Professor Hermione Grainger drank her way through the train ride to Hogwarts; when she finally slept, she dreamed of the day Harry died, almost fifteen years ago.
It rained that day in Godric's Hallow. She remembers the executioner's axe slicing off the boy's head, and it rolling, rolling through the mud and rain. Ron, I wish you were here. she thought. They'd made love before he ran. She heard he'd been training in Albania. Waiting to return, running with a company of mercenaries.
Hagrid fled too, deep into the forbidden forest. Some students say he went feral, blinded by Harry's death. Unable to live in Lord Voldemort's world.
When her wine was gone, she called the mead trolly and paid the girl for a second flagon. "Wine, wine, wine... greatest magic in the world," she mumbled to herself, "I hope the gods make it rain wine. I should invent a spell for that." She laughed. Perhaps her students would appreciate it - many had been drinking too much since their friends died in the battle. But the thought of the sky raining wine reminded her too much of Professor Trelawny's last words, her last prophecy: "*When the sky turns red as blood... when the sword consumes the last lion... only then will the chosen one return... only with the blood of the many will the dark one fall.."
After Sybill Trewlaney spoke her last words Hermione Grainger had cast the killing curse and ended her life, somewhere deep in the Ministry of Magic. The charlatan. I'm glad I killed that serpent. She was a fool that peddled to the dark lord. Professor Trelawny only ever wanted a safe place to live, and she was willing to side with whatever forces she thought could protect her. They couldn't. Not after she told Headmaster Umbridge what Minerva was planning. She betrayed the Order of the Phoenix, and now Hermione alone remained of their number. But she'd avenged most of their deaths: only Snape, their greatest betrayer, remained.
Still, the false prophet's words stuck with her: "When the sky turns red as blood... when the sword consumes the last lion... only then will the chosen one return... only with the blood of the many will the dark one fall.."
The chosen one was dead. Harry Potter was dead. The last lion... could be anyone. But the image of blood dripping from the sky stayed with her in her dreams, all the way to Hogsmead.
When she arrived she unpacked her trunk in her office. It was near where the old Gryffindor tower used to be. Before the massacre. Snape kept Hermione alive only because she was useful. Bright, talented, ruthless when need be. She convinced Snape that she'd switched sides. So Hermione lay in wait for fifteen years. Until today.
The great hall was empty that night. But she knew that Snape would be pacing it's length, as he often did. He liked how the enchanted ceiling responded to his emotions. When he brooded, the sky turned grey and tumbling. That night, stormclouds boomed above him.
First she cast a muffling charm around the door; it reminded her of when she, Harry, and Ron used to use a similar charm to gossip. It almost made her smile. But it only hardened her resolve. Hermione swung open the doors and screamed: "Petrificus totalis!
The charm struck Snape in the chest. It was just enough to stall him. But she needed full control. She looked for the cruelest part of herself to cast the imperius curse: she used the memory of killing Trelawny. "Imperio" she whispered.
Snape went rigid. He hovered in the air. He was trying to say something through the power of her spell. What was it?
"Always..." he moaned, "Always..."
She didn't understand. "Always what? Always betrayed us? Always had McGonigal killed? Moody, killed? The Longbottoms slaughtered in their home?"
"No..." he said, "No..." he wasn't looking at Hermoine. He was looking behind her.
"Yes, Severus. Your time has come. This is for Har---"
She felt a stab in her back. The tip of the sword emerged from between her breasts. It looked slightly red, the metal. Or was that her blood?
"I'm sorry, love." said a voice from behind her, "But I can't let you interfere with our plans. Voldemort will fall... but we need the chosen one. And we need Snape."
Hermione slumped to the ground. Neville Longbottom pulled the sword of Gryffindor from her back. It make a sickening, wet sound.
"No..." Snape moaned, "No..."
Neville broke the Imperius curse with a wave of his wand, That shouldn't be possible, she thought.
Snape rushed to her side. She was lying on the ground now, looking up at the enchanted ceiling.
"No!" he yelled, "Grainger. Look at me. Neville you blistering fool, get me a healing kit."
"It's too late, Severus. The last lion has fallen." Longbottom said.
Hermione's eyes widened, but when she tried to speak she could not. Neville. The chosen one, all along. Her, the last lion. Could it be true? The prophecy?
She felt something wet and warm drop on her face. Then another. Another droplet.
She looked up at the enchanted ceiling. The clouds were as red as the inside of a remembral. And dropping from them, coming in torrents now, was blood. Sheets and sheets of blood filling the room, whipped up by wind that came from no where.
And with her last breath, she smiled.
