She remembers reading when she was younger. Not History or Potions or Arithmancy books, the sort of books she consults now, but stories. She remembers Little Red Riding Hood, who she always thought was rather stupid, and Snow White, who she didn't think much of either, and Cinderella, who always seemed more intelligent than the rest of them, and in Hermione's mind she was the prettiest of the lot, and deserved her prince and happy ending.
She remembers the Enid Blyton books (and oh, how she longed to go to a boarding school like Malory Towers or St Clare's, and solve mysteries the way the Famous Five did, and meet strange new creatures with wonderful powers the way the Faraway Tree children did) and the Narnia books (and oh, how she dreamed about visiting a world that existed so close to the 'real' world and yet was hidden at the same time, full of strange and magical things) and she remembers falling asleep at night with dreams of these exciting worlds playing out in her mind.
She hasn't picked up a work of fiction ever since she came to Hogwarts. She's scared she'll be disappointed. Fantasy stories will be mundane after having spent five years knowing that magic is real, and even the wonder and awe she once had of the world she now inhabits has faded away.
Imagination is over-rated, anyway.