Electromagnetism n.

-1- Magnetism produced by electric charge in motion.

-2- The physics of electricity and magnetism.

8

Dark afternoons seldom bring good tidings, and it is on just such a day that Ginny's life is forever altered. As she struggles to adjust, her friends and family face decisions that will lead the Wizarding World towards salvation, destruction, or revolution.

8

"I'm home!"

Ginny looked up from where she was sketching on the last smooth page of a coiled book. It had been a lazy day of lounging around the house enjoying the slightly cool turn of weather with steaming cup of tea. Her solitary estivation was rudely interrupted by a giant cardboard box with legs that staggered drunkenly through the front door. It stumbled and went down in a heap in the middle of the entryway. A rather sheepish-looking Arthur Weasley poked his head out of the debris.

"Arthur? Is that you?" Her mother came down the stairs, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. "Oh good, will you come upstairs for a moment? I'm cleaning out your old trunk and need to know what you want to keep. Ginny, be a dear and take the soup off. It should be done by now." Throwing an expectant glance at her husband she ascended the stairs.

Mr. Weasley dusted himself off and, looking longingly at the pile of junk in the middle of the floor, followed his wife.

Ginny sighed and glanced at the pile. The bits her father chose to bring home from work were always cause for some confusion. If you didn't look closely enough, her father had many of the eccentricities of a slightly senile old man, and the gumption to match, with the way he appeared so meek around his wife. She had had a rather derisive attitude towards him when she was younger, to her shame. Lovingly derisive, but generally he had been rather low in her esteem. It wasn't until after her first year at Hogwarts that she'd truly begun to notice the subtleties in the interactions between her parents, a give and take too well-practiced to be immediately obvious, but undeniable in its existence. She set down her pad and stuck her pencil behind her ear before walking into the kitchen. Of course, she'd also witnessed a few times in the past couple of years when the unflappable calm her father had worn all throughout her childhood slipped, and she was now certain that the genetic Weasley Temper was not solely inherited from her mother.

Grabbing a tea towel off the rack, she wrapped it around her hand and gently lifted the soup off the stove. Hanging the cloth back up, Ginny returned to the hall where the pile was sitting innocently. She usually only ever had a minimal idea of the functions of whatever her father salvaged from work, and so eyes its contents with confusion but also a fair amount of curiosity. She had learned through experience that practically nothing her dad brought home was "innocent", so she cautiously leaned down and picked the empty box off the top of the pile. Turning it over she read:

COMPEWTERS (ECCLECTRIC?)

Curious now, Ginny looked towards the pile. It was composed mostly of green wafers and red, black, and yellow wiring, but there, glinting in the light, was something flat and silver-grey. Picking it up, she turned it over in her hands. It seemed like a case of some sort - heavy, but Ginny was pretty sure she could open it if she tried.

"Do you like it?"

Startled, Ginny spun around. Her father was standing behind her, peering eagerly over her shoulder.

"It came in yesterday with the rest of this box. A fascinating example of Muggle technology. They use them to count and write letters. Although," he continued, sounding a little put out, "it doesn't have any batteries in it and didn't come with any plugs . . . . But you know, I found the most marvelous thing amongst the other items brought in. It's got a delightful humming sound, Perkins says it makes coffee, and Muggles plug it into their walls! I wish I knew how..."

Ginny gave a half smile at her father's speech. He was certainly more capable and less flighty than he made himself out to be,but she'd been living with him for fifteen years and she still had no idea how he got so excited about plugs. Some Muggle things were very interesting, but she would never understand why he liked plugs in particular.

"Would you like it?" he asked, interrupting her train of thought.

"What?"

"The silver box. I think it's called a . . . a kom—kom . . . ." he trailed off, apparently trying to think of its name.

"Really?" Ginny asked, turning it over in her hands, feeling all of its smooth edges.

"Sure, sure. Perkins looked it over, and the worst thing he found was a sleeping jinx." He smiled, his eyes drifting over to the pile of things.

"Thanks, Dad." Ginny grinned and gave her father a hug. It wasn't the first time she'd ended up with spoils from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, but it was a little exciting all the same. She walked over to the couch, picked up her sketchbook, and ran up the stairs two at a time.

"Supper is in five minutes," she heard as she passed her mother on her way up the steps, "and I'd like you to help set the table!"

Flinging open her bedroom door, she bounded across the room and hopped onto her bed, shoving both the silver box and the sketchbook under her pillow. Running a brush quickly through her hair she dashed back down for dinner.

8

The next morning, Ginny lay in bed contemplating whether or not getting up would be worth getting out from under the warm covers. Deciding that it wasn't, but that the smell of pancakes wafting up from downstairs was, she slipped out of bed, her bare legs protesting the sudden change in temperature. Ginny shivered as her feet touched the cold planks, and she looked out the window. Not only had yesterday's cold spell worsened, but the sky was grey as the clouds made their dark and ominous way across it.

Quickly slipping on a pair of woolly maroon socks previously stolen from Ron's sock drawer, a pair of jeans that used to belong to Fred, and an oversized Weasley jumper(that she was reasonably certain has once belonged to Bill), she headed to breakfast.

Sliding into an empty seat at the table, she eyed the stack of pancakes hungrily. Hogwarts food was good, but even a couple hundred house elves couldn't hold a candle to the cooking of Molly Weasley. Picking up about four with her fork and plopping them on her plate, she looked around for the honey.

Seeing it, she called out thoughtlessly, "Harry, will you pass me the honey? It's beside your—Harry? When did you get here?" She mentally congratulated herself. Time was, she would have noticed that Harry had arrived the minute he was below the same roof as her, if not before. She was pleased that she could now genuinely say he had no effect on her. Well, none that any of her other brothers wouldn't have had at any rate.

"This morning, obviously!" The youngest of said siblings enlightened her through a mouthful of pancakes and strawberry jam.

"Ugh," said Ginny, wrinkling up her nose. "Well, good morning then," she said, once again addressing Harry.

"Erm, morning," was all that she got in response. Before she might have explained away his reticence as a disinclination to mince words, but now she was starting to wonder if he was just a bit thick.

Rolling her eyes at his noncommittal reply, she turned to her mother. "Mum, I was thinking of going down to the village today. I need a new notebook."

Mrs. Weasley regarded her daughter for a moment. "Well, I suppose if you went soon you might get back here before the storm. Do you need some Muggle money?"

"Nope, I have some left over from the last time I went."

"Well, would you like some company? I'm sure Harry would be happy to accompany you, wouldn't you Harry? After all, Ron's still got homework to do before he can entertain anyone." She sent a smile at Harry and a slightly threatening look at her youngest son.

"Er…" Harry said, looking immensely uncomfortable.

Ginny inwardly winced. Despite her now disregard for all things Harry she still didn't fancy a walk into town with him. "Mum," she tried to sound rational, "I've been to the village hundreds of times by myself, I really don't need a chaperone."

"Of course not, dear, but wouldn't you like—" Her mother was giving her a pointed look.

"Sure."

Both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry.

"Er, I mean . . .if Ron's busy . . ." He had a panicked expression on his face - as if he regretted drawing attention back to himself.

Ron sent Harry a glare.

"Lovely. I'll pack you some sandwiches and th—"

"Mum, relax, we just ate!"

"Oh right, well, no sandwiches, then. Just mind the storm!"

And so it was that Ginny found herself walking side by side with a certain Harry Potter, trying for the life of her to remember why she'd fancied him in the first place. He was noble? Courageous? Shy? Right. All those things and more - including a horrible conversationalist.

"So, er, uh . . . how's your summer going?"

Did she mention original and witty?

"Fine, thanks," she snapped, wondering when she had become so irritated by him.

He seemed a little uncomfortable with her answer and so their 'conversation' lapsed once again into silence.

Tiring of it quickly, Ginny quickened her stride. She didn't notice when Harry started lagging behind, and it was only when a hand reached out, firmly gripping her shoulder and pulling her to a stop that she realized Harry was completely out of breath and clutching his side.

"Hold up a moment!" he gasped out, massaging the stitch below his ribs.

Ginny smirked. "I thought you were in shape! You know, 'Harry Potter, star Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team', etcetera etcetera?"

He laughed. "Yeah, well . . ." He broke off, trying to find a suitable excuse.

"Ha! I bet you couldn't run one lap around the common room!" She knew she was taunting him, yes, but she was still annoyed at his agreeing to come along if he didn't have anything to say to her.

"I could too..." he faltered, "Well Quidditch doesn't involve running, does it? Besides, I'm the seeker, not some Neanderthal."

Ginny, who was reconsidering her earlier assessment that he didn't have two units of wit to rub together (he did, after all, know what a Neanderthal was), paused for a second, then cried out in indignation as Harry shot her a grin and took off running in the direction of the village. What an arse! A sneaky, childish, hasty arse.

Still laughing at the look on Ginny's face, Harry sprinted up the hill and stopped at the top, a triumphant look on his face. Within seconds, red hair could be seen coming up over the top of the hill; the face it belonged to wore a chastised scowl.

"Fine!" she gasped out, her face pink. "You win—with a head start!"

"Excuses, excuses," Harry said cheekily.

"Sure," she mumbled. "Just come on."

Walking side by side, the ice between them thinner but not gone, Harry summoned up another question from his apparent font of awful conversation starters.

"What are you going to do with a sketchbook?"

At this she turned to stare at him. "I'm going to do what one usually does with a sketchbook, Harry. Sketch."

If he noticed her disdain he didn't how it. Instead he continued amiably. "Oh, really?" Yes really. Merlin, did the boy have no sense of inference? "I didn't know you could draw."

Of course he didn't. That's because this was the longest conversation they'd ever had, and the only one that had yet to mention Ron, who was really their only commonality. "I'm sure there are a lot of things you don't know about me." He'd never bothered to ask.

"So tell me." Damn him and his asking. Part of his not knowing was lack of interest on his behalf but, ever since Tom, she'd become an extremely private person and generally disliked talking about herself.

But it would make her an arse if she refused to answer.

"I like to draw." She said, regretting immediately not sounding at least more articulate than him. "I can juggle," Ginny continued, "and walk on my hands, courtesy of the twins. I like most forms of art, but can't hold a tune. My best subject is Charms and worst is Herbology. I love swimming almost as much as I love flying, and my favourite flavour of ice cream is Pumpkin Crunch."

Harry blinked at her. She fought the urge to sigh. Well, that was it; that was the most she'd ever told him about herself, and she may as well have been telling Errol. Despite her mental diatribe about his faults, she'd still been hoping for some kind of positive reaction. She started walking again, and just when the silence was becoming too awkward to bear, he said:

"I always wanted to know how to swim; I thought it would be a bit like flying."

She raised an eyebrow. Maybe not all hope was lost. That was a reaction of a sort.

"And then I came to Hogwarts and learned I actually could fly. And it turns out swimming isn't at all like flying, but more like being weightless in a sloshy, transparent vat of pudding."

He did have a way with words. She smiled nonetheless at his description, but he wasn't finished.

"It was kind of nice, though, until my gills disappeared."

And then she couldn't help but laugh, and he laughed with her, and the two soon fell into an almost easy conversation, indifferent to the ever-increasing darkness.

8

A bell jingled as they walked into the general store. It was dimly lit; there appeared to be no lighting except the small amount filtering through the windows. Staying close to Ginny, Harry let his eyes adjust. Together, they walked further into the store. Harry's head hit something. Reaching up, he felt a chain. He pulled and a single light bulb blinked on. Looking around, they saw the walls were crammed with bottles and caved-in boxes.

"Hello?" Ginny called, somewhat timidly.

There was no answer, so she called out louder.

There was a rustling sound and a loud squawk. A short grey-looking man stumbled into view. Peering at them over the counter, he adjusted thick lenses on his nose.

"Why, hello there," he addressed Harry and Ginny before turning around and calling out, "Patty! We've got customers!" Turning about once more, he asked in a cheerful voice, "What can I help you with?"

Sounding uncomfortable, Ginny stated, "Erm, well I just came for a sketchbook. . ."

The old man blinked, his eyes looking unnaturally large. "Hm. I believe I have something here somewhere--" He turned and trotted into what may have been the back room.

Listening to what sounded like a niffler running rampant in jewelry store, Harry and Ginny looked at each other with similar degrees of apprehension of their faces. Sometimes Muggles could be even stranger than their magical counterparts. There was a resounding boom and the funny old man came wobbling out, his wispy hair smoking slightly.

"I found it!" he cried victoriously, waving a coiled blue book in his hand. He set it on the counter and looked at Ginny expectantly. "Sixteen shillings."

Ginny reached into her coat pocket and extracted a handful of lint and coins. Picking out the requested amount, she replaced the rest in her pocket.

Thanking the shopkeeper, Harry and Ginny made their way out of the shop and into the street, sketchbook in hand. Squinting, they tried to see in which direction lay the Burrow.

"When did it get so bloody dark out here?" Ginny growled, obviously frustrated.

"Since 'it' decided 'it' was going to storm?" Harry said teasingly.

"Very funny. Seriously though, it's July."

He just shrugged. "Come on, we should hurry," said Harry, pointing out a path that hopefully led to the Burrow.

Silently, they followed the gloomy trail, concentrating sharply on their feet. The air felt horrible: clammy and humid. His shirt stuck damply to his back and he shivered. Harry felt as though he was breathing water. Trying desperately to see his feet, he called out to Ginny.

"Yeah?" she answered, sounding a little out of breath.

"Maybe we should head back. It's too dark to see and I feel like I'm wading through a river."

Ginny scoffed. "Nonsense," she said, her voice ringing out oddly clear in the thick air. "The Burrow is just over the hill."

Just as she said it, Harry realized she was right. They were going up: the ground formed a slight incline, which was steadily growing. As it began to even out again, Harry looked up. He could vaguely see the blurred outline of another person in front of him. Quite unexpectedly, Harry felt his hair stand on end and his palms prickle. He had a brief sensation of trying to breathe through a pillow before the sky split in two.

8

Ginny gasped for breath in the thick air and looked around her in wonder. It was so dark; she could barely see her feet. It was the middle of the afternoon, but seemed darker than the darkest night. She faintly heard Harry suggest heading back, but when she felt the ground beneath her feet begin to slope, she realized they were almost home. Ginny trudged up the incline, feeling like she was walking up a mountain, not just a hill. The ground leveled out as she reached the top and she paused to catch her breath. Looking behind her, she could vaguely see Harry, his shadow outlined against the clouds. She felt a curious tickling sensation on her scalp and her hair abruptly stood up on end. For a moment, everything was still and Ginny stiffened in apprehension. She momentarily remembered reading somewhere that your skin prickling during a storm wasn't a good thing. She was considering warning Harry when she began to feel very warm.

The warmth became warmer and that became burning. She felt like she was rolling on a bed of hot embers; her hair fanned out now like a halo of silver, the tips crackling with energy. Quite suddenly, she could see perfectly. The air was no longer thick and black, but pale and cool: it enveloped her sweltering skin like waves on the rocks. It was both soothing and agonizing. Ginny look into Harry's shocked face, watched as he began to lift his fingers towards her. . . and then there was nothing.

Everything was black. Or rather, there was nothing there to be black. It was empty. Ginny tried to move, to call out, but she had no body and no voice. She felt that if she had eyes she'd be able to see, but she didn't know how to look. There was no time, no movement, no noise, and no light. Confused, Ginny retreated, but to where she could not say. Slowly, she became aware of a change in her surrounding atmosphere. She pondered, not knowing what the change was, but simply that it was there. It was potential. At this sudden realization, Ginny stopped.

That's what it was—potential. She was Nowhere, filled with nothing but potential. . . and her. She was there too; she had to be. Otherwise, there was no way she could be aware of what was going on. She had no voice, no sight, and no feeling, but she had perception. That meant that she was somewhere and that Nowhere didn't exist. Almost immediately, she saw a light. It was faint at first, but grew brighter as it came closer. Gradually, she began to hear a gentle hum, clear and comforting. She detected a faint odor, arriving almost simultaneously with a taste. Both were sweet and subtle, and she doubted she would have noticed had she not previously been deprived of her senses. The light was upon her now, or very nearly. It was almost blinding, but she welcomed it. It contrasted so greatly with her brief imprisonment in Nowhere that she felt herself leaning towards it, like a flower to the sun. She could feel the heat it radiated. As it enveloped her, she fleetingly sympathized with the moth attracted to the flame.

Ginny opened her eyes. In front of her was Harry, his hand raising slowly through the air. It came to rest, palm open to her. Fascinated, she raised her hand to his. They were centimeters apart, palm to palm. He closed the gap. Ginny, now accustomed to the heat, felt another surge of energy. Her body stretched taut; her eyes lifted towards the clouds. Her lips parted, and she let out a small gasp of surprise before she collapsed: darkness welcomed her once again.

8

Harry felt the energy flow through him. It was raw and powerful. His hand burned where he touched Ginny's. The skin felt blistered and he had difficulty stopping himself from wrenching it away. Sparks danced across their palms. He watched as Ginny gasped, her eyes wide. He felt her hand slip as she crumpled, falling from where she'd been suspended in midair. Thunder clapped, ringing in his ears. Reaching forward, he felt her limp body fall into his arms and he lowered her to the ground. She was cold, her face pale, and from the small beads of light that still hung in the air, he could tell that the tips of her hair were blackened and singed. They crackled. He saw sparks twirling downward from the roots of her hair. They reached the charred ends and died.

Panicked, Harry felt for a pulse. He knew it was somewhere on the neck. . . below the jaw maybe. . . there was nothing. He reached for her wrist, putting two fingers up to her cold skin. He waited. Still nothing. Gathering together jumbled memories of a grade five health class, he pinched her nose and held her chin, positioning his mouth over hers. Her lips were icy. He blew determinedly, warm air into cold lungs. Kneeling, he compressed her chest, five times in quick succession. He listened for breathing. Nothing. Lowering his mouth, Harry repeated the sequence. Still nothing. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away hastily. Again he breathed life into her, but to no avail. A few salty drops fell from his eyes. They splashed on her cheeks as he tried once more. Two long breaths, five compressions. He listened for any sound of life. There was none.

He sighed and looked to her face. What he saw would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. Her eyes were open. He recoiled. She had no pupils. Her normally brown eyes were completely white. They stayed wide open, not blinking, but giving off an ethereal light. He leaned closer. They snapped shut. The charred tips of her hair began to radiate a gentle glow. The glow became stronger until sparks started crackling. Unnoticed by Harry, the tears on her cheeks evaporated. Unnoticed by Harry, the sparks creeping up her hair disappeared. Unnoticed by Harry, her skin warmed and the colour came back to her cheeks. All of this went unnoticed because Harry was too busy staring at her chest. This was because, against all odds, said body part was rising. Slowly but steadily, she was breathing.

8

Her eyes fluttered open and her lips parted, air rushing back into her lungs. She blinked and her eyes tried to focus on the person sitting in front of her. It was blurry, as well as dark, but she thought she could make out round glasses and black hair.

"Harry?" she croaked.

Ginny gathered her will power and shakily extended an arm towards the figure she had dubbed "Harry". He reached for her hand but drew it away when sparks flew between their fingers.

"Ginny?"

She was sure it was Harry now, since he was the only person she knew who said her name like that (oh the joys of ex-crushes). Not having the strength to hold up her hand waiting for him, Ginny let it fall limply to the ground. Harry snatched it up, grabbing it towards him as if to assure himself that she was really there. Smiling wryly, Ginny couldn't resist commenting.

"Missed me?"

Harry coughed and dropped her hand, mumbling something unintelligible. She languidly flipped her hand palm up and cleanly interrupted his babble.

"I'm kidding, but help me up. I can't walk."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I highly doubt my legs will support me."

Right then light flashed in the distance, followed by a clap of thunder. Both teens started. They'd forgotten about the storm.

"Here, give me your arm."

And so they made their way down the hill, Harry stumbling and Ginny holding onto his neck, her legs dragging on the ground.

"Harry. Harry, you have to stop," Ginny said with her teeth clenched.

"Why? What happened? Are you okay?" he said, starting to sound panicked.

"Me? I'm fine considering I just got hit by lightning—or assuming that was lightning. I can't walk, you thought I was dead, and I may well have been, but other than that I'm fine. However, that's not my problem; I just don't think I can hold on any longer. My arms aren't strong enough and I think I may have sprained an ankle, so I can't drag it on the ground anymore," she grimaced. "Here, let me down."

He set her on the ground again and she lay there, trying to decide what to do next.

Harry walked around her, eyes focused on her legs. "Well, can you move your legs at all?"

"I think so. Hold on." She scrunched up her face and concentrated on the lower half of her body. Her left leg made a circle in the dirt, but she winced when she tried to move her right. Pain laced its way up the nerves of her leg and into her head.

"I'm not sure what, but something's wrong with it," Ginny said, squinting to read Harry's expression.

"Er, here, I'll carry you." Rain began to fall. Harry knelt down, putting one hand beneath her knees and one around her back. Ginny weakly gripped his neck and tried to distract herself with the irony of the situation as he slowly stood up. Thankful to have the weight off her ankle, she relaxed and silently vowed to never again criticize his athletic ability.

8

AN: I've been trying to continue this story, but realistically, I'm a lot more mature now than I was when I started this, and my characters are proving to be much more mature in my new stuff than they are in these first few chapters. So I'm brushing it with an aging draught in an attempt at continuity. It'll also help to review all this early stuff since I'm forgetting a couple of the details.

While I'm at it, I'm going to mix up my chapter lengths so that they're all around 5k words, so I'm going to rip all the rest of my chapters off until editing is complete.

I've got almost thirty thousand new words typed up, but with this overhaul and the new semester, I can't guarantee that they'll be posted in the near future. I am going to try for one edited chapter a week, however, and there's going to be a fair amount of new story in it, so if anyone wants to drop me a line about what they think of the changes, I'd be much obliged.

Cheers.