And then, there was her best friend, Harry Potter. Judging by the look of the others in the dream, this must've been some 19 or 20 years in the future, so Harry would be about 37. Why, then, did he seem like a 50-something muggle dad going from a golf course to a boardroom meeting about spark plugs? Was this what would become of the Boy-Who-Lived? And he had named his kid after two headmasters—one who tried to brainwash him into the magical equivalent of a suicide bomber, and the other who bullied him all his school life simply because he had hated his father and supposedly loved his mother?
Hermione's eyes snapped open, and she felt completely disoriented, until she remembered—the war. Voldemort. How long ago had it ended? How long had it been since Harry had completed Sybill Trelawney's prophecy and vanquished the darkest lord in centuries?
She looked around at the dawn-lit room where she lay uncomfortably—she saw she was on one of the couches in the scarlet-and-gold Gryffindor Common Room. She stretched her aching body, but found that everything was in working order. Whatever Madam Pomfrey had given her apart from the dreamless sleep potion seemed to have worked. But why was she dreaming if she'd had a dreamless sleep potion? And where was Harry?
The Common Room was eerily quiet, so Hermione cast a tempus charm to check when she was. The numbers glowed before her: