‘Night,’ said Harry.

‘Night,’ said Harry.

Maybe next time ... if there was a next time ... she'd be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she had probably been expecting it and was now really angry with him ... or was she lying in bed, still crying about Cedric?

He did not know what to think. Hermione's explanation had made it all seem more complicated rather than easier to understand.

That's what they should teach us here, he thought, turning over on to his side, how girls’ brains work ... it'd be more useful than Divination, anyway ...

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

Harry dreamed he was back in the DA room. Cho was accusing him of luring her there under false pretences; she said he had promised her a hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog Cards if she showed up. Harry protested ... Cho

shouted, ‘Cedric gave me loads of Chocolate Frog Cards, look!’ And she pulled out fistfuls of Cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air. Then she turned into Hermione, who said, ‘You did promise her, you

know, Harry ... I think you'd better give her something else instead ... how about your Firebolt?’ And Harry was protesting that he could not give Cho his Firebolt, because Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was

ridiculous, he'd only come to the DA room to put up some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby's head ...

The dream changed ...

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone ... he was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly ... it was dark, yet he could see objects around him

shimmering in strange, vibrant colours ... he was turning his head ... at first glance the corridor was empty ... but no ... a man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping on to his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark ...

Harry put out his tongue ... he tasted the man's scent on the air ... he was alive but drowsy ... sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor ..

Harry longed to bite the man ... but he must master the impulse ... he had more important work to do ...

But the man was stirring ... a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt ... he had no choice ... he reared high from

the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man's flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood ...

The man was yelling in pain ... then he fell silent ... he slumped backwards against the wall ... blood was splattering on to the floor ...

His forehead hurt terribly ... it was aching fit to burst ...

‘Harry! HARRY!’

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a strait-jacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.

‘Harry!’

Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry's bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him ... he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of

the mattress.

‘He's really ill,’ said a scared voice. ‘Should we call someone?’

‘Harry! Harry!’

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell him ... taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself up in bed, willing himself not to throw up again, the pain half-blinding him.

‘Your dad,’ he panted, his chest heaving. ‘Your dad's ... been attacked ...’

‘What?’ said Ron uncomprehendingly.

‘Your dad! He's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere ...’

‘I'm going for help,’ said the same scared voice, and Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.

‘Harry, mate,’ said Ron uncertainly, ‘you ... you were just dreaming—’

‘No!’ said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand.

‘It wasn't a dream ... not an ordinary dream ... I was there, I saw it ... I did it ...’

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backwards out of the way.

‘Harry, you're not well,’ he said shakily. ‘Neville's gone for help.’

‘I'm fine!’ Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his pyjamas and shaking uncontrollably. ‘There's nothing wrong with me, it's your dad you've got to worry about—we need to find out where he is—he's bleeding like mad—I was—it

was a huge snake.’

He tried to get out of bed but Ron pushed him back into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking, feeling the pain

recede very slowly from his scar ... then there were hurried footsteps coming up the stairs and he heard Neville's voice again.

‘Over here, Professor.’

Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

‘What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?’

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now, not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless potions.

‘It's Ron's dad,’ he said, sitting up again. ‘He's been attacked by a snake and it's serious, I saw it happen.’

‘What do you mean, you saw it happen?’ said Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting.

‘I don't know ... I was asleep and then I was there ...’

‘You mean you dreamed this?’

‘No!’ said Harry angrily; would none of them understand? ‘I was having a dream at first about something completely different, something stupid ... and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn't imagine it. Mr. Weasley was

asleep on the floor and he was attacked by a gigantic snake, there was a load of blood, he collapsed, someone's got to find out where he is ...’

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she was seeing.

‘I'm not lying and I'm not mad!’ Harry told her, his voice rising to a shout. ‘I tell you, I saw it happen!’

‘I believe you, Potter,’ said Professor McGonagall curtly. ‘Put on your dressing gown—we're going to see the Headmaster.’
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From something the Minister let slip when telling

From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternisation with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this— no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favourite—but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different—and probably more accurate—view of Potter's behaviour. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing—and see if you can spot yours truly!

Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school, too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality, if you ask me, and many of the people I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt.

It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter—I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent—but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behaviour that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a truly delightful woman who I know will be only too happy to advise you.

This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that, so far, Professor Umbridge is encountering very little co-operation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week— again, see the Daily Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this—a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well-placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!

I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticise our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore. (If you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders.) I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people—the Minister really could not be more gracious to me—and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents’ beliefs and actions, either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realise how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes.

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.

Your brother,

Percy

Harry looked up at Ron.

‘Well,’ he said, trying to sound as though he found the whole thing a joke, ‘if you want to—er —what is it?'—he checked Percy's letter—'Oh yeah—"sever ties” with me, I swear I won't get violent.’

‘Give it back,’ said Ron, holding out his hand. ‘He is—’ Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy's letter in half ‘the world's—’ he tore it into quarters ‘biggest—’ he tore it into eighths ‘git.’ He threw the pieces into the fire.

‘Come on, we've got to get this finished sometime before dawn,’ he said briskly to Harry, pulling Professor Sinistra's essay back towards him.

Hermione was looking at Ron with an odd expression on her face.

‘Oh, give them here,’ she said abruptly.

‘What?’ said Ron.

‘Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them,’ she said.

‘Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you're a life-saver,’ said Ron, ‘what can I—?’

‘What you can say is, “We promise we'll never leave our homework this late again,” ’ she said, holding out both hands for their essays, but she looked slightly amused all the same.

‘Thanks a million, Hermione,’ said Harry weakly, passing over his essay and sinking back into his armchair, rubbing his eyes.

It was now past midnight and the common room was deserted but for the three of them and Crookshanks. The only sound was that of Hermione's quill scratching out sentences here and there on their essays and the ruffle of pages as she checked various facts in the reference books strewn across the table. Harry was exhausted. He also felt an odd, sick, empty feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with the letter now curling blackly in the heart of the fire.

He knew that half the people inside Hogwarts thought him strange, even mad; he knew that the Daily Prophet had been making snide allusions to him for months, but there was something about seeing it written down like that in Percy's writing, about knowing that Percy was advising Ron to drop him and even to tell tales about him to Umbridge, that made his situation real to him as nothing else had. He had known Percy for four years, had stayed in his house during the summer holidays, shared a tent with him during the Quidditch World Cup, had even been awarded full marks by him in the second task of the Triwizard Tournament last year, yet now, Percy thought him unbalanced and possibly violent.

And with a surge of sympathy for his godfather, Harry thought Sirius was probably the only person he knew who could really understand how he felt at the moment, because Sirius was in the same situation. Nearly everyone in the wizarding world thought Sirius a dangerous murderer and a great Voldemort supporter and he had had to live with that knowledge for fourteen years ...

Harry blinked. He had just seen something in the fire that could not have been there. It had flashed into sight and vanished immediately. No ... it could not have been ... he had imagined it because he had been thinking about Sirius ...

‘OK, write that down,’ Hermione said to Ron, pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own writing back to Ron, ‘then add this conclusion I've written for you.’

Chapter 3 The Advanced Guard

I've just been attacked by dementors and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what's going on and when I'm going to get out of here.

Harry copied these words on to three separate pieces of parchment the moment he reached the desk in his dark bedroom. He addressed the first to Sirius, the second to Ron, and the third to Hermione. His owl, Hedwig, was off hunting; her cage stood empty on the desk. Harry paced the bedroom waiting for her to come back, his head pounding, his brain too busy for sleep even though his eyes stung and itched with tiredness. His back ached from hauling Dudley home, and the two lumps on his head where the window and Dudley had hit him were throbbing painfully.

Up and down he paced, consumed with anger and frustration, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, casting angry looks out at the empty, star-strewn sky every time he passed the window. Dementors sent to get him, Mrs. Figg and Mundungus Fletcher tailing him in secret, then suspension from Hogwarts and a hearing at the Ministry of Magic—and still no one was telling him what was going on.

And what, what, had that Howler been about? Whose voice had echoed so horribly, so menacingly, through the kitchen?

Why was he still trapped here without information? Why was everyone treating him like some naughty kid? Don't do any more magic, stay in the house...

He kicked his school trunk as he passed it, but far from relieving his anger he felt worse, as he now had a sharp pain in his toe to deal with in addition to the pain in the rest of his body.

Just as he limped past the window, Hedwig soared through it with a soft rustle of wings like a small ghost.

‘About time!’ Harry snarled, as she landed lightly on top of her cage. ‘You can put that down, I've got work for you!’

Hedwig's large, round, amber eyes gazed at him reproachfully over the dead frog clamped in her beak.

‘Come here,’ said Harry, picking up the three small rolls of parchment and a leather thong and tying the scrolls to her scaly leg. ‘Take these straight to Sirius, Ron and Hermione and don't come back here without good long replies. Keep pecking them till they've written decent-length answers if you've got to. Understand?’

Hedwig gave a muffled hooting noise, her beak still full of frog.

‘Get going, then,’ said Harry.

‘You heard me!’ said Uncle Vernon

, bending forwards now, his massive purple face coming so close to Harry's, he actually felt flecks of spit hit his face. ‘Get going! You were all keen to leave half an hour ago! I'm right behind you! Get out and never darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in the first place, I don't know, Marge was right, it should have been the orphanage. We were too damn soft for our own good, thought we could squash it out of you, thought we could turn you normal, but you've been rotten from the beginning and I've had enough—OWLS!’

The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on her head, turned, and flew straight back up the chimney.

Harry darted forwards to pick up the letter, but Aunt Petunia beat him to it.

‘You can open it if you like,’ said Harry, ‘but I'll hear what it says anyway. That's a Howler.’

‘Let go of it, Petunia!’ roared Uncle Vernon. ‘Don't touch it, it could be dangerous!’

‘It's addressed to me,’ said Aunt Petunia in a shaking voice. ‘It's addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs. Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet Drive—’

She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope had begun to smoke.

‘Open it!’ Harry urged her. ‘Get it over with! It'll happen anyway.’

‘No.’

Aunt Petunia's hand was trembling. She looked wildly around the kitchen as though looking for an escape route, but too late—the envelope burst into flames. Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped it.

An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the table.

‘REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA.’

Aunt Petunia looked as though she might faint. She sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her hands. The remains of the envelope smouldered into ash in the silence.

‘What is this?’ Uncle Vernon said hoarsely. ‘What—I don't—Petunia?’

Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The silence spiralled horribly. Harry was watching his aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to burst.

‘Petunia, dear?’ said Uncle Vernon timidly. ‘P-Petunia?’

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed.

‘The boy—the boy will have to stay, Vernon,’ she said weakly.

‘W-what?’

‘He stays,’ she said. She was not looking at Harry. She got to her feet again.

‘He ... but Petunia...’

‘If we throw him out, the neighbours will talk,’ she said. She was rapidly regaining her usual brisk, snappish manner, though she was still very pale. ‘They'll ask awkward questions, they'll want to know where he's gone. We'll have to keep him.’

Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tyre.

‘But Petunia, dear—’

Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry.

‘You're to stay in your room,’ she said. ‘You're not to leave the house. Now get to bed.’

Harry didn't move.

‘Who was that Howler from?’

‘Don't ask questions,’ Aunt Petunia snapped.

‘Are you in touch with wizards?’

‘I told you to get to bed!’

‘What did it mean? Remember the last what?’

‘Go to bed!’

‘How come—?’

‘YOU HEARD YOUR AUNT, NOW GO UP TO BED!’

‘These demembers guard some weirdo prison?

’ asked Uncle Vernon, lumbering along in the wake of Harry's train of thought.

‘Yes,’ said Harry.

If only his head would stop hurting, if only he could just leave the kitchen and get to his dark bedroom and think....

‘Oho! They were coming to arrest you!’ said Uncle Vernon, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an unassailable conclusion. ‘That's it, isn't it, boy? You're on the run from the law!’

‘Of course I'm not,’ said Harry, shaking his head as though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now.

‘Then why—?’

‘He must have sent them,’ said Harry quietly, more to himself than to Uncle Vernon.

‘What's that? Who must have sent them?’

‘Lord Voldemort,’ said Harry.

He registered dimly how strange it was that the Dursleys, who flinched, winced and squawked if they heard words like ‘wizard', ‘magic’ or ‘wand', could hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time without the slightest tremor.

‘Lord—hang on,’ said Uncle Vernon, his face screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension coming into his piggy eyes. ‘I've heard that name ... that was the one who...’

‘Murdered my parents, yes,’ Harry said dully.

‘But he's gone,’ said Uncle Vernon impatiently, without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry's parents might be a painful topic. ‘That giant bloke said so. He's gone.’

‘He's back,’ said Harry heavily.

It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt Petunia's surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon. The arrival of the dementors in Little Whinging seemed to have breached the great, invisible wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of Privet Drive and the world beyond. Harry's two lives had somehow become fused and everything had been turned upside-down; the Dursleys were asking for details about the magical world, and Mrs. Figg knew Albus Dumbledore; dementors were soaring around Little Whinging, and he might never return to Hogwarts. Harry's head throbbed more painfully.

‘Back?’ whispered Aunt Petunia.

She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia was his mother's sister. He could not have said why this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he knew was that he was not the only person in the room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale eyes (so unlike her sisters) were not narrowed in dislike or anger, they were wide and fearful. The furious pretence that Aunt Petunia had maintained all Harry's life—that there was no magic and no world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle Vernon—seemed to have fallen away.

‘Yes,’ Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia now. He came back a month ago. I saw him.’

Her hands found Dudley's massive leather-clad shoulders and clutched them.

‘Hang on,’ said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and confused by the unprecedented understanding that seemed to have sprung up between them. ‘Hang on. This Lord Voldything's back, you say.’

‘Yes.’

‘The one who murdered your parents.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now he's sending dismembers after you?’

‘Looks like it,’ said Harry.

‘I see,’ said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white-faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching before Harry's eyes. ‘Well, that settles it,’ he said, his shirt front straining as he inflated himself, ‘you can get out of this house, boy!’

‘What?’ said Harry.

‘You heard me—OUT!’ Uncle Vernon bellowed, and even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. ‘OUT! OUT! I should've done this years ago! Owls treating the place like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge destroyed, Dudley's tail, Marge bobbing around on the ceiling and that flying Ford Anglia—OUT! OUT! You've had it! You're history! You're not staying here if some loony's after you, you're not endangering my wife and son, you're not bringing trouble down on us, if you're going the same way as your useless parents, I've had it! OUT!’

Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the Ministry, Mr. Weasley and Sirius were all crushed in his left hand. Don't leave the house again, whatever you do. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE'S HOUSE.

said Hermione, blushing harder than ever

‘No,’ , ‘no it's not ... Ron's done loads of ... he's really...’

The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs. Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of freshly laundered robes.

‘Ginny said the booklists had come at last,’ she said, glancing around at all the envelopes as she made her way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into two piles. ‘If you give them to me I'll take them over to Diagon

Alley this afternoon and get your books while you're packing. Ron, I'll have to get you more pyjamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can't believe how fast you're growing ... what colour would you like?’

‘Get him red and gold to match his badge,’ said George, smirking.

‘Match his what?’ said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron's pile.

‘His badge,’ said Fred, with the air of getting the worst over quickly. ‘His lovely shiny new prefect's badge.’

Fred's words took a moment to penetrate Mrs. Weasley's preoccupation with pyjamas.

‘His ... but ... Ron, you're not...?’

Ron held up his badge.

Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione's.

‘I don't believe it! I don't believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That's everyone in the family!’

‘What are Fred and I, next-door neighbours?’ said George indignantly, as his mother pushed him aside and flung her arms around her youngest son.

‘Wait until your father hears! Ron, I'm so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it's the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I'm just thrilled, oh,

Ronnie—’

Fred and George were both making loud retching noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not notice; arms tight around Ron's neck, she was kissing him all over his face, which had turned a brighter scarlet than his

badge.

‘Mum ... don't ... Mum, get a grip....’ he muttered, trying to push her away.

She let go of him and said breathlessly, ‘Well, what will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you've already got one, of course.’

‘W-what do you mean?’ said Ron, looking as though he did not dare believe his ears.

‘You've got to have a reward for this!’ said Mrs. Weasley fondly. ‘How about a nice new set of dress robes?’

‘We've already bought him some,’ said Fred sourly, who looked as though he sincerely regretted this generosity.

‘Or a new cauldron, Charlie's old one's rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers—’

‘Mum,’ said Ron hopefully, ‘can I have a new broom?’

Mrs. Weasley's face fell slightly; broomsticks were expensive.

‘Not a really good one!’ Ron hastened to add. ‘Just—just a new one for a change...’

Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.

‘Of course you can.... Well, I'd better get going if I've got a broom to buy too. I'll see you all later.... Little Ronnie, a prefect! And don't forget to pack your trunks.... A prefect... Oh, I'm all of a dither!’

She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed loudly, and bustled from the room.

Fred and George exchanged looks.

‘You don't mind if we don't kiss you, do you, Ron?’ said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.

‘We could curtsey, if you like,’ said George.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ron, scowling at them.

‘Or what?’ said Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. ‘Going to put us in detention?’

‘I'd love to see him try,’ sniggered George.

‘He could if you don't watch out!’ said Hermione angrily.

Fred and George burst out laughing, and Ron muttered, ‘Drop it, Hermione.’

‘We're going to have to watch our step, George,’ said Fred, pretending to tremble, ‘with these two on our case....’

‘Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,’ said George, shaking his head.

And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.

‘Those two!’ said Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. ‘Don't pay any attention to them, Ron, they're only jealous!’

‘I don't think they are,’ said Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. They've always said only prats become prefects.... Still,’ he added on a happier note, ‘they've never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and

choose.... She'll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there's the new Cleansweep out, that'd be great.... Yeah, I think I'll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows....’

He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

For some reason, Harry found he did not want to look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid on it and crossed the room to his trunk.

‘Harry?’ said Hermione tentatively.

‘Well done, Hermione,’ said Harry, so heartily it did not sound like his voice at all, and, still not looking at her, ‘brilliant. Prefect. Great.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hermione. ‘Erm—Harry—could I borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They'll be really pleased—I mean prefect is something they can understand.’

‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Harry, still in the horrible hearty voice that did not belong to him. ‘Take her!’

He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the bottom of it and pretended to be rummaging for something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed; Harry heard the door close

but remained bent double, listening; the only sounds he could hear were the blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl droppings.

He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione had left and Hedwig had gone. Harry hurried across the room, closed the door, then returned slowly to his bed and sank on to it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of the

wardrobe.

He had forgotten completely about prefects being chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious about the possibility of being expelled to spare a thought for the fact that badges must be winging their way towards certain

people. But if he had remembered ... if he had thought about it ... what would he have expected?

Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his head.
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The Flood of The Century

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：108 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:28:41


In April and May of 1997 the Red River, bordering North Dakota and Minnesota flooded across the Red River valley causing $3.5 Billion worth of damage, making it one of the most expensive natural disasters ever.

The winter of 1996-97 was particularly harsh in the area with a succession of winter storms piling up massive amounts of snow over the large floodplain. Two of the worst hit towns were Fargo and Grand Forks which had a record amount of 117 inches and 98.6 inches of snow fall on the two towns respectively over the winter.

The Red River flows north into Lake Winnipeg and as it flows north the temperatures get colder. This causes a problem with ice jamming, where the river freezes and the waters flowing from further south begin to back up against the ice dam. This is a frequent concern for the local community and in an effort to prevent ice jamming sand was dumped on the icy river to help melt the ice and increase the flow.

Flood warnings were put out for the region as early as February and the National Weather Service (NWS) predicted a 49 foot crest at Grand Forks. This peak prediction was not updated until April 14th which was just 4 days before the start of the flood. There were some complaints that the NWS could have made earlier and better crest predictions, but what isn't in doubt is the efforts the residents of Grand Forks and Fargo made in trying to save their towns.

The community built up dykes with sandbags and clay to a height of 52 feet, which was 3 feet above the NWS prediction. Students were even excused classes to help in the efforts. With the 52 feet barriers to the river in place the residents thought they would be spared. Alas the sudden thaw of this brutally harsh winter's snowfall over such a large floodplain was more than the residents could have imagined. In Grand Forks the waters peeked at 54 feet and completely overwhelmed the town. The flooding began on April 18th and town after town along the Red River became inundated with flood waters well above previous records.

The topography of the Red River valley is very wide, and very flat, leaving nothing to bar the way of the flood waters once they had broken through their banks. As a result the floods reached up to 3 miles inland (imagine being flooded by a river 3 miles away!) The waters in Grand Forks, at 54 feet, were now 26 feet above the usual flood stage. A massive evacuation of the residents (75% of a population of 52,000) had taken place and this was repeated in all the towns affected by the flood. This evacuation helped with the remarkable statistic that not a single death occurred as a result of the flood despite its massive scale. Also a large fire ignited in Grand Forks engulfing 11 buildings, including 60 apartments.

The flood waters eventually began to subside on 23rd April but took a long while to completely recede. The clean up operation was on a massive scale. 20,000 volunteers flew in to help the beleaguered residents who had to throw away virtually all of their possessions. Slowly but surely the area returned to normal but those who lived through it will never forget the spring flood of 1997 and will be hoping the next great flood wont be in their lifetime.