The Time Room was humming. That was never a good sign.
Hermione adjusted the collar of her robes and glanced at the rotating timepieces suspended in mid-air, all ticking at slightly different rhythms. Even after all these years, the dissonance still made her vaguely nauseous. She could practically feel the temporal tension thrumming through the chamber, like plucking a harp string in a thunderstorm.
"Granger," called a clipped voice from across the glowing console. "You've got a thirty-second window. Anchor the tether spell and step back."
"Already done," she replied briskly, eyes scanning the spellwork one last time. The new stabiliser they were testing was meant to prevent time fractures, not cause them—but magic had a delightful way of ignoring best intentions.
She slipped the modified Time-Turner over her head, the golden chain warm against her collarbone.
"Activating temporal field in five—four—"
The air changed.
Three.
The glow intensified.
Two.
A deep pressure behind her eyes—
One.
Snap.
The world didn't shatter. It folded.
Hermione screamed—or thought she did—but there was no sound. Just spinning. Screaming clocks. A blinding, bone-deep cold, and then—
Nothing.
Heat.
Sticky, stifling heat.
Hermione gasped and jerked upright, lungs drawing in humid air that didn't belong in November. Her hands scrambled against warm grass and uneven ground. Her fingers closed around something solid—her wand—and she gripped it instinctively, heart hammering.
She wasn't in the Department of Mysteries anymore.
She was outside.
Her mind flailed. Had the stabiliser ruptured the anchoring field? Had she been ejected mid-transfer? That wasn't even supposed to be possible unless—
The realisation hit her like a slap: the chain. It must have snapped. Sure enough, there was no Time-Turner around her neck.
She blinked against the harsh sunlight filtering through the branches overhead. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, but it did nothing to cool the oppressive warmth clinging to her skin.
"This… can't be right," she muttered. "It was the third of November. Cold. Rainy. I wore my heavy cloak this morning."
She stumbled to her feet. Her bag, thank Merlin, was still slung over her shoulder. She pushed through the bramble-thick cusp of trees, hoping to find a sign— any sign—that would tell her where and when she was.
The trees gave way to a quiet road, flanked by neatly clipped hedgerows. It looked startlingly mundane.
A sign stood crooked by the roadside:
WELCOME TO LITTLE WHINGING
Her breath caught. No. No.
This was where Harry had grown up. Where Petunia and Vernon Dursley had lived. Hermione had only visited the one time, when they were extracting Harry before his seventeenth birthday, and certainly hadn't had much time to look around, but she got the picture.
She moved stiffly toward the postbox outside a squat red-bricked house. A rolled-up Daily Mail sat half-spilt on the edge. Hermione glanced around—no one in sight—then snatched it up, her fingers trembling as she scanned the print.
August 14, 1993
She felt like the air had been punched from her lungs. Her knees almost buckled.
"1993," she whispered. "That's… that's not just a little off."
This was more than a failed stabiliser. This was a full-scale temporal relocation—sixteen years into the past.
Her brain skittered through implications— Ministry protocols, temporal isolation, catastrophic paradox potential —but the panic was cut short by a low, guttural growl.
Hermione froze.
It came from behind her, in the hedgerow.
Slowly, she turned.
A large, black dog stepped out onto the pavement.
He looked half-dead—ribs prominent beneath his matted fur, paws cracked, eyes wild and far too human. He bared his teeth, a low snarl rippling through him as his gaze locked on her wand.
"Oh," Hermione breathed. Her fingers went slack, and she tucked her wand slowly away into her sleeve. "It's you."
She knew that growl. That fur. That haunted glint.
Padfoot.
But not her Padfoot. Not the godfather she'd come to know and trust.
This was 1993. Sirius Black had broken out of Azkaban only weeks ago. He'd spent twelve years rotting in a cell, barely human, hunted and starved and mad with grief.
He didn't know her. And even if he did—she looked nothing like the fourteen-year-old girl he'd one day meet in the Shrieking Shack.
So she crouched.
She made herself small. Non-threatening. She kept her tone light.
"Hey, boy," she said gently. "Easy now. I'm not going to hurt you."
The growl didn't stop, but the dog didn't lunge, either.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" Hermione said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She slung the bag off her shoulder and unzipped the front pocket. "Let's see…"
She fumbled around the tangle of scrolls, emergency potions, and spell stabilisers until her fingers brushed something plastic-wrapped.
"Aha."
She drew out a slightly squashed cheese and tomato sandwich, wrapped in waxed paper. The bread had gone a bit soggy from the tomato, but it was food.
"Here," she murmured, unwrapping it and holding out a small torn piece. "I don't have dog treats, but this is decent, I promise."
The dog eyed her warily.
"Come on," she coaxed, holding it out flat on her palm. "I won't bite if you don't."
He inched closer. One step. Then another.
Then—he snatched the piece, retreating two paces to wolf it down.
"Thought so," Hermione said, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You are hungry."
She tore off another piece. And another. And watched as the most infamous fugitive in the wizarding world devoured her sandwich one cautious bite at a time.
She didn't say his name.
Not yet.
Because Padfoot might be willing to accept food from a stranger. But Sirius Black? He might bolt.
Hermione's mind was moving faster than a Firebolt on espresso.
She had currency—both Muggle and wizarding—in her bag. That was something. She could get by for a bit. Her emergency pouch, enchanted to be bottomless and mildly inaccessible by anyone but her, contained all the usual field essentials: spare robes, cleansing potions, a travel brush, parchment, and a truly absurd number of quills. It also, mercifully, held a few galleons and a wad of Muggle notes, crumpled but dry.
Survival? Manageable.
But the bigger question loomed: What the hell was she going to do now?
Stay in the wizarding world? Tempting. No one here would know her as Hermione Granger, war heroine. The people who mattered—Harry, Ron, Ginny—all barely teenagers, scattered across the country or prepping for another year at Hogwarts. Her fourteen-year-old self would be heading to Diagon Alley with the Weasleys soon. She could avoid the Ministry, stay under the radar, maybe even blend in with Muggles for now.
It would be safer.
Cleaner.
Simple.
Her eyes flicked to the dog currently licking sandwich crumbs off the wax paper with laser focus.
Well. Relatively simple.
What was she even supposed to dowith him?
Padfoot looked up mid-lick, tongue still halfway out, as if catching her staring.
"You're not exactly low maintenance, are you?" she murmured, more to herself than him.
Technically, he was safe in this form. The list of people who knew Sirius Black was an unregistered Animagus could be counted on one hand. Remus, Peter, and now… her. Dumbledore didn't even know yet. The wizarding world still believed Sirius was a dangerous mass murderer, a loyal Death Eater, and absolutely, undeniably, human.
Which meant he could wander beside her in this form without raising eyebrows.
Still, the implications churned in her gut like a bad potion.
She was an Unspeakable. She knewbetter. She knew the dangers of meddling with timelines, the thousands of threads that could unravel from one reckless act.
But… gods, hadn't she lost so much?
She had lived through the war. Survived it. Watched friends die. Held Teddy Lupin as a baby and thought about what he'd never get to know. Held Harry when he screamed about Fred. Held Ron when their relationship crumbled under the weight of what they'd all been through.
And Sirius.
Brilliant, reckless, sarcastic Sirius, who had only just gotten his freedom back before it was ripped away again. Who died not in a blaze of glory, but in a curtained fall.
She looked at the dog again.
Thin. Dirty. Alive.
And for the briefest, maddest moment, the what-if took root.
What if she could change it?
What if she could save him?
She didn't even notice her hand drifting to stroke her bag again until his cold nose nudged it aside. Then again. And again.
Startled, she looked down to see Padfoot attempting to wedge his entire snout into the flap.
"Oh!" she blinked. "Sorry, I—no, that's it. No more food in there. Just a half-used quill and a comb, and trust me, you do not want to chew on that."
He huffed and gave her the most affronted look a dog could possibly give. Disdain radiated from every dusty, matted strand of fur.
"Right," she said, smiling faintly. "Fair enough. Not the grandest meal for a half-starving dog. We'll sort something better."
Padfoot snorted again and looked away, which Hermione took as permission to make decisions on his behalf.
She stood and stretched, brushing grass from her knees. "We'll head toward town. There's bound to be an inn or bed-and-breakfast somewhere, and I've got enough on me to cover a night or two. After that, we'll improvise."
She paused. "Also, you smell like you've been rolling around in a pile of Hippogriff excrement. We are definitely getting you cleaned up."
If dogs could look personally offended, this one certainly did. Hermione actually laughed. It wasn't a big laugh—just a breathy, startled bubble in her chest—but it was the first honest laugh she'd had in months. Possibly years.
"I must look completely mad to you," she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Talking to a stray. Inviting him to dinner. Planning your bath."
Padfoot's ears twitched.
"Well," she added, with a lift of her chin, "you're following a mad girl through Surrey, so that's not exactly a vote for your sanity, either."
She turned on her heel and began walking along the quiet road, adjusting the strap of her bag as the late-afternoon sun warmed her shoulders.
After a moment, the faint click-click of claws on asphalt joined her.
She smiled, not looking back.
"Come on then," she said, as if he were just a dog.
As if she weren't carrying the weight of two timelines and an impossible secret. Padfoot padded up beside her, silent and watchful. But he didn't run.
It didn't take long to reach the edge of town. Little Whinging was as ordinary as she remembered—rows of near-identical houses, pristine lawns, postboxes scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. It was the kind of place where a leaf out of place warranted an HOA letter.
Which made her new companion stick out like a blast-ended skrewt in a teacup.
Padfoot walked slightly behind her now, keeping close to hedges and parked cars like he knew he didn't belong. His head was low, tail tucked—not in fear, but caution. He was playing the role of a stray perfectly, though Hermione suspected it wasn't really an act.
His nose twitched constantly. Every passing car made his hackles rise. He flinched at the sound of a dog barking in the distance.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn't realised, not until now, just how badly Azkaban had broken him.
They found a modest Muggle inn near the edge of town, tucked between a charity shop and a bakery that smelled faintly of burnt sugar. The sign read The Little Elm Guesthouse in flaking gold paint, and Hermione decided it would do just fine.
She paused at the steps, glancing down at Padfoot. "Right," she muttered, "this is where things get tricky."
He stared at her with flat, unimpressed dog eyes.
"I can't just waltz in with a stray, you know. They'll ask questions. Might not let us stay."
Padfoot blinked slowly. Hermione crossed her arms.
"I'm not leaving you in a bush."
He blinked again, this time with more judgment.
"I'm not!"
Still, she hesitated. The receptionist behind the front desk—a woman in her fifties with a floral blouse and the perma-scowl of someone who had once smiled in 1982 and regretted it—was watching through the front window.
Hermione blew out a breath and drew Padfoot away from the window. "Right, let's play this clever."
A quick glamour charm later, Padfoot's coat was less ragged, slightly shinier, and the filth crusting his paws had vanished. He still looked like a big mutt, but now more scrappy pet than rabid alley beast. Another charm took care of the smell as well.
"You're officially a rescue," she whispered. "Name's... Snuffles."
Padfoot gave her the dog equivalent of really?
"Oh, shut up, it's short notice."
She walked up the path, head high, fingers crossed.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow as they entered. "We don't usually allow pets."
Hermione smiled, pleasant and unbothered. "He's well-trained. Rescue. Very quiet."
Padfoot sat perfectly still beside her, tail thumping once against the floor with the slow, deliberate patience of a creature determined to behave long enough for sausages.
The woman squinted. "What breed is he?"
Hermione blinked. "Uh… Scottish Grim-Hound?"
The receptionist's expression didn't budge.
"They're very rare," Hermione added helpfully. "Very loyal. And quiet."
A long pause. Then, a sigh. "So long as he doesn't bark, shed, or pee on anything."
"I can promise all of those things," said Hermione brightly.
She handed over the Muggle notes, took the key to Room 3B, and resisted the urge to do a celebratory jig.
The room was small but clean. One bed, a narrow desk, a bathroom with surprisingly fluffy towels, and—miracle of miracles—hot water.
Padfoot immediately hopped onto the bed.
"No," Hermione said firmly. "Absolutely not. You are not getting whatever that smell is into the linens."
He stared at her, then flopped down anyway.
Hermione sighed, already peeling off her cloak. "Fine. But first, bath."
That got his attention.
The moment she turned on the taps in the en suite, Padfoot was at the door, backing away like she'd conjured a banshee.
"Oh, no you don't." She followed him back into the bedroom, pointing her wand. "Don't make me levitate you in there. I have no shame."
Padfoot growled—a low, half-hearted thing that still sent shivers down her spine.
She softened. "Look, I know you've probably had... literal hell, but you'll feel better. I promise. And you do smell like you tried to court a troll."
That earned her a sharp huff.
"You want food or not?"
He grumbled but finally padded back into the bathroom. Hermione shut the door behind them both, braced herself, and cast a protective charm over her clothes.
"You know, I bathed Crookshanks when he fell into a doxy nest once," she muttered. "He bit me. Twice."
Padfoot leapt into the tub with the resigned dignity of someone walking to their own execution.
She smiled to herself as she turned on the spray. "Good boy."
To Hermione's surprise, Padfoot behaved like a proper, well-mannered dog throughout the entire ordeal.
He stood still—well, mostly —as she scrubbed years of grime from his fur. He even let out a long, pitiful groan when she began working shampoo into the patch behind his ears, as though he were resigning himself to the ultimate indignity.
She had fully expected a battle. Maybe a couple of growls. Possibly an attempted escape out the window.
Instead, he just… let her.
Hermione frowned as she lathered in another round of soap, watching suds turn a particularly unpleasant shade of grey.
It wasn't just exhaustion, either. There was something aware in his stillness—something that said, this may be the only warm bath I get in ten years, so best let the witch scrub.
She sighed and reached for her wand.
"All right, don't panic," she murmured as she raised it. "This is just for—"
Padfoot flinched.
Her heart twisted a little. He hadn't growled, hadn't made to bolt. Just tensed, his tail curling slightly toward his flank and his eyes narrowing.
Hermione lowered her wand an inch. "Hey. I'm not going to hurt you."
He blinked once.
"Just a few Scourgifies. You haven't seen what's behind your ears."
Padfoot gave a dramatic sigh through his nose, flopped back down into the tub, and looked away as if to say, Fine. Do your worst.
She chuckled under her breath. "You're lucky I like you, even when you smell like mildew and regret."
With a careful flick, she began casting charm after charm—removing caked dirt, old blood (Merlin), even the early signs of what looked like a flea infestation. She caught them with a well-aimed Purgare Parasitum, and swore Padfoot's eyebrows lifted in mild, if begrudging, respect.
"Oh, so now you're impressed," she muttered, rinsing out the final round of soap. "You didn't think the Ministry's best and brightest would've researched pest-banishing spells after the incident in the breakroom?"
Padfoot thumped his tail once.
An hour later—yes, a full hour—the water finally ran clear.
Hermione leaned back on her heels, arm aching, and surveyed her work. Padfoot was no longer a mangy disaster of a dog. He was still lean to the point of being underfed, and she could feel the ridges of his ribs when she brushed past, but at least now he resembled a survivor and not a corpse.
"There," she said, setting down the sponge and wand with finality. "You're officially clean. Possibly for the first time this decade."
Padfoot's response was to leap out of the tub, soaking wet, and shake himself out with full enthusiasm.
Hermione didn't stand a chance.
"HEY!" she yelped as water exploded off him in all directions. Droplets hit her in the face, her chest, her hair—everywhere. She stumbled back, absolutely drenched, as Padfoot stood there looking far too pleased with himself.
"Of course," she muttered, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt. "Should've expected that."
Padfoot huffed. His version of a laugh, apparently.
With a wave of her wand, she began drying him with a warming charm, gently coaxing the water out of his thick black coat.
He sneezed once, violently, from the odd feel of the hot air lifting through his fur. Hermione paused mid-drying, stifling a grin.
"Ticklish?"
He gave her an affronted snort, then settled again, letting her finish. His eyes had drifted half-closed, his tail flicking lazily at the tip.
Hermione worked in silence, spell after spell pulling moisture and dirt from his coat until he was properly fluffed, sleek, and, most importantly, not a walking biohazard.
"There," she said at last, straightening up with a sigh. "You are now approximately seventy-five per cent less feral."
Padfoot padded over to the bath mat, circled three times with great ceremony, then collapsed with a huff. His head flopped down onto his paws, and he gave her a look that was somewhere between truce and thanks.
And just like that, Hermione's heart twisted again.
This wasn't just about scrubbing a dog. This was Sirius Black—who had laughed with James Potter, who had held baby Harry, who had howled at the moon with Remus Lupin—and who, at this point in time, was utterly alone in the world.
Well.
Not utterly.
She moved to the sink, still dripping slightly, and pulled a towel from the rack. "You rest," she murmured, towelling her own face and neck. "I'll go down and see if they've got something more substantial than a vending machine. I think you've earned at least one meal that doesn't involve bin-diving."
He made a low sound—something between a grumble and a sigh—but didn't get up.
Hermione smiled.
It was bizarre. Impossible. Reckless.
But it was also kind of wonderful.
She opened the bathroom door, stepping into the cool air of the bedroom. "Be back in a bit," she called softly.
The guesthouse's dining area was modest—mostly full of quiet pensioners and the occasional road-weary tourist—but the kitchen still did takeout, thank Merlin. Hermione took stock of the offerings with a new lens, scanning for things that were bland enough not to upset a stomach unused to real food yet hearty enough to provide proper nourishment.
She ended up with two meat pies, a container of mashed potatoes, roasted carrots, a bit of ham, two slices of toast, and a small cup of broth—"for the dog," she told the cook, who raised an eyebrow and gave her a butter packet with a shrug.
By the time she made it back upstairs, the smell of gravy and roasted meat warming the air around her, she was already rehearsing how to explain her presence here.
Hello, Sirius, I'm a thirty-year-old time traveller from 2009, and also, I'm not going to turn you in, but I do need your help rewriting the future.
Yes. Perfectly sane.
She pushed the door open and stopped short.
Padfoot was gone.
Panic flared—for a heartbeat, she thought he'd bolted—but then she heard a small, tired huff. Her eyes landed on the bed.
A lumpy shape was curled under the duvet, only the very tip of a black tail sticking out from beneath the covers.
Hermione's heart sank.
It was August, and the room was far from chilly, but Sirius Black had spent over a decade in the icy grip of Azkaban. Cold like that didn't leave easily. It seeped into the bones, into the soul. Even sunshine could feel like frost when you hadn't known warmth in years.
She set the takeaway containers down quietly and pulled out her wand, casting a gentle warming charm over the blankets. The duvet fluffed slightly, and she swore she saw the tail flick once in thanks.
Hermione crouched by the side of the bed and began unpacking the food, placing each item carefully on the floor within easy reach. She didn't call him, didn't try to coax him out. Just let the scent of gravy and roast drift into the room.
Padfoot's nose poked out first.
Then one paw. Then another.
Within moments, a shaggy black head emerged, eyes bleary but alert, ears flicking forward with cautious interest.
Hermione smiled softly. "It's not much," she murmured, "but it's yours."
He didn't hesitate this time. He padded down from the bed and nosed his way through the containers, starting with the broth. His movements were slow but deliberate, like every bite was a measured risk. She didn't try to pet him, didn't interrupt. Just watched.
She, on the other hand, didn't feel hungry. Her stomach was too knotted with thought, her mind spinning through fragments of memory, timeline implications, and the fragile balance she was now juggling.
Harry.
He'd run away around this time, hadn't he? After the Aunt Marge incident?
She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to summon the exact events. Harry had fled, ended up on the Knight Bus, and then in the Leaky Cauldron. Fudge had been oddly lenient, more concerned with keeping Harry safe than punishing him.
It had all turned out fine.
But what if her interference had already changed something?
She glanced at Padfoot—at Sirius —curled beside the empty broth cup, licking the last smear of butter off the toast crust. Had her actions already diverted his path? Was Harry already in London? Was the Knight Bus still on track to find him? Or was Sirius somehow involved in that, and she had interfered?
She didn't know.
And that was the problem.
She couldn't afford to guess.
Her next steps had to be deliberate—no more playing things by instinct.
The most urgent issue: Peter Pettigrew.
The rat was at the Burrow. Ron would be heading to Hogwarts soon, and once Scabbers was within the castle walls, getting to him without causing a complete disaster would be very difficult.
She had a small window.
And she'd have to act fast.
Except… she couldn't do it alone. Not completely. She'd need help. She'd need him for this to really work.
Hermione looked over at Padfoot again. He was watching her now, his head tilted slightly to the side, food forgotten for the moment. His eyes were tired, wary, but there was a spark there—something intelligent, something present.
She reached out slowly and scratched behind one ear.
He stiffened.
Just a little.
But he didn't growl.
Didn't pull away.
Just… let her.
Her fingers moved in slow, soothing circles.
"That's a good boy," she murmured softly, her voice more breath than sound.
His tail gave a slow, uncertain wag, like it wasn't quite sure if that was the right response.
She tilted her head, watching him.
From his perspective, she must seem utterly mad. A stranger. A witch. Chatty, unpredictable, and apparently under the impression that bringing a huge, unkempt stray dog into a Muggle inn was a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday night. And yet—he'd followed her. Bathed without biting. Let her touch him.
She was mildly surprised he wasn't more suspicious. But then, she supposed, why would he be? As far as Sirius Black knew, no one alive—aside from a traitor and one old friend—was even aware of his Animagus form. If Remus had betrayed him to the Ministry, there would've been wards and magical locks all over Azkaban to counter it.
But there hadn't been, had there?
So from his point of view, she was just… eccentric.
Overly helpful.
Possibly lonely.
Not a threat.
Hermione exhaled through her nose and leaned her head back against the bedframe.
She wasn't sure revealing everything tonight was the right call. He needed sleep. Warmth. Time to realise she wasn't about to hex him or drag him to the nearest Auror station. No matter how good her intentions, dropping I'm from the future and I know everything you've been through might be a little much for night one.
Her eyes flicked to the food containers on the floor.
He'd finished one of the meat pies as well. Cleaned it to the corners. She winced slightly, watching him eye the second.
"Alright," she said gently, "how about I set the rest aside for breakfast?"
That earned her a low, grumbly noise from his chest. Not quite a growl—more like a canine tsk.
"I'm not taking it away permanently," she promised, kneeling to scoop up the containers. "I just don't want you to get sick."
Padfoot stilled at that, eyeing her with faint suspicion.
Hermione chuckled internally. He was definitely acting too intelligent. Any casual observer would've assumed she'd brought along an animagus-impersonator or a cursed prince.
She placed the leftovers in the little fridge tucked under the desk and turned back to him.
"Alright, do we need to go outside for a walk to relieve yourself?"
Padfoot looked offended.
His entire posture shifted to pure indignation—ears twitching, spine stiff, tail flicking once in disbelief.
"Okay, fine," she relented, hands raised in surrender. "Let me know if that changes."
She tugged back the sheets and slid under the covers fully dressed, too tired to care. Her slacks were stiff, her shirt still faintly damp, but transfiguring a proper pyjama set felt like a tomorrow problem. Besides, sleep would come easier if she didn't have to cast another spell tonight.
Padfoot leapt onto the bed after her with all the grace of someone who considered personal space a suggestion. He wriggled without shame, worming his way beneath the duvet with a single-minded determination that made Hermione laugh under her breath.
She turned slightly toward him. "Still cold?"
He didn't answer, obviously, but a cold nose nudged under her arm in reply.
She smiled and lifted the blanket without hesitation. "I'll take that as a yes. Come here."
Padfoot hesitated for only a moment, then curled into her side, tucking his long legs under him and pressing into her warmth. Hermione adjusted, draping one arm gently over his back. His fur was warm now, soft from all the cleaning spells, and he smelled faintly of lavender soap and wet dog.
She exhaled.
He didn't flinch. Didn't growl. Just let her touch him.
And she marvelled again—not just at how easily he trusted her, but at how easily she trusted him. She'd watched this man die. Had mourned him. And now he was here—broken, bone-thin, silent in his grief and trauma—and she was holding him like a lost pet needing shelter from the storm.
Which, in a way, he was.
"Sleep," she whispered into the quiet. "You're safe now."
Padfoot didn't move. His breathing slowed, deepened.
Hermione closed her eyes.
She hadn't solved anything yet. Had no concrete plan. Still didn't know where Harry was, or how to handle Peter, or what she was going to do when the sun came up.
But for now—for tonight, this was enough.
She held onto that small truth as sleep finally took her.