Harry Potter was snoring loudly. With a jerk, he woke abruptly to find he had been sleeping pressed up against a window, with a crumpled letter in his fist. He sat for a moment, getting his bearings, when everything came rushing back. The battle. The forest. King's Cross. The train… With that thought jumped up, and looked at the paper in his hand. Dear Harry, If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M….
This was the summer before his sixth year! Dumbledore, alive, was coming to pick him up! And take him to the Burrow! He glanced at the clock on his bedside table, and cursed his own stupidity for the second time. It was twenty minutes to eleven, and of course Dumbledore was really coming! Now he had to pack…
Quickly tossing things into his trunk, he shoved all the rubbish he had collected whilst stewing in his misery that summer into the corner. Just as he was pulling his trunk and cage out the doorway to his room, he saw the streetlamp outside his window flicker out. Shit, he thought. Taking the stairs two at a time, he got to the bottom just as the doorbell rang. He sent a nervous glance in the direction of the sitting room where his relatives were watching television, and pulled open the door.
There on his front stoop, as alive and well as a hundred-and-fourteen year old man could be, stood his dearly departed professor and mentor. Harry stood still for a moment, just taking in the sight of him, before a silly grin spread across his face.
"Sir," said Harry, still grinning, "You don't know how good it is to see you."