Hello all! I'm back with another Sirius/Hermione fic! Fair warning, this could or could not turn into an M rating, as I haven't decided yet. Thanks for clicking! If you're here from Howl, then welcome back! I've missed you guys! Your reviews are so sweet and I love each of them dearly. If you're from Howl, you'll also know that I like to try to include song lyrics at the beginning of every chapter. (It's a five year tradition that I'm keen to uphold lol) If you're not from Howl but you enjoy how I write the Sirimione ship, then please feel free to check it out! (Or not, your choice.)

"There's this feeling we're all so much more than we seem/ They can box us up in walls but that don't change anything/ There's a sun on the rise painting all the sky blue/ Where the morning meets the night and every color breaks through..." Oh Gravity, "Dreamers"

There was a tiny convenience store in the small town, where people could buy snacks or drinks on their way for a road trip, or a quick place to grab condoms or something. That was what basically all convenience stores were, underneath the grime and the flickering fluorescents, and it was a purely Muggle idea and Sirius Black adored them, even if he had a pounding headache and stiff muscles.

He'd woke up in the middle of the woods, suffering through a headache and wondering how the hell he'd gotten there. Once he got a better grasp of his consciousness, he was pleased to note that his clothes were at least his, and he had muggle money in its pockets but no wand. Bugger. So he'd trekked to the nearest muggle town and now he was purchasing a pack of gum as he squinted at the kid ringing him up.

"Rough night, I take it?" He asked, sympathetically.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair and grunted before cracking a grin, "You can say that. Whassa date?"

"August fifth," he laughed, passing him back his change and the pack of gum over.

"Jesus," Sirius cursed, because the last solid thought he had at the moment was that it'd been eighteenth of June. Why he had that particular date set in mind, he wasn't sure. He thanked the kid, and set out onto the sunlight with a grimace.

First things first was to find where he'd lost his bloody wand. That would have to wait until the recollection of the night would come to him, which he decided he'd rather wait in his apartment than wandering down the streets.

Apparating without a wand was easy enough, and he tapped his hand against the door to open it, as Moony had keyed it to his magical signature so he wouldn't keep losing the physical keys in oddball places.

Upon opening the door, he made about three feet into his living room before realizing that it wasn't his living room at all. He'd certainly never had an end table with doilies or fine china, and he damn sure never had a couch. Guests sat upon milk crates so they would never overstay their welcome. But the door had opened for him…

He stepped back out into the hallway and tried to get a grip on his breathing. Okay, maybe it was time to call on the Calvary. Thinking hard, he popped himself over to Godric's Hollow, only to look on in horror at the site before him.

A statue of James and Lily and baby Harry where their house had once stood proud, centered in debris and rubbish.

He didn't spare a glance at the statue description, instead tearing through the streets towards the cemetery.

"You want to what?" Sirius had asked with a laugh.

"Bury me at Godric's Hollow, Pads!" James insisted. "Lily and I. That's where our family started, that's where our family's going to rest."

"Numpty, you just had a baby, don't be so dramatic," he scoffed, shifting the tiny tot in his lap as he played with one of Sirius's leather cuffs, gumming it like a teething ring. His only answer was James's laugh.

He made it to the cemetery, vaulting over the locked gate, and took care to look gingerly around. After a few rows of inspection, he finally saw what made him fall to his knees.

James Ignatius Potter

March 27, 1960 - October 31, 1981

Lily Jane Evans Potter

January 30, 1960 - October 31, 1981

It didn't make a lick of sense. It had been June eighteenth 1980 exactly twenty four hours ago, and now it was apparently long past 1981 and two of his best friends were dead. He wondered about Peter and Remus. He wondered about Emmeline. He wondered about the War.

He moved himself into the Ministry, hoping to find some answers there. Nobody was flashing Dark Marks or leading a group of Muggleborns to their deaths, so he was hopeful. The Ministry was practically glowing in the sunlight, and there was a new statue of three figures battling what appeared to be a snake-human hybrid in the center. He stared at the three, and thought that one of them had a similar likeness to James, but he was determined to not burst into tears standing there.

"Hi there, I'm afraid I've lost my wand," he told the witch at the first desk he was pointed to.

"Of course, your name?" She questioned.

He opened his mouth to answer, gaze resting upon an old wanted poster behind her, finding his own name emblazoned upon it to his horror. The man in that picture had matted hair, sunken eyes, and a crooked disposition. "Ahh - Archibald Brown." It'd been the name on his fake ID when he and the others would wander into Muggle London, of age in the wizarding world but just a year short in the muggle one.

"Hmm," she said after a moment of searching, "I can't seem to find your file. Did you make a new one after the war?"

"Err - no ma'am, I didn't," he said.

She huffed and handed him a stack of papers. "Fill those out. You really should have done this years ago, you know."

"Of course, of course," he squinted at them. He desperately needed to know what year it was. "Mind if I fill these out at home? A friend's going to come and pick me up and help me go hunting for it."

"Of course, no rush, but do get those in," she insisted. He nodded and thank her for her time, and moved over into the elevator shaft, stepping back out and making his way through Muggle London.

He was a...fugitive? Lily and James had died, and somehow he'd continued on as a wanted criminal? The picture had barely looked like him, but it had definitely looked like someone he was related to, and he couldn't see any of them just borrowing his name, he was a blood traitor after all. Nevertheless that he was in his early twenties, with no idea how he'd skipped over some amount of time - he desperately needed to learn the year.

He popped into his dog form, wandering along the sidewalks and trying to make sense of everything, because something was certainly not right. Something had gotten all fucked up, and he wasn't sure what it could be or how to fix it.

He didn't realize the sun had begun to set, and he didn't realize he'd been whimpering for over fifty minutes until a pair of crouched legs halted him.

"Are you lost, puppy?" The owner of the legs asked, and he tilted his head to look up at them. She had her hand outstretched, waiting for him to make the first move, and she was obviously looking for some sort of tag or collar to him. Padfoot had never been a hulking form of muscle, so she was looking at him with an air of concern at his gaunt appearance.

He nudged his head into her hand, wanting some form of comfort at this point in time, and kept whimpering even as she scratched behind his ear.

"Poor baby," she muttered, smoothing down his fur. "Did somebody leave you here? Hmm?"

He sat down on the concrete and looked to her left shoe. He was sad, and confused, and he didn't want to be alone. Plus she had excellent ear scratching techniques. He laid his head on her shoe and heaved a big sigh.

"Alright," she sighed as well and patted his side, and he lifted his head as she stood. "Come on then, follow me."

He stared at her for a moment or two. He wasn't sure how to feel about being someone's pet, especially if he was an apparent fugitive. That may not turn out too great.

But she stooped down to lift him up in her arms, grunting under the weight of him before she adjusted her balance and began to carry him.

She deposited him in what he assumed was her living room, and he looked around in surprise as she shut and locked the door behind her.

"It seems I could use the company myself, so I hope you don't mind," she said, sitting in the floor and smoothing down his fur again as he regarded the area around him. "My cat, Crookshanks, died a bit recently, and...well, you remind me of a dog he used to play with. Aren't you a sweet boy? Wonder the kind of people that abandoned you."

He leaned into her, deciding that perhaps one night wouldn't be so bad. Just so he wouldn't be alone.

The first few chapters will be relatively short compared to both what I've written previously as well as what I've got planned.