Heart thumping wildly and limbs flailing in an attempt to keep herself upright, as she found herself yelping in surprise at the sudden call. Cheeks flushed a lovely embarrassed pink, Jean spun around to face the voice which had called out to her, but instead of the person she assumed that it belonged to, all she found was the hunched & wrinkled form of a house-elf. A rather familiarly grouchy house-elf, actually. Adorned in that dirty pillowcase & droopy rabbit ears wrapped in leathery skin, which was common for most house-elves, Jean found herself blinking dumbly at the creature who had perched himself on the outer most reaches of the cavern. It was clear, even from this far back, that he would've of rather been anywhere else other than here, and he did his best to not let his leathery toes grace the edges of the dark stinking cavern; but here he remained, such was the plight of the house-elf.
"…Kreacher?" Jean puzzled, brows furrowed as she carefully retraced her steps back towards the mouth of The Cave, back to where the wrinkled elf stood uncomfortably shifting in place. He shifted on his feet, clawed hands fiddling with the front of his pillowcase and looked the most scared that she had ever seen him. Kreacher wasn't exactly one for emotion beyond his usual teaspoon range, so this? This was new. In fact, the only time that Jean could ever recall the house-elf expressing something other than disgruntlement or disgust was when he was talking about his 'Mistress Walburga' or 'Master Regulus' For Walburga, he wore a sort of unwavering loyalty on his sleeve, but for Regulus, it was utter reverence (even though the boy was long dead by then) that gleamed from his every pore; especially when they (the Golden Trio) had asked the elf about Slytherin's Locket and the owner of the initials R.A.B.
So this elf? There was no way—at least, not as far as Jean was aware—that it could've of been the disgruntled house-elf who had called out to her before; it just couldn't be (but knowing her luck, it probably was). Because in the few short years that Jean had known (a sparse few) house-elves, none of them had sounded so put together; especially not Kreacher. It seemed almost like a rule ingrained into each of them that house-elves had to talk about each other—including themselves—in third person. When they did speak, they were forever falling back onto vintage idioms to address their "betters" and they were barely ever as confrontational as this mysterious speaker appeared to be.
Still, the logical part of Jean knew that this house-elf to be Kreacher, the Black's ever-loyal house-elf and Harry's somewhat loyal house-eld (in the years after Sirius' death); just as she knew that she could've of easily made the jump between this outcropping rock to that, much further, one or how she knew that if she gave into the pull of her magicks, she might find something a little more than the dark islets inside this cavern. She didn't know how or why she knew, she just did; it was like some sort of instinctual thing that she could not explain (which infuriated her to no end. Everything could be explained; everything had a start point and an end point, so where was this one?).
Although, what Kreacher was doing here, on this beach at this time was beyond even Jean's reckoning. It's not like he knew that she was going to be here (even she hadn't known where her feet would've taken her), nor could he have been following her, so why? A sort of desideratum part of her wondered if the house-elf even recognised her, though she wasn't sure as to why. Maybe it was because with all of these ghosts of hers that stared her in the face, all of these ghosts that walked about with beating hearts and a shroud of ignorance, she could only hope that one of them would look at her and recognise her as the person she used to be. That naive witch who was more impressed with righting the wrongs of a society who had no care for people like her. The Brightest Witch of her Age who turned herself into a fugitive (and so much more) just to keep her best friend—her brother—alive, because his bull-headed stupidity sure as hell wasn't going to do it.
"Oh, it is just the Mudblood!" Kreacher despaired as Jean emerged from the dark, squinting against the sudden change in light."Standing there in my Master's place of rest, bold as brass"
Not A Mudblood. Jean noted with a sort of bubbling hope that unsettled the butterflies in her stomach, as she accidentally stubbed a toe and elicited a quiet hiss to escape from her lips. THE Mudblood. Maybe he DOES recognise me? I hope so. I know we weren't exactly BEST FRIENDS last time, but it would be nice for SOMEONE to know me like they did before. Wait—! Wait—! Granger! Get a hold of yourself! You can't keep jumping ahead! That's what ALWAYS gets you into trouble, remember?
Heaving a deep breath to recenter herself, Jean pressed closer to the house-elf with the knowledge—the hope—that this house-elf somehow recognised her, in turn. In all of her hours of research, she found out that house-elves (back when there was nothing more important than people not listening to her about the significance of S.P.E.W.) were more than just their stereotypical attitude towards indentured servitude. It was during this research that Jean had discovered a few things that supported her idea of freeing them from their bonds. One of those things being that, house-elf magic worked in a far different capacity than that of the wizard or witch, in which they were pledged to.
It was well known (at least amongst the pureblooded community) that house-elves had their own brand of powerful magic, which allowed them to perform such daily tasks—such as apparating or cleaning—where other magical folk couldn't. It was also the kind of ability that was innate only to house-elves and that meant that even if their magical contract was broken, they still retained such abilities once free from their master(s). It was in this way that the house-elves were more than just mere housekeepers and governesses (although, they were often still mistreated as such). In fact, when you thought about it like that, they were that far removed from the golem familiars of Old; those old shapeshifters who pledged themselves to a mage in much the same manner as the house-elves.
These house-elves were ruthless protectors of those to whom they were pledged to and to those whom they gave their allegiance to. Like with Dobby. He had been pledged to the Malfoys for several years, but when Harry had been in danger during their second year (and the following years), he had disobeyed his masters to protect the boy. In turn, the young bespectacled wizard had inadvertently freed the elf who had helped him so, and continued to do so after his liberation.
But as Jean had been told time & time again, Dobby was a bit of an outlier and not the norm in which to compare the rest of the house-elf population to. As proven by the waterfall of tears that Winky had produced when Jean had innocently suggested that it was better for the despairing house-elf to be paid to work under Dumbledore instead of her previous enslavement to Crouch. Needless to say, she hadn't exactly warmed herself to Hogwarts' house-elf population that day, especially after her attempt to free the elves through hidden knitwear in her rubbish.
Harry had once remarked in that off-handed way of his (that seemed to be common amongst Potter men), that house-elves were far better at performing those advanced & wandless magicks which most magical folk found difficult. Which was something of a testament, in of itself, and it was something that spoke volumes about the house-elves' impressive strength in magical power. However, there was such a thing as a limit, even for a magic so wild and powerful; especially so. For house-elves, this limit was the lack of a wand or other such focusing tool.
However, unlike most other magical folk, they appeared to be unbothered by the fact that such tools were unnecessary to perform their daily tasks. This implied that with a wand and the proper knowledge to use such, a house-elf might be able to perform equally as powerful or overpowered magicks that would—and could—easily outdo their need for a master. Such was the underlying fear of those less powerful because no one liked being out of control, no matter what they said otherwise.
In any case, this powerful and unwieldy magic was likely why Kreacher could remember meeting "The Mudblood" despite the fact that this was technically the first time that they had met in this timeline. Nevertheless, Jean didn't think that she would ever be so relieved to hear that slur (no matter how many times she had heard it over the years—almost to the point of depreciation—it was like this strange constant which had been—quite literally—branded on her) especially from someone who was clearly so displeased to see her.
"Kreacher?" Jean tried again as she came to quiet stop next to the elf. Seamlessly folding into a crouch that denoted her hidden feline grace, she tried to meet the elf's gaze, only for him to glare at her with such hatred that she knew she should've of felt taken aback. But instead, all she felt was a certain fondness for the grouchy elf. "What're you doing here?"
"The Mudblood should not be in my Master's resting place" Kreacher growled. "Not in this dark place, not where the Snake One lingers"
"The Snake One?" Jean puzzled, brows furrowed. "Do you mean Vold—?"
"—DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME!" Kreacher screeched, cutting her off with a wild look in his eye. "The Mudblood should not speak his name!"
"Why…? Oh, the Taboo!" Jean realised, before her face crumpled into a wince. "Whoops…! Forgot about that. Is that even still a thing though? Isn't he proper dead, this time? I just wanna be sure, 'cause I know Harry's forgetfulness certainly got us into a lot of trouble…"
Absently, Jean rubbed at the bandages wrapped tightly around her wrist where Bellatrix's brand was still engraved into her skin (cursed brands like hers would never truly heal no matter what you tried, but she didn't exactly want to keep wearing bandages for forever and a day. Maybe Jean could wear a cuff of some kind? A hand splint, maybe?).
"The Mudblood needs to stop speaking in riddles" Kreacher grumbled as he eyed up the dark cavern beyond them, "Yes, the Mudblood needs to shut up and leave this place"
"…You do know that I have a name, right Kreacher?" Jean quirked an unimpressed brow at the house-elf. "It's Jean, by the way"
"The Mudblood needs no more name than the one Kreacher gives it" Kreacher stubbornly huffed as mirth swam in his aged eyes.
"You're such a grumpy old man, aren't you?"Jean snorted, "But that still doesn't answer my question: why're you here?"
"The Mudblood needs to leave this place" Kreacher reiterated.
"Not until you tell me why" If Jean didn't know any better, she might've of said that that house-elf was…concerned about her. Which was still a strange thing to wrap her head around because the elf had never really been that way (at least, not with her).
"The Mudblood must leave!"
"Why?!"
Each stubborn in their own right, the witch and the house-elf stared unblinkingly at each other. Clearly, they had reached an impasse with neither willing to back down; instead silently daring the other to back down. If Jean wasn't so annoyed with the elf, she would have of thought it was funny, the picture that the two painted, where she—a fifteen year old witch—was sat crouched in front of Kreacher—an middle-aged house-elf—as the two stared each other down like a pair of cats focused on their prey. Her lips had thinned into a line whilst cheeks puffed out in frustration, a slight flush decorating her face. Whilst Kreacher wore brows that furrowed low over his gaze, hooding it into something a little darker whilst his lips were pulled back in a silent snarl. But still, neither backed down or moved, despite knowing that the two could forcefully remove the other if they switched to more…practical means of persuasion.
(Some part of Jean almost seemed to enjoy this childish venture, even if the house-elf refused to answer her questions and she refused to move).