'Good luck everyone,' shouted Moody. 'See you all in about an hour at The Burrow. On the count of three. One...two...THREE.'
There was a great roar from the motorbike and Harry felt the sidecar a nasty lurch: he was rising through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, his hair whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were soaring upwards too: the long, black tail of a Thestral flicked past. His leg, jammed into the sidecar by Hedwig's cage and his rucksack, were already sore and starting to numb. So great was his discomfort he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of Number Four, Privet Drive; by the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar, he could no longer tell which one it was.