The air exploded. They had been grouped together, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy, the two Death Eaters at their feet, one Stunned, the other Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment, the world was rent apart. Harry felt himself flying through the air, and all he could do was hold as tightly as possible to that thin stick of wood that was his one and only weapon, and shield his head in his arms: He heard the screams an yells of his companions without a hope of knowing what had happened to them-

And then as the world resolved itself into pain and semidarkness: He was half buried in the wreckage of a corridor that had been subjected to a terrible attack. Cold air told him that the side of the ngome had been blown away, and hot sickness on his cheek told him that he was bleeding copiously. Then he heard a terrible cry that pulled at his insides, that expressed agony of a kind neither flame nor curse could cause, and he stood up, swaying, zaidi frightened than he had been that day, zaidi frightened, perhaps, than he had been in his life....

And Hermione was struggling to her feet in the wreckage, and three redheaded men were grouped on the ground where the ukuta had blasted apart. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand as they staggered and stumbled over stone and wood.
"No-no-no!" someone was shouting. "No! Percy! No!"
And Ron was shaking his brother, and Fred and George were kneeling beside them, and Percy's eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last joke still etched upon his face.