"Shh, be still, little one."
Green light.
That was the one thing which connected her to her parents – that one memory of being shushed, and green light. Sometimes, she would lie awake at night and try to imagine a face, a gesture, or even more words – but it all descended into slumber, eventually. And every morning, she would wake up with a little less of that one memory – time flowing on its natural course, ebbing away at her earliest thoughts and images. She never begrudged time – never begrudged anybody, really – but she did cling to the shushing. Sometimes she would think that the memory was more fabrication than actual recollection; for the real memory was hazy and blurred, like a bad photograph. And she wasn't unique in her wish to know more of her parents – like most of the children at the orphanage, she didn't know who her parents were, or even if they were still alive. Ms. Simms, a kindly young woman who ran the place, had told Jean that she had been deposited on the doorstep in the middle of the night. It wasn't uncommon, Jean knew that – but she still hoped Ms. Simms would help her. For you see, Jean had always been a curious child.
Shy and soft-spoken, Jean faded into the background. She did attempt to join the children in play, but the other children shunned her quite quickly. For one, Jean was ... odd. Strange things happened around her, odd things which nobody could understand. Once, in a fit of ill temper, she had caused Timothy Gordon to sprout long, well-furred, white rabbit ears, and they didn't disappear for a week. On the playground, when invited to a game of hopscotch or kickball, the toys would occasionally float in the air, only to clatter back to the ground. She didn't flaunt her displays – if anything, she seemed more frightened of them than anything. But the other children were in simultaneous awe and fear of her – the unpredictability and unknown enticed any child to be afraid of her. Mostly, however, they just left her alone, to her books and to herself. It wasn't as though she looked odd – with rumpled black hair and soft brown eyes, Jean was slightly built and looked like any typical ten year old. Her glasses often slipped down to the end of her nose, seeing as they were a size or two too big, and her clothes seldom fit. Miss Simms tried hard to provide a clean, loving home for the children, but caring for twenty children was difficult, and keeping them all in clothing which fit was a near impossible task.
It was a lazy, syrupy summer day in mid June when things began to change for Jean. To start with, she got the letter.
Letters directed towards children at the Orphanage was a rare event – usually, this meant a long-lost parent had reappeared and wanted to claim their child. But generally these claims were either mistaken or false, causing Miss Simms to scan each letter before it was in the hands of the child. There was no point getting their hopes up, she reasoned, if there was a mistake in identity; each child here harbored the desperate, feverish dream to one day be claimed by a rich parent and smothered with love for the rest of their life. However, Miss Simms had been waiting for this particular letter. Oh, yes, she had. Eleven years ago, several things had been explained to her by a man with a long silver beard. Most of that night was a fog in her mind, but she did remember one or two things – one of which was to wait for a letter for the child.
Jean was eating her porridge at the slightly lopsided kitchen table with the other children, kicking her feet under the table and eating as quickly as possible. There was a smooth, continuous babble around her – children gossiping, exchanging secrets and trinkets, spinning stories or retelling dreams. It was typical child talk, and Jean usually joined in with good will, despite her alienation, for one of the best things a young child likes to do is talk. But that day she had a book she wanted to finish – Swiss Family Robinson, which was an entertaining book left behind by one of the church ladies who visited every so often. At any rate, Jean wanted to finish her soupy, overly sweet porridge, in order to get back to her book. Miss Simms came out into the kitchen and was greeted by a chorus of "Good morning, Miss Simms!"
"Good morning, children," Miss Simms said, distractedly wiping the corner of a boy's mouth with his forgotten napkin. When this sticky task had been finished, she looked up at Jean. "Jean, dear, will you come with me for a moment?" The girl raised her eyebrows, but dutifully pushed her chair back and followed her guardian into the other room. There was an instant raising in gossip among the children – only children who were in trouble were called into the parlor.
The parlor was a neat, well-scrubbed area where parents and relatives were seated while Miss Simms explained that giving up their child was permanent. It contained a fireplace – seldom used – and a few moderately priced pieces of furniture, and Jean sat down on one of the velvet chairs. Miss Simms smiled a little, a weak twitch of her lips, and folded her hands. "Jean, I have something to tell you," She said quietly. "Your parents were killed in an accident when you were a baby."
Jean dropped her gaze, heart sinking. The shred of hope that her parents had been coming to claim her dissolved. If there weren't any people claiming her, then why was Miss Simms sitting her down? Jean tried to remember if she had done anything wrong lately – nothing, except pushing Billy to the ground when they had been arguing. And young children getting into spats was a fairly regular occurrence, and did not warrant a sit down. "Thank you, Miss Simms," Jean muttered. "But what happened? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, nothing wrong," Miss Simms said hastily. She wracked her brains – how did the Professor tell her to handle this situation? "It's just ... you're different, Jean."
"I know," Jean said, brown eyes dimming. "I'm sorry about the skipping-rope, I didn't mean to turn it into a snake, I really didn't –"
"This has nothing to do with the skipping rope," Miss Simms said firmly. "And I just – oh, never mind. Here," She sighed, and handed the letter to Jean.
It was a square, thick envelope, written on in emerald ink. The paper felt smooth and weighty beneath her hands, and her slender brows drew together as she turned it over. On the back was a glossy, unbroken seal with a coat of arms pressed into the wax. The crest had a badger, a snake, a lion, and an eagle all twisted sinuously together around a large letter H, and she frowned. Because, written in an elegant hand was:
Miss J. Potter
The Dusty Attic Bedroom
297 Coakely Way
Bristol
"What...?" Jean queried, turning over the letter again. "Who sent this? And how do they know I sleep in the attic bedroom?"
Miss Simms had dreaded this conversation for eleven years. "I don't know, Jean, I truly don't. But open the letter, I think a few things will be explained once you do." She said, and passed over the pewter letter opener. Jean broke the seal, edging the letter opener under it, and withdrew a sheet of parchment from the envelope. In the same beautifully scrawling hand, read:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find an enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
"Is this some sort of joke?" Jean asked, looking back up at Miss Simms. "What is this? Some sort of weird boarding school?"
"A bit," Miss Simms sighed. "Jean, you are a witch."
Jean wrinkled her nose. "No, I'm not, thank you very much." However, her brain clicked stutteringly over memories – rabbit ears, skipping ropes, hovering footballs – and then sputtered off. "What's going on, Miss Simms?" She asked, very much confused. "Who sent this letter?"
"Jean, you are going to a special school," Miss Simms began again falteringly. She really had no idea how to handle this, but she braved through it. "A school for people with ... special abilities. Yes, you are a witch, and yes, its nothing to be ashamed of. Your parents were apparently quite famous, Jean. I'm afraid I don't know more then that."
The two of them sat in silence, both of them confused and bewildered. After a moment, Jean read the letter again. "'We await your owl'?" She asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Miss Simms raised her eyebrows. "Not the slightest idea." She said truthfully.
She continued to read the letter. "Where am I supposed to get this stuff? A wand? Where does someone get a magic wand?" Jean asked.
"Someone will be arriving later this morning to explain things fully, and to get your things," Miss Simms said, remembering what the bearded man had told her. "Er, I'm not quite sure who it is, but they assured me –"
BAM!
There was a gigantic knock at the door.
"What is that?" Jean yelped, terrified, and Miss Simms was on her feet in a flash.
"Stay here, Jean," She commanded, and walked to the door. Smoothing her hair, she swallowed nervously, and opened the door a crack. "Yes? Can I help – oh, dear."
She fainted dead away. Jean went to the hallway and poked her head out the door, looking at the main hall. When she saw who was standing there, barely framed in the doorway, was a giant of a man with a hand on the shoulder of a young boy. The man was huge – taller than a refrigerator and wider than a small car, he had a wild tangle of black hair which blended into a wiry black beard. Two small, twinkling eyes peered out from behind the mass of hair, and Jean went deadly pale. A thick, furry coat fell to his knees, and he looked like a large, shaggy bear with a beard. Not to mention he was also holding a long, crooked pink umbrella, which just made the entire scene even stranger. He peered sympathetically down at Miss Simms, and then squatted and picked her up bodily, cradling her gently in arms the size of tree trunks. Miss Simms, who was a tall woman, looked like a fragile doll. "Not t' worry," The man rumbled, his voice louder and deeper than a thunderstorm. "We'll 'ave yeh a'right in a tic."
Children came running, and they piled into the doorway, all of them slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the sight of the gigantic man holding their beloved guardian in his arms. One of the older children swore. Jean nearly fainted herself – certainly her head rang, and the giant looked alarmed.
Not to mention the young boy standing near the giant looked nearly identical to Jean.
A/N: Would you do me a favor? If you see my Muse passing by, can you corner it and promptly beat it senseless? I don't know WHY I am obsessed with the idea of a Harry!Twin. I really, really don't. I actually expect to be featured on pottersues quite shortly.