A/N: This is for Turneround, who asked me to post the next chapters, even though they're from the perspective of the re-written story (that I haven't finished re-writing). The difference: Hermione is 23, Bell 22, not 17 and 16 (they've been to the ministry twice, before Hermione had to spend a summer at 12 Grimauld). Remus is 40(ish) (assuming Lily had Harry when she was 18, and that Hermione is a year older than most of her peers). Anyhow, it shouldn't effect things storywise too much, as I've been writing Hermione and Ambell as though they were 22 since I started, without realizing it (which was the point of this revamp). There are other things that have happened in that time, such as the other two trips to the ministry, graduation, etc. But Hermione's reactions make a lot more sense, and the independence she's going to display in the next few chapters will make a lot more sense, in this light.

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Things hadn't improved with Ron.

As soon as she'd been able to pull herself back together (feeling rather ashamed over her outburst, and blaming it on the emotional roller coaster she'd been riding since she left Hogwarts) Hermione had gone looking for him. It hadn't really been difficult to find him; he'd been just outside the Library, ranting to his mother about how the Order shouldn't even be bothering, because the Werewolves don't even care. Repeating Harry's words of wisdom, and trying not to listen to the nagging voices in the back of her mind, she'd made her presence known. Ron had immediately rounded on her, but before he could say a word, she'd launched herself at him, and hugged him fiercely.

He'd frozen in place, not moving an inch, stiff as a board. For half a second, or perhaps less, he relaxed into her embrace, and Hermione thought he might just let it all go. Then his muscles drew taut, and he practically flung her away from him, before taking off down the hall.

And then -

She closed her eyes the moment he turned the corner, and, fighting the tears, kept them closed as she heard him stomp off through the house. There was so much riding on her plan, and now – now, in the very least, he'd remember his anger when she returned. And at the worst, if she didn't come back, he might well blame himself. It was very nearly enough to keep her from leaving, weakening her resolve until she didn't think she could possibly leave today, if at all.

Unbidden, the image of Remus' face, bloody, atop a body looking like her memories and nightmares of Mark, forced itself to the forefront of her mind. She nearly threw up in the hallway, fighting to keep the expression on her face neutral for Mrs. Weasley's sake. She must not have done a very good job of it though, for Mrs. Weasley's next words were,

"Don't take it to heart, dear. He'll come around – he's only upset that you need to do things like that, last things, not that you're doing them."

The feeling that Mrs. Weasley understood feelings better than anything or anyone else in the world, extra-senses or not, was hardly new to Hermione. But the fact that the woman recognized that she was fighting the desperate battle of "lasts", trying to complete everything started, share the sort of moments and leave the sort of memories that everyone wants to have, simply astounded her. Not to mention that Mrs. Weasley could face it with strength, when smaller things had reduced Ron's kind-hearted mother to tears. When Hermione felt comforting arms wrap around her, it was as though all the barriers to her heart fell away at once.

Stoic indifference broke down; silent tears slipped past, and the woman who'd been mother to them all simply held her, not judging, not asking anything.

Hermione told her everything, laid bare every pain, sorrow, frustration that she felt or didn't even know if she felt, and still, her comforter simply comforted. Yet, as her rational mind had thoroughly escaped her, not a single word of anything she said was intelligible – half of it came out as little more than a chocked half-sob, or a shaking cry of pain. And for once, Hermione Granger didn't give a damn about how she sounded, or whether her grammar was right. She ranted about Remus, about Ambell, about Death and Life and Dying and Living and the unfairness of it all.

And when all the tears had dried, Mrs. Weasley simply said. "There, now, that's better, isn't it? You should talk to Remus, I think. Though… perhaps you don't know quite what to say, yet, eh?" Her eyes held a twinkle that was oddly reminiscent of Dumbeldore.

Hermione had looked at her oddly, and yet Mrs. Weasley's smile had only widened. "Oh, go on, dear. Go sit out in the garden, or go on up to your room. Dinner will be in an hour – make sure you're there, you've missed Lunch already."

"But – that's exactly what everyone's mad at me for, isn't it? That I –"

"Whatever gave you the idea that everyone's mad at you? Ron is, yes, I'll give you that. You'd be right to say he couldn't possibly understand. But the Order is made up of adults, not children, dear. We've been through one war already, and all of us have had those moments of desperate "lasts". We even used to have a name for them, calling them – well, perhaps some things are better left in memory."

Hermione simply gaped at her.

"The point is, we'd be more disturbed if you hadn't done something like that. In fact, a good number of us had been thinking you were planning to run off and do something drastic, until today. You needed the release of it, and you'll need it again before the end, like as not. I fully expect to see you up on that broom for yourself, at least once before the end of the week." But then she frowned. "That isn't you, is it? You hate flying- I'd forgotten."

Mrs. Weasley's stare was evaluating, piercing. It was the sort of stare you'd expect from Snape, not from the matronly head of the Weasley clan. Then she was staring past, obviously thinking, eyes unfocused. "You need something to do, something worthwhile, that's what you need. Something to keep you busy, but that you'll enjoy…" She murmured, tapping one finger against her chin.

Suddenly, she snapped her fingers. "Why don't you and Harry work on that Muggle broom-riding idea I heard him babbling about to Minerva? In fact, that's exactly it. And, as the rest of the Order's in the Library most of the time, I only want you in here to get books. You can work in the kitchen – that way, everyone will get involved when they can. We all need something light-hearted to break things up a bit. Come on, now, come with me while I start dinner, and you can pick my brain for a bit. I was quite good at Charms in school myself, you know."

And Hermione had found herself at the scrubbed kitchen table, comparing notes on the charms used to fly brooms. She'd found Mrs. Weasley, surprisingly, a veritable well of information, and had actually managed to lose herself in the idea.

So much so, that she hadn't realized they had an audience, until dinner was served, and she'd been forced to remove herself from her thoughts enough to take in her surroundings. She'd been surprised to find half the order gathered around the table, but, despite the thorough teasing she'd gotten for jumping at the sight, she hadn't been the least bit displeased. Especially not once they started voicing their opinions, and giving her advice.

"So, you think the flight charms themselves can be altered, but not the steering charms?" Hermione questioned.

"Quite right, Miss Granger." Hermione's old head of house answered, continuing the now round-table discussion. "The flight charms can be activated by an outside source, just as young Mr. Potter suggested. However, the steering charms draw from the intent of the magic user, just as spells draw from the intent of the caster."

"But I thought brooms were simply steered – you know, pull up to go up, push down to go down, turn right, turn left…"

"That's very much like saying the incantation determines the spell. It can appear that way, but it isn't necessarily true."

"It isn't?" Harry questioned, interrupting them.

Hermione stared at him as though he'd just grown a second head. "Harry James Potter, we learned silent spells in the sixth year. Don't tell me you haven't used them since! What on earth are they teaching you in Auror training!"

Harry blushed, looking down in a failed, boyish attempt to keep everyone from seeing it. "That wasn't what I meant. I didn't think you could say the wrong thing, is all. I thought you still had to say the spell, just…in your head, you know?"

Hermione nearly giggled, except that she didn't think Harry would appreciate it much. "You mean to say you still say 'Accio' in your head, every time you want something?"

Harry looked at her oddly. "Yes…..?"

Professor McGonagall interrupted before Hermione could respond too condescendingly (and it was probably a good thing, considering the two best friends were to be working together the next few days) "It's unnecessary to do so, Mr. Potter. And you can say the 'wrong' incantation as well, as long as your intent is clear in your own mind. That point is neither here nor there, however; we were discussing brooms.

"The broom, like the spell, is not controlled by any manipulations in the physical world, be they speaking, or moving, or anything else. To demonstrate, Mr. Potter, and Miss Granger: say you were on a broom, and were flying straight forward at a reasonable speed. Now, you pull up on the handle. What happens?"

"You go up." Harry answered, at the exact same moment as Hermione said "You stop."

"Exactly." The professor beamed at them. "Both actions are commonly associated with 'pulling up' on the broom handle. It is actually the intent of the Witch or Wizard upon the broom that determines which action is taken."

"There's also another bit of a lesson in that for you, Hermione." Remus said, a mischievous glint in his eye, a smile fighting to show itself on his face. "Perhaps you're bad at flying, because you think you're bad at flying – you aren't intending to fly at all, and your broom was merely responding to that."

Ambell put in a comment, then, not bothering to hide her grin. "Not to over-analyze, but I also think there was something in their answers that relates to their opinions of flying. Harry automatically assumed that, if he were in control of the broom, he'd be going higher, and Hermione automatically assumed that, given the choice, she'd stop!"

Everyone laughed at that, the atmosphere just as cheery, if not nearly so dreamy, as the one that had presided that morning.

Unfortunately, it was interrupted; the kitchen door slammed open, and a furious-looking Ron stormed into the room. Everyone fell silent, looking between him and Hermione expectantly. He picked up a plate, loaded it with food, and stormed back out, without so much as glancing a second time in her direction.

Despite the brevity of the visit, though, the mood was broken. The silence lingered a while longer, until Mr. Weasley rose. "Well, I must be off to bed. Us old folks need a bit of rest, after all." He held out a hand to his wife, and, nodding their goodnights, they left.

McGonagall stood and stretched gracefully. "You've an excellent idea going, Miss Granger. I'm sure you'll find a way around those steering charms, after all. Come and see me anytime you need help." She said, before she, too, departed.

One by one, everyone else followed, until it was only Harry and Hermione who were left.

"So, we going to do a paper on this, then, if we succeed? You could publish in one of those journals you go on about. Or maybe use it as your thesis project." He gave her a winning grin, at the last idea.

But Hermione was already shaking her head, even before he finished. "No, there isn't the … er, the… the time."

"Hermione – if… if anything happens... I mean, I think that… I'd like to…" Harry stumbled awkwardly to a verbal stop, blushed, and then snorted. "I sound like an idiot. What I mean to say is that, if need be, I'll write the paper, and publish it for you."

Hermione couldn't say why, but that meant the world to her, just then. "Oh, Harry, would you?"

"Of course." Then he grinned. "Though they might not be able to read it, with my chicken scratch."

"Good thing you know how to type, then." Hermione put in, referring to the time she'd demanded he and Ron learn the Muggle skill of typing, insisting it would be useful to them if they ever wished to pass off as Muggles.

Harry groaned. "You're not still on about that, are you?" He gave her a half-pleading, half-grinning look.

"Of course! One can never learn too much."

Harry's expression turned serious, and he moved around the table to sit beside her, reaching for her hand, and looking at her earnestly. "I'll do whatever you need me to, Hermione. If it helps you that I promise to publish whatever we find, I'll do it, even if I have to buy myself a printing press."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She blinked rapidly, trying not to cry – she'd cried too much, today. "Thank you, Harry." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You've no idea how much your saying that means to me. I really couldn't care if it gets published or not, though." She felt her lips quirk into a sad semblance of a smile. "Actually… it would be nice, if we're successful, if you would see about getting them made. At least – one for Bell."

Smiling softly, Harry squeezed her hand. "It'll be alright, Hermione. It will all be alright. Not just because we want it to be, either."

Hermione wanted to tell him, then. Wanted to let him know that, yes, it would be alright, because she was going to make it alright. For just a moment, she wanted him to know that she cared that much. And a selfish part of her wanted to know if he thought of her like a sister, the way she thought of him as a brother. If he understood what she was doing, and why.

"H-Harry?"

"Yeah, Hermione?"

For a moment more she contemplated asking for his Wizard's oath, and telling him everything, but she just couldn't put him in that position. Once she left, everyone would be asking him if he knew anything, and if he didn't say, and she didn't come back - she knew he'd feel responsible. "It – it is going to be alright, Harry." She sighed, and leaned against his shoulder. She couldn't bring herself to say more than that. Harry felt responsible for enough deaths already.

She would wait another day. Maybe a few more days. Either way – she would wait. She would pack, and plan, and sort, and be ready, but she would wait.