The ring was squeezing the finger of the hand that had been bitten, and Hermione was certain she would soon lose her hand either from the poison or from the horrendous clenching of the finger that stopped all blood flow there. The imagines in front of her changed as Luna turned to snake, the snake turned to Harry, turned to Voldemort, and the real dead Nagini turned to Ron, laying helplessly on the floor, drawing his last breath, until finally he died and died again and again in front of her – Hermione was about to join him soon. She accepted the thought of dying with immense relief because that meant she could finally meet the ones she had lost – her friends, her loved ones, all the innocent lives she never got to save, all of those she had wanted to switch places with, all those she would’ve rather died for than watch them die herself. But it also meant that the pain would end. Death would be a sweet mercy from the suffering – not only the physical one she was experiencing now, as she was dying from poison, but the emotional one that had its’ clutches on her ever since the war started and ever since she started blaming every bad thing that happened on herself. Soon, all that misery will be just a memory belonging to someone else, and she will be free even from a shadow of it.