My first thought was this---
Dumbledore, bed-ridden by the wizalope flu, splutters a moment before turning his half-conscious eyes toward Harry Potter. His voice ragged from hours of demanding coughing and vomit aplenty. Reaching with a whithered hand, he wheezes, "Grab my wand, Harry. Just once before I die..."
Befuddled at seeing his mentor in such a decaying state, Harry searched hurriedly about, only to give up. "Where did you leave it, Professor?"
"Here, Potter. It's here in my pocket." Another of his wrinkled hands held wide his robe pocket, the depth of which masked by a shadow. Harry eagerly reached for it. After a moment of blind questing, his fingers wrapped around a warm rod.
"It's stuck," Harry announced, tugging fruitlessly.
"Gentle, Harry... You may rip my robes--- That's the way."
(BTW I'm a Potterfan too)