly under his thumb to make such moves on her own. It was Moody, that scar faced murderer and his vile army that had crushed Malfoy's people with a merciless onslaught had overshadowed the best efforts of the Dark Lord. Moody had overcome them so fast that it had paralyzed the Wizengamot into mute acceptance without so much as a peep.
Moody was objectively only a little less frightening than You Know Who himself and his war-aurors were disturbingly loyal, close knit and answered only to him. He had tried to get someone from the Ministerial Detachment into the group, but Edward Avery had vanished without a trace. Fudge could take a hint. He knew that Moody was ultimately held from taking power by the same philosophical bunk as Bones, and thus unlikely to be anything more than a tool wielded by his invisible foe. It was all accomplished in a very tidy manner though, just as if simple unforeseen circumstance had freed them to do their worst, all without revealing the hand pulling their strings. After all, what wasn't revealed couldn't be struck down.
He regretted ever taking his first step into politics as Bones reeled off the complete list, which he glumly recognized the roll call of his most reliable supporters. These decayed houses were known colloquially as 'The Sitting Quorum,' due to their habit of appearing for every single Wizengamot meeting. They made their galleons by selling their votes to the highest bidder and for the last decade that had been Malfoy.
They had not been, he reflected, the majority of the body's members or even a sizeable minority, but the industrious galleon grubbers nevertheless kept the rest slumbering and the gold flowing freely. Fudge had never wanted to know exactly from whence the bounty flowed, but Bones was making it exhaustively clear.
Fudge paled as this point was made again. This was it, the second nail in his coffin. The first had been the close vote showing the general contempt in which he was held. Now would come the digs, then accusations, then the horse trading that preceded direct action as he could safely be presented as negligent and corrupt without fear of retribution. The process was inevitable and she was building the platform from which he would be hung, getting her facts lined up for the inexorable coup de main where he lost his office and found himself in the defendant's chair under the three drops, risking his very soul.
Looking surreptitiously at the bitter crone occupying Dumbledore's seat, Fudge swallowed, well aware that Chief Witch Longbottom despised him beyond words and would happily order him to the dementor and then the dementor through the veil. He had to get out in front of this mess, avert, evade or turn it back on them somehow in order to make his escape, but what could he do? Who could he give them that could possibly hold their interest long enough for him to vanish?
There was only one answer. Cornelius was well aware that he wasn't the smartest or the most powerful wizard alive, but he'd always had a very finely tuned sense of timing, an instinct about the way things could go that was almost akin to a seeing. Right now it was telling him that this was the last possible minute and that he needed to throw a distraction out RIGHT NOW. The minute Bones paused, he stood.
"Point of privilege, Chief Witch!"
The old biddy narrowed hooded eyes at him. "I'll allow it, but it had better be brief and relevant, Minister."
Fudge nodded, and began speaking in the lowered tones of faux humility. "It will take but a moment, Chief Witch. Lords and Ladies, Witches and Wizards, I am shocked and sickened by these revelations. I had no idea of these outrages. Given the systematic nature of this criminal activity, how can I, in good conscience, continue in a seat of power? No, it is better that minds less easily bamboozled deal with this mess. I must own the failure and wear the naivety that allowed this to happen. I therefore request the opportunity to change my vote in the recent No Confidence motion."
Looking around, Fudge didn't see any real anger directed at him, but then Bones hadn't yet made a case, still sneaking up on it obliquely. Perhaps he had some breathing room left. Now for the distraction. "A new broom sweeps clean and I am confident that Acting Minister Umbridge will muster the drive and the ambition to wade into this vicious swamp of corruption and emerge victorious. So contritely, with shame, I present my immediate resignation from government service." His mournful look wasn't completely feigned. He had sold his estate to his political backers for much more than it was worth, leasing it back for one galleon a year, but there was still the old family property left in his name. It was a pity that it must be abandoned to his nephew, Cletus, but he and his spoils would be on the other side of the world in just a few hours and he would be sporting a new name and face within the week.
lf
Harry blinked stinging salty sweat out of his eyes and felt the burn in his legs as he pedaled down No Man's Green, which he couldn't find on his map. It was a narrow lane that ran past his front gate, paralleling his land before turning east. He had no idea where it lead, and could see little but the low cloudy sky, the curvature of the road and tall hedges on either side allowing for only the occasional glimpse of farm fields beyond. It was rather like being indoors and branches occasionally whipped him as he passed.
He came to an intersection where No Man's Green was crossed by a track called 'Sheepwalk' according to an old fashioned signpost. For some inexplicable reason, No Man's Green turned into Wiggly Way at this point. The road was better maintained beyond the intersection, with trimmed hedgerows that hinted at the use of power equipment. Harry just hoped that he wouldn't get so lost that he had to call Dobby.
Pedaling hard, Harry leaned into the momentum, really putting on the speed. The regimen of growth, absorption and the strengthening potions that he'd been prescribed through the Gringotts Infirmary along with Dobby's near-constant feeding had caused him to put on at least twenty pounds of bone and muscle weight and shoot up a little over four inches since his fight with the snake.
He loved his scaled up physique, thinking it well worth the intense growing pains, but he regretted that his cherished new shirts and trousers were riding above his wrists and ankles. Without Dobby's expert help, Harry would have had to make do with a robe or go shopping again.
The wondrous brown boots had come to the end of magic expandability and were reluctantly discarded for the larger black ones, which had in turn reached their limits and were starting to pinch too. None of his new trainers fit without magical help. Even the bicycle shoes that he wore were too tight without an expansion charm and though he had made some adjustments, he feared that the bicycle itself would soon be too small for him.
Coming to a crossing with another unpaved road, this one unnamed, Wiggly Way abruptly turned into Heron Lane. The hedge here was sparse and he could see wire fence and other signs of humanity. He passed a farm house, then another, then a field of high-spirited horses that galloped along with him until stopped by a fence.
Heron Lane crossed Spring Brook Bridge and abruptly widened enough for two cars to pass in opposite directions, now called Compton Road. Harry relentlessly turned up the speed, even as the sky above vanished behind forest canopy. He was making excellent time when a car appeared from around a bend, driving squarely in the middle of the road.
Always alert, Harry was over as far as he could get and so he was ready when the car came all the way across and put him off of the road. He glimpsed the driver, mouth set in a wide-eyed 'o' of shock, a cellular phone pressed to her ear as he cast his preloaded cushion charm.
Harry never paused, just in case it was another assassination attempt. He picked up his bike, hopped on and set out again, leaving it all behind. He downshifted and sped up, listening for pursuit as he wondered if he could get a cellular phone. How did they work, anyway? Perhaps he would find another friendly librarian to help him find out. He had been fascinated as a child by a demonstration of a normal telephone's inner workings in a display at the Little Whinging branch library. He remembered how magical and clever it had seemed, the microphone creating an electrical analog of the voice that was then sent over wire where it was converted to an analog of the voice by the loudspeaker. Perhaps magic could create some kind of electrical analog to work with. If so, he could get Hermione, Ron, Luna and Tonks cell phones! He could call shops to order things and send Dobby to get them! Hermione and the rest of the muggleborn students could call home!
Thinking about it and speeding up to his maximum velocity, Harry decided that even if he didn't have very many actual people to call it would still be nice to have the option. The flue was the absolute worst and very expensive to boot at a knut a go, complete with soot, fire and being on one's knees to talk if the other person was even there. Only a wizard in a dress could call that even remotely good enough.
Though he loved Hedwig, owls weren't exactly practical either. Besides, it seemed that there had to be some kind of magical compulsion involved. He hated the idea of his friend being under a compulsion to stay with him. Wouldn't she rather be living free in the arctic where she was made to be and where she could find a proper mate? It would be better for all concerned if everyone just had phones and left the poor owls alone.
Did Ragnok already have a phone? It would be nice to just call and talk about business rather than wasting time on laborious appointments. He was pretty sure from talking to Chopgrill that the goblins did a lot of business with the real world and probably had everything that could be had with gold, though if he knew goblins, BTE's listing for them was probably a laugh. Perhaps he would ask them about cell phones.
The town came before he knew it, trees suddenly turning into posh brick houses flashing by. He had been climbing and it was downhill into town, so Harry was moving like a rocket. He heard gasps as he flashed by a trio of uniformed girls walking in the street, so he started slowing, brakes smoking, which turned out to be a lucky thing. A lorry pulled onto the road in front of him, the driver never once looking his way, forcing Harry to pass behind it on the walk and brake even harder, smelling the rubber of his brakes burn.
Proceeding deeper into the town at something approaching a normal speed, he noticed boys and girls emerging from the houses all around. Belatedly, he realized that it was a school day. Alone but for Dobby, he had lost track of the normal work week. Hogwarts held classes on weekends and so had correspondingly longer breaks during the ritual seasons of equinox and solstice, but the muggle schools were still in session.
The girls were looking abnormally cute in their uniforms and he was surprised by a pang of regret over being a wizard. These lucky bodies were trotting off to a nice Snape-free school, with one hundred percent less trolls, giant spiders, basilisks and free roaming dark farts. They were preparing for a mundane world of cause and effect, where everything made sense.
Harry couldn't help his regret over the fact that it was all a lie. He had to wonder what it would be like to live with a good family in this prosperous looking town and go to school as a day student, unaware of the chaos and stupidity underlying it all. He thought it quite likely that he wouldn't have ever had to kill anyone or contend with danger all. Perhaps the odd biting dogs and bad drivers. Nothing too terribly dangerous anyway.
Harry slowed even more to take in the whole of the high street, which curved to parallel a waterway. It had to be the Stour, or maybe some part of the Staffordshire Canal. His maps all seemed to be completely wrong so it was hard to tell. He almost crashed into a bin when his attention wondered with an unexpected eyeful of beautiful blonde teen standing in an upper story window in a bra. Recovering, Harry thought of the awful hospital pamphlets and shook his head determinedly. He had to get hold of himself and concentrate. No way was he going to let that rubbish distract him.
Resolved, he sternly put her from his mind and wheeled his way to the end of the high street. There was an optician, beauty shops, barbers, a nursery, a couple of what looked like builders and something that he couldn't make out, P2P, whatever that was. There was Gino's Italian 'ristorante,' The Ploughman, Cobb and Beaker LTD, The Royal and a dozen incomprehensible small businesses with names giving no real clue of what they did. Reaching the point that the businesses ended, he followed the road as it curved back to the west.
Seeing the bulk of Excelsior High School, Harry slowed to look keenly through the gates, impressed by the building and grounds. Its classic brick facade and vast playing fields put Stonewall to shame.
His stomach growled nastily and Harry reversed course to pass back the way that he'd come. An advert that he'd seen had caught his attention.
The Royal was a two story building set back a little from the road, with something like a courtyard containing several picnic tables. Parking his bike in the handy rack, he entered the building. There was a lounge on one side and a dining room on the other, with stairs leading to a ballroom above, so he went in to the dining room stand and waited to be seated. When no one came he went back through the entrance and into the lounge, where he was immediately noticed by the barman.
"And what can I do for you, young sir?" The barman was large mustachioed man with slicked back hair and a red and white striped shirt, currently engaged in cleaning the bar.
"I want that American pancake special but there was no one to take the order." Harry's stomach, working overtime, snarled viciously.
The barman laughed. "Not to worry, there was a bit of a spill in the kitchen and Rose is just lending a hand with the last of it. If you can wait half a mo, I'll have her seat you and we'll get it out in about ten minutes."
"Thank you." Harry took off his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his neck. The room was a little too warm and the careful mix of potions and his own magic was running his metabolism at full blast and then some. He knew that he would soon stink like an animal and he was just a little bit worried that someone might notice him growing. "I biked into town and I'm really not fit to be indoors. I'd rather eat at the table outside if that's not too much trouble."
The barman nodded with a smile. "Suit yourself, but diners out must pay in advance. That will be eighteen sixty three."
Harry nodded agreeably and handed over a pair of tanners. "Can I have some water while I wait?"
Making change, the barman nodded, seeing the dripping sweat. "I'll bring a pitcher and something for you to get started on. You can clean up a bit in the loo if you like while I arrange things."
lf
Seated at a freshly cleaned and covered table, Harry set to working his way through a truly epic meal. The stack of buttery maple-drowned pancakes on the platter looked as large as his head, with bacon, hash-browns and cheesy scrambled egg mounded around like the ultimate bulwark against hunger. Harry proved himself a relentless foe, devouring as indiscriminately as a Dursley on a diet.
He had gotten to the bottom of the stack when Hedwig landed on the table, chittering her greetings.
Harry swallowed. "Hedwig! Hello, Darling." He untied the note from Hermione that she presented, determined that it was not urgent and put it in his pocket to read when syrup didn't threaten. "Would you like some sausage and egg?" Harry pushed the much reduced platter over in invitation and filled the water glass for her from the pitcher. "The egg's got cheese in, and perhaps you might like to try a bit of pancake too." He scraped as much syrup as possible off a bit, not sure if it was good for her.
Hedwig finished her elaborate greeting ritual and fell eagerly on his offering. Bacon was a well-known favorite and turned out that owls liked sausage and cheesy scrambled egg just fine.
Harry hadn't noticed the audience that had gathered while he fussed with Hedwig, but when he looked up, he saw a group of middle-schoolers watching him.
One of the boys spoke. "What is that?"
Harry didn't want to be mean, but he couldn't help it. "Haven't you ever seen a parakeet before?" Hedwig looked at him sharply, with an affronted ruffle of her wings and Harry winced. "Sorry, Love. Just a bit of a joke."
Hedwig made a low chuffing sound and went back to devouring.
"I've never seen an owl like that before." A tall dark haired girl with deep blue eyes looked closely at Hedwig. "She's like a barn owl, only bigger and colored for the winter."
Hedwig finished and hopped up to groom her wizard. It was quite a messy one and often a bother, but it provided much bacon.
"Good eye." Harry was surprised to hear a voice so like Hermione's. He was even more surprised to see the fitful glow of magic flickering around her. "This beautiful girl is called 'Hedwig.' She's a Snowy Owl and the breed is primarily found in North America, from the Arctic to parts of Mexico." He caressed Hedwig. "Though some specimens are known to range as far as London."
"Are you American?" Another girl butted in.
Harry looked at her, taken aback by the question, but another girl spoke.
"Are you the one they're looking for?"
Harry thought them vaguely familiar, then seeing the third, realized that it was the trio of girls he'd passed entering the town. "Wait, who's looking for what now?"
The first girl reacted with scorn. "Of course he's not American!"
The other frowned in reply. "But his owl! Why should he have an American owl if he's not American?"
"He doesn't sound American." The third girl sounded doubtful.
The boy chimed in, "Why should he have an owl at all? Here, what's your name then?"
Harry, in no way motivated to answer rude demands, saw the car that had run him into the woods slowing to a stop on the road, the lady with the cell peering at them. "Is that daft woman a friend of you lot?"
"That's Ms. Bradley." The witch that sounded like Hermione replied. "She's the headmistress at Excelsior."
"She a menace with that phone. Ran me off the road." Harry wondered if he should have put up with his own stink and eaten inside after all. "How is Excelsior?"
"It's alright." Hermione-Voice frowned at the preemptory double honk, "With a few less than desirable staffing choices." Most of the students left, but the witch hung back. "It seems that she thought she might have knocked you down and has had the emergency services out searching. Apparently you were in her lane. I heard about it on my father's scanner."
"Stupid cow." Harry had no interest in explaining himself to anyone. A brush with the police would bring Dumbledore, doubtless trying to lock him away with the Dursleys again.
The witch cast an affronted glance at the car after a long honk. "Thank you for telling me about Hedwig. She's very beautiful. I'm Jane."
Harry couldn't help a pleased smile. He rather agreed, and was predisposed to like anyone that saw Hedwig for the amazing owl that she was. "It was a pleasure, Jane. I'm Harry."
There was a longer honk and Jane grimaced. "Oh that woman. I have to go. Goodbye, Harry."
"Goodbye, Jane." Harry scowled at the rude woman in the car when she stared at him and honked again. He thought about making a gesture of his own, but settled for putting a fiver under his plate and buckling on his helmet. This annoyed Hedwig, who flew up to the roof of the Royal.
Harry realized that the woman hadn't recognized him until he mounted his bike, whereupon she had the gall to roll down the window and shout something at him.
Ignoring her evident belief that she had authority over him, Harry turned right onto the High Street, already moving at the speed limit. Seeing Hedwig fly ahead, he downshifted, accelerating to catch up with her as he passed an oncoming police car. Seeing brake lights in his mirror, Harry decided that he'd bloody well had enough. Forcing magic through his body, Harry was soon passing the town limit, his shirt crackling in the slipstream. He accelerated even faster, seeing a farm store ahead with cars parked on either side of the narrow road.
Tearing past a wide-eyed older gentleman carrying a wheel of cheese, Harry whipped round a bend and saw the right-side hedgerow interrupted for an open gate. Not bothering with brakes, he used the magic clinging to his clothes to vanish his inertia and forced the bike to a stop. He spun and slipped through the gate, turning hard and stopping so that he was hidden behind the hedge.
"Dobby?"
Dobby appeared with a pop. "Master?"
Harry took off his helmet. "Back to the tent please, Dobby."
They vanished with a 'pop' seconds before the police car tore by. It returned a few minutes later and the lane was thoroughly and aggressively searched, but no sign was found.