18 December 1984
Evans Cottage, Kingston Bay
Recovery was slow-going; agonisingly so. That first year upon reawakening in the past, Jean found herself relearning several of the base functions that every child learnt as they grew up. How to walk, to talk, how to eat on your own and so on. Despite being 15 years old (again), she was almost like a toddler in a sense. Something which Harry, in all his four year old glory, had taken great pleasure in as the two children passed similar milestones together.
When Harry was running around the warded garden with glee gleaming in his eyes as he chased after potato-shaped gnomes, Jean was chasing after him on wooden crutches & wobbly knees. When he splashed about at the edges of the garden pond, she was sat on the edge with trousers rolled up & feet dangling amongst the fish. When he plied his parents with blathering questions about anything & everything, she was trying to wrap her tongue around various syllables to form more than a few awkward sentences. When Harry learnt how to climb up & down the flight of stairs with his hand gripped tight to the railing or Tilly's hand, Jean learnt how to clamber up & down the porch steps with her hands fisted in Padfoot's coarse fur (the six-foot hound came in quite handy during those first few months) instead of her crutches.
Medicinal potions had also become a rather annoying fixture in her life. Where they had once been used to ease the ache of old age, they were now used to ease the ache of unused muscles or settle her mind for uninterrupted sleep throughout the night. Her nightmares of a life long-passed still persisted and though she had been reassured many a-time of their inevitable waning, Jean knew that they would not go so easily. A by-product of her experiences during Hogwarts & the Second Wizarding War were featured most often, sometimes spiced up with snapshots of bloody revolutions & coups in the following decades.
The ancient time-travelling ritual and all that it entailed was barely a blip on her radar. Powerful, yes, dangerous, sure, but scary? After all that she'd faced? The craggy old hag from Knockturn Alley & her little hole-in-the-wall shop where she had obtained the needed artefacts (and more) was no scarier than an enraged Mrs Weasley (who was plenty scary on her own) when she was on the warpath. The powerful magic used to complete the ritual had washed over her and filled her up in a way that modern magic just didn't. So scary? Not so much. If she were totally honest, she almost thirsted for it, those ancient magicks.
Her (physical) therapy consisted of a combination of both muggle and magical practises, led by Lily's capable hands and aided by a motherhenning James. Even Sirius had joined in at one point, insisting that learning to play an instrument would not only broaden Jean's dismal taste in music, but also help to regain her hand-eye co-ordination. Two birds with one stone and all that; which was why there was a secondhand acoustic guitar sat upon her bedroom shelf. So far, she couldn't play more than a few jingles as progress was, once again, slow-going; but it was going.
Logically, Jean knew that rehabilitation would be like this. She could still remember a time when her cantankerous grandmother, battle-worn & weary from the Second World War, would limp around the kitchen with mug clasped in brittle hands. How she would lean just a moment too long against the counter or how her bones seemed to creak whenever she arose from her lace-encrusted recliner. But that notion didn't help Jean when she was fraught with frustration over the failure to do something so simple as spitting out the right word or getting her hands to work. Jean learnt the hard way that you couldn't fix everything with a snap of your fingers, no matter how fantastical magic seemed.
Nevertheless, throughout it all, little Crookshanks followed after Jean like a second shadow. His squashed face was the first thing she saw upon waking each morning and that bottlebrush tail was the last thing she saw each night. The little kneazle had grown into himself over the year, filling out into the large paws which seemed to engulf him as a kitten and those broad shoulders which told you he was going to be a force to be reckoned with when he was older (not that he wasn't already). Jean absently ran her fingers through the kneazle's fur as her feet dangled in the cool fish-infested waters. A pleased purr arose from the beast in her lap as he rolled over, granting her access to the sheepskin of a belly, for which she happily obliged. "Oh, you big tarty boy!" Jean cooed lovingly, fingers carding through the ginger curls as her gaze drifted out across the wild snow-laden garden in which they hid.
Although currently hidden beneath a blanket of snow, Lily's garden had exploded over the last couple of years making it more of a little pocket of woodland than the trimmed hedges it had once been (as told by the old family photos inside the cottage). With James (& the other Marauders) returning to work and Tilly caring for the intricacies of domestic magical life, Lily found herself with more time on her hands than she was ever used to. The wild brush covered the fields and the edges of the house, turning it into something of a fairytale in its wilderness. Though Tilly was often heard grumbling about the state of things, Lily saw it more as her own little Secret Garden or Wonderland.
So she turned, instead, to the garden, filling the plots with all sorts of flora until they had overrun the property of her grandfather's prized vegetable patch. What had once housed prim pansies and prickly grasses lined by brick walls was now occupied by bright splotches of wildflowers bursting with life. Sleepy poppies peppered the windowsils and choking ivy climbed the walls. Blackberry brambles sprung to life amongst the patches of weeds and buttercups. Their juicy fruits were often felled by hungry toddlers and moon-crazed canines, their maws stained in red and indigo. Sprigs of leafy green dittany dotted the place and reminded Jean of the numerous times she had used their essence to patch up her troublemaking friends. There had been one time where she hadn't gone anywhere without a bottle and a roll of bandages tucked away on her person.
Planted in remembrance for those lost in the war, the asphodel trees had spread, covering the garden with gnarly roots that reached for any available surface and housed the occasional bowtruckle. Ivory flowers glinted in the sun, glistening like freshly fallen snow even in summer. Sometimes Jean would see Lily crouched beneath the trees, whispering prayers and hanging tear-stained lanterns to the ones she had lost. This included a certain rat whom she secretly mourned; not the one whom had betrayed them to the Dark Lord, but the schoolboy she had once known. If James knew about this, Jean didn't know.
The garden pond in which Jean & Crookshanks idled lay blanketed by itchy grasses and bottlebrush reeds that swayed in the breeze. Winter had come early that year, freezing the normally placid liquid into a blanket of ice. The lily pads which lay embedded in the ice protected the sluggish fish below, the same ones that pecked at your feet whenever you dunked them beneath the surface. If you were patient enough, you might see the gnomes which infested any grassy patch they could find and with the wildness of the Potter's garden, it was forever a chore to hunt them down. So, Lily, in her brilliance had found an odd sort of compromise that seemed to both enthral and confuse the critters. Red-hatted porcelain gnomes peered out from beneath flax bushes and greatly intrigued the locals who poked & prodded at them until they broke.
The cane—which she had been using in place of the crutches—lay strewn behind her next to the cobblestone path at the entrance of a sad little archway who stood resolute, barely restraining the wildflowers that threatened to fall upon the path from the tunnel of green. The winding path led from the garden pond, through the undergrowth and over to a rickety old shed which was reinforced by several wards & runes. Colourful glass glittered from between the weeds that bathed the building in green and almost helped to hide the building from prying eyes. It was here, that Moony used the shed (kitted out to house a rampaging werewolf) to transform on full moons.
Lined with trees of mountain ash, the roof was often painted red from the berries that fell from its branches or hungry mouths of the birds that fed upon the fruit. There was the lilac wisteria that climbed every which way, covering the garden like Devil's Snare. it crept up and over the rickety garden shed, vines peeking into every crack & crevice that it could reach. Though pretty in colour, this plant too, was useful in keeping unwanted persons from straying too far. There had been more than one occasion when they'd had to pluck a gnome from its wandering branches. As natural magical deterrents, the plants helped to keep unwanted guests out and more importantly, helped to pen in magical creatures such as a certain werewolf.
Beyond the brush, lay the local castle which once occupied the Baron Lord Holland & his family for several generations. Though the name itself actually came from an incidental landing of Charles II in the 1600s, instead of the Baron himself, which Jean had found fascinating. The bay itself was enshrouded by harsh cliffsides and the sandy beaches down below that neighboured the chaotic beaches of Botany Bay. It was also the very place in which Riddle once visited as a child.
Only a day trip from London, Kingsgate was the perfect place for Woolwich Orphanage to visit and in turn, for Riddle to hide one of his many horcruxes. Jean found it both thrilling and terrifying to know just how close they were to one of Riddle's horcruxes (plus a lake full of Inferi) and that there was the crux of the whole thing; her whole point in travelling back in time, in the first place. Time travel in general was a difficult craft to complete and even harder to master. The immeasurable backlash of the act alone was enough to send the smart running and intrigue the stubborn.
Jean, herself, had only barely dipped her foot into the craft back in her third year (the first time around), and she knew from McGonagall's numerous lectures impressing the fact, just how wrong it could go (that trip to the Artefact Accidents ward in St Mungo's had been quite the terrifying eye opener). But it had never gone so wrong for her before, in fact the worst mistimed jump that she'd ever done was at the beginning when she was still getting used to the time turner. She'd meant to only go back a couple of minutes under McGonagall's watchful eye, but instead found herself standing at the front of the transfiguration classroom three hours earlier, feeling very much embarrassed in front of the sixth year class. Fred & George had never quite let her live that down, nor with their teasings nor curious questions. But those three misplaced hours were nothing in comparison to this misplaced decade.
Everyone she had ever known in her time were still in their infancies—if they'd been born at all—and people who were supposed to be dead were still alive. Hell! She—baby Hermione—would be celebrating her fifth Christmas with her family back in her hometown of Hampstead! Both of her parents would be alive and well, with bodies & minds in sound health; a stark contrast from when she'd last seen them. They had never quite fully recovered from the long-term obliviation she had forced them under before the war; even with their memories fully restored (as much as possible) and her subsequent explanation.
Shrill childlike laughter yanked Jean from her stupor and over towards the bespectacled boy romping around the garden with his father. Pulling the multicoloured stocking cap lower over her ears, Jean watched as Prongs, with antlers glinting with stringy tinsel, danced about the snow-laden garden. (The first time she had seen his animagus in real life, she'd dumbly asked Lily why Rudolph was in the garden. The red head had laughed herself silly at that before explaining to the wizards who the reindeer was and his whole story that came along with it). Harry clung to his back, tiny fists holding onto tight to the tinsel-reins, with a pair of his own antlers on his head. Though made of red felt and encrusted with little jingle bells, Harry didn't seem to care much as the pair played in the snow.
A gentle breath of frosted air fell from Jean's lips as she heaved a heavy sigh at the scene. In the short time that she had known them, the Potters appeared to govern the household in two seperate demeanours. Where Lily was more of a 'rub some dirt in it' kind of mother, James was forever worried that someone would bump into a sharp corner and hurt themselves; which was why the cottage was warded from here to kingdom come with child-safety spells. Whenever the redhead got particularly passionate or heated about something, her Cokeworth accent came out, thick and indiscernible. As for James, he'd occasionally make anecdotes comparing his childhood home (the Potter Manor) with the Evans Cottage. As far as Jean could discern, they'd not moved back to the manor after Godric's Hollow on account of all the old memories that lived there. James had lost his parents to a bout of dragon pox only five years earlier and it still haunted him.
Observing the Potters in everyday life still hurt, though not so much as it had first done when she stumbled in to the cottage in Godric's Hollow. To her they'd always been the dead parents of her infamous best friend and heroes of the late war. It was a hard thing to swallow, them being alive and real. Jean tried to stay in the here and now (an exercise encouraged by the healers during her rehab in an effort to avoid any relapses) and focus on the fact that they were alive and whole, unlike Neville's parents; unlike so many others.
Crookshanks meowed pleadingly in Jean's lap, begging for more belly rubs as he twisted just so, tail brushing against her wrist in an attempt to garner her attention. She smiled lovingly down at the attention-seeking kneazle, her frost-bitten nose burning red. This hadn't been the plan, coming all the way back here, but in the immortal words of Helmuth von Moltke: "No plan survives first contact with the enemy" So she'd sort it all out and get it right. She had to.