Jean's hearing came back first. Kind of. It was like she was straining to hear anything through a heavy layer of wool or sunken deep beneath the waves that made everything come out all muffled and wrong. It reminded her of days when Crookshanks thought her head was the perfect place to snooze (something that usually resulted in cat hair shoved into every orifice and a severe lack of oxygen), or paddling about in the calmness of the lake when she & her parents went camping. Those sounds came in fits and spurts; little snippets of conversation that flittered between her ears like faeries on the wind.

"…Woof!"

"Pads! Leave the kittens alone!"

"Mrrooooow!"

"How long did Poppy say it would take for her to wake?"

"Merlin! James! That's—that's ancient magicks! Are you SURE that's what happened?!"

"Remus! What the ACTUAL hell?! Why'd you tattle to Dumbledore?!"

"He needed to know!"

"He did NOT! And even IF he did, that was OUR decision to make, NOT yours!"

"But Flower—!"

"Don't you, 'but Flower' me!"

"Oi, oi, oi! No suffocating the witch, thank you very much! Merlin! How do you shed this much?"

"Do you think she'll wake soon? It's been ages"

"Hey—hey! Careful with those! Ma'am Pomfrey'll skin me if I have to replace any more of those potions!"

"…He's back again"

"I'm getting my spoon"

"Ooh! Beware…! Ow! Lil—ow!—I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Stop hitting me! Prongs! Help!"

"Mummy? Why's da bed wed? Did somfing 'appen? Is Sissy gonna be okay?"

"Are you kidding me?! Is ANYTHING Dumbledore told us, true?!"

"Flower, you're overreacting—"

"—OVERREACTING?! He was Grindelwald's LOVER! He TAUGHT You-Know-Who! And you expect me to believe I am OVERREACTING?!"

"Moony. Run"

"Whaddya think, Harry? Good day for the beach?"

"Can—can we go—go fwying?"

"What about the rock pools?"

"Fwying!"

"…Look what you did"

"Ah! That's ma boy!"

"Pads!"

"What?"

"Hey, Sissy! Guess—guess wha? Mum-Mummy sh-showed me dis fing 'bout a pwincess who was asleep for AGES like—like you! And—and den a pwince wole her up wiv—wiv a kiss, like MWAH! Unca Paddy says—says maybe it'll—it'll work wiv you too! Innit vat great? If—if I give you a kiss, den—den you'll wake up, wight?…Wight?"

"Mwah!"

"Missy Jean should wakes up again soon, yes, Tilly thinks so. Missy Jean makes Master James & Missus Lily, worry. Yes, Missy Jean should wakes soon"

"This isn't—I don't think is working, Lily. Shouldn't she—I dunno—be in Janus Thickey or something?"

"You heard Ma'am Pomfrey, James, "if it ain't life-threatening, then get the lass out!"

"…Impressive"

"Thanks, Paddy"

"It's been a YEAR, Lily, how do we even know if she's even gonna wake up?"

"Faith"

"Is that gonna be enough?"

"It has to be"

BANG!

"Guess—guess wha, Sissy? It's—it's—it's my birfday! And—and I'm dis many!"

"And how many is that, Master Harry?"

"Dat's—dat's doo, Tilly!"

Jean wasn't sure how much time had passed before those words were accompanied by some sort of sensation of touch. A twitch of stiff fingers revealed scratchy blankets and copious amounts of pet hair, through she couldn't really move else wise. It was a funny thing, really, like she was trapped inside her body and wading through layers of molasses in an effort to get out.

There was…there was SOMETHING fluffy & warm curled up in the crook of her neck and rumbling like a tiny motor in her ear. Another equally warm and much larger something was lain out across her feet like a living heat pack, one that rumbled & growled every so often. And were those…CLAWS? It took her sluggish brain an embarrassingly long time to connect fuzzy-purring-clawed-things with, cats.

"Mwah!" Another very sloppy wet kiss to the cheek was added to the others in the hopes that she would soon wake. It was a sweet gesture, she liked to think, and somewhere in the back of her brain it rang a bell. Something to do with sleeping princesses, fairy godmothers, draconic witches and charming princes.

Something pricked & pinched at her arm, or more accurately, the flap of skin that lay in the crook of her elbow. Jean's arm felt stiff as if she'd been stuck in one position for too long and there was an odd feeling of being full, even though she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. It was an odd sensation to say the least.

A strange sensation had settled in her throat that itched just as much as it burned, like a lump that wouldn't move or an army of fire ants marching in formation. It curled around her neck and encircled her nape like a collar of fire. It begged to be scratched, to be quenched, for some sort of relief that would never come.

Gentle hands pushed and pulled at her malleable limbs, moving them about to stimulate some sort of exercise whilst she slept. Leg bent, leg down, arms up, arms down. On and on, they went, over and over like it was some sort of strange dance that she did not know the moves to, but danced anyhow.

"Missy Jean should wakes soon" An elderly voice tittered as leathery hands brushed & tugged at her curls; she thought they might be trying to tame them in some way. Jean silently wished them the best of luck, it'd been a hundred thirty-five years and she'd never learnt a way to properly tame her wild mane. "Missy Jean bes sleeping for far too long, she has. Tis rude to bes sleeping for so long, yes Tilly thinks so"

And then came the sense of smell which came with the unmistakable stench of medicine that hit her like a Stupefy to the face. The bitter tang of medicinal potions hung in the air whilst the fresh air of a herbal garden floated through her nostrils. It almost reminded Jean of standing in the potion's cupboard or the numerous times she had spent waiting in the hospital wing for Harry to wake up (to the point where Madam Pomfrey had unofficially commissioned a bed for him).

The scent of burnt bread greeted Jean one day, and she was reminded of numerous mornings when her absentminded father would be caught between the toaster & the kettle in an effort to get everything—and everyone—ready during the small window of the school morning rush. It never worked as well as he hoped and there was more than one stain permanently etched into the kitchen counter because of it.

She must've been near the sea because there was salt on the air, so thick that she could almost taste it. A gentle breeze buffeted at her curls and rustled the edges of her loose blankets. A nearby window must've been open too, because she SWORE she could hear the grating caw of seagulls calling out and the braying bleat of deer. Though she could've done without the accompanying wet dog scent that assaulted her senses.

Jean's nose scrunched up in disgust at the sickly sweet cheesy scent which greeted her. It was a particular kind of smell, the kind only ever associated with young children or teenagers that made you want to gag. Although it made her wonder, why did children ALWAYS smell cheesy? How could one's own body odour smell SO bad?

Tasting again was…weird. There was a strange sort of bitterness that hung out on the back of her tongue, all acrid and wrong. At first, Jean had thought that it was due to whichever potion they had fed her that day, but perhaps it was something else? Could you taste your own breath?

Her tongue ran back & forth along her teeth, counting & recounting the numbered chompers just as parents had done an age ago. Silently, she despaired over the filmy feeling which covered each tooth and the loss of her once PERFECT dental score.

Jean's mouth felt uncomfortably dry as if she'd swallowed a mouthful of sand-coated cotton balls. Her lips parted as a low groan fell from her lips, begging anyone who'd listen for some sort of relief. Not a moment later, something cool & wet dribbled across parched lips and coated her torturously dry tongue. But however tantalising it was, it was still held TOO far out of reach. What are you doing?! Gimme me more! I'm SO thirsty!

Her sight was the last thing to return, and rightfully so. But it didn't change the fact that everything felt so strange. Long languid blinks revealed bright splashes of colour which surrounded her on all sides. Although they may have been somewhat muted by age, Jean still felt overwhelmed by all those brash colours.

Crusted eyes peeled open to reveal that the striped duvet covering her, had been commandeered by several animals. Across her feet there lay a black vaguely canine-shaped blob which whimpered every now and then as they dreamt. The warmth at her hips was accompanied by a pair of judgmental eyes that watched her like a hawk, in that way that only felines could do. Then there was the owner of the tiny moto purring in her ear, that belonged to a rather pudgy-faced kitten who sat upon her chest and stared back at her, practically DARING her to make him move. Jean wept for the familiarity she found in the kitten and silently mourned for the loss of her OWN pudgy-faced kneazle.

Between the four-poster curtains wrapped around the bed, the far wall at her feet held a series of teal-painted cabinets which were split in half by an alcove that held a set of polished armour, and contained signs of her current status. Ornate potion bottles sat cluttered together at one end of the bench, whilst a series of house plants sat snugly in the other corner. From the corner of her eyes, she could spot the edges of a small desk laden with lamp & a pile of retro magazines painted in dust. And there, embedded in the stone wall lay a golden-lit door, blocking her from the world beyond.

It was dark out, but the window to her right had been propped open just enough for the witch to watch the ocean waves rage & crash against each other beneath the starry sky. Seagulls had bedded down for the night, the bleating of deer were exchanged for the hooting of owls and the chorus of the nightly choir sung loud & proud.

That's NOT my ceiling. Jean's first coherent thought was confused, as crusty sleep-ladened eyes languidly blinked up at the moth-bitten curtains that surrounded the four-poster bed. Immediately followed by, I need pee.

21 August 1982
Potter Manor, John O'Groats

At two years old, Harry thought himself quite the happy young lad. He had a Mummy & a Daddy who loved him, a Nanny Tilly who was a busybody house-elf, three Uncles—Padfoot, Moony & Vernon, respectively—and a pet cat called Elvendork (who'd had kittens, but only the prickliest of the litter—Crookshanks—had stayed because he had glued himself to his big sister, Jean). He had an Auntie Petunia (whom he never saw outside of the holidays and couldn't really remember), a cousin called Dudley (who he'd apparently met at Christmas, the year before, but couldn't remember that either) and a big sister called Jean (who'd been asleep for ages).

Harry remained seat at the edge of the fountain, feet dangling in the cool waters as a couple of ducks paddled on by. This was just one of many ponds that made up the sprawling gardens of the Potter Manor and they were great fun to splash in—especially when the highlands got so unbearably hot in the summer months and more than once Tilly or Mummy kept snatching him out when he decided to go for a swim with the duckies.

In the back corner of the garden—passed the mind-boggling hedge mazes, and through Mummy's wild, wild orchard—there was the family graveyard where generations of Potters lay in eternal sleep (Harry really hoped that Jean didn't end up in there, 'cause she'd been asleep for as long as he could remember). Harry wasn't allowed to go there alone; not that he'd ever wanted to, it was scary in that dark corner. But the cats and Uncle Padfoot liked sunning themselves on the warm stones. And if you followed the twisting path that intersected the lawn, it wove every which way through the stones until it fell over the edge of the seaside cliff on which their [new] home stood (the same one that teetered on the edge of the Caithness cliffs and whistled haunting tunes in the wind).

Harry determinedly slurped at the cup of cool pumpkin juice in his chubby little hands, with stubby little legs that kicked absentmindedly beneath him. Bare toes scarped up against the uppermost of edges of the fountain's pool as he watched, fascinated, at the gnarled sticks, old leaves and flailing bugs floated by in the gentle lap of waves. If given half the chance Harry would've likely tried to jump in—as he had done in the past, especially when unsupervised—if it wasn't for the wards that covered the waters like a thin film. Those wards, the ones that prevented him from diving in—weren't always there, but there had been more than one occasion where Harry had decided to go for a swim only to find the waters a little deeper than anticipated or the floor slipperier than usual; something which had left the toddler in tears and his family with wide-eyed panic. Hence the wards.

Instead, Harry was left to contently watch the duckies paddle past, unencumbered by the wards, as the multicoloured tiles on the bottom glistened in the early morning sun. His green gaze watched with this sort of detached air that only a two year old toddler could master, whilst Tilly tittered about in the vegetable garden nearby. At his side, Elvendork seemed strangely enchanted with the duckies that circled the pond, and she batted at the little ones who dared to creep close to the pond's edge (another reason for the wards; Mummy was sick of finding "presents" in random places about the house).

Harry wasn't worried about being spotted out here—to be seen out of bed—so early in the morning. Mostly because people here were so nice, mostly because of the wards that surrounded the old house and also because there was so much space between each house that it took them a good hike across the highlands to even get to the fence line that separated each property. Mummy had to get up super early to even talk to the neighbours! (He didn't know why she bothered, some days. The Wickermans on the left always smelt like stinky fish and the Douglases on the right, conducted swarms of evil bees to make honey for them—and only them. But that didn't matter because they were so far apart, that Harry didn't have to see them unless he went into town with Mummy for school and stuff).

Back inside the manor that sat imposingly at his back, his family slept on; his parents & uncles all tuckered out from the family barbecue that had rocked the house the night before like a sticky rib parade. Mummy and Daddy, drunk on the adult juice that smelt gross that they wouldn't let him touch, said that they used to live in this sweet little cottage in a place called Godric's Hollow. Back then, they had started playing the world's biggest game of Hide 'n Seek, but then they had to move because someone had found their hiding spot and they didn't want to lose the game.

So, that was why they now lived out here, on the outskirts of John O'Groats Village and close to the beach in Daddy's huge childhood home. Daddy said it was something called a 'manor' but Harry still thought that it looked like a castle; like the ones from those fairy tales. It was a big stone building painted in golden brick and lined with windows dotted along the facade, that overlooked both the sparse highlands and the luscious green gardens. Harry's favourite part (apart from the gardens) had to be the great towering turrets that reached for the heavens; each marked with a brightly-coloured flag and impressed with the Potter crest. There were a lot of castles around here, so they weren't that out of place; you know, if people could actually see their home through all the wards.

Although Harry couldn't remember the home that he had been born to, the one that they lived in now was quite a nice one, even if he did say so. He liked to think that their old house must've been nice too, but now they lived in this huge golden-bricked manor! One that was complete with sprawling gardens, a creepy graveyard, a fancy iron gate at the end of the long, twisting driveway and the towering bookshelves that made up the library. Not to mention all of the secret doors hidden inside! And the not-so-secret path that wound down to the beach, below! Which was awesome, no matter which way you sliced it!

Daddy had said (whilst he giggled over the oddly-shaped mistletoe berries that hung from the ceiling) that this castle had been in his family generations; going all the way back to when King Malcom III of Scotland gave their family permission to build on the land in 1066, despite being British (apparently the British and the Scottish had been squabbling for ages over which deity to follow, which was stupid). See, the land they lived on, had been a section that belonged to King Malcom III at the time, and it had only been given to the family on the condition that he didn't join William the Conqueror's side against Scotland in any future battles. Which really only lasted another year, before the Treaty of Abernathy was signed and that deal became dull & void; still the individual monarchs of the United Kingdoms let them stay there because they protected the North from siege.

The Dower Estate, on the back end of the lot, was supposed to be for widow(er)s—which was why it had been built in the first place—but Uncle Moony & Uncle Padfoot tended to use it for full moons, these days. Apparently, when the Dower Estate had first been built, Earl Percival Potter (the current owner/builder at the time) had been living with his widowed mother, so he built the estate for her, and as such, was a little more quirky than the main building. According to Daddy, Percival had wanted to paint the estate a single uniform boring bland colour, like the rest of the houses in John O'Groats. But his mother loved its multitude of slapstick patchwork colours, had died before the two could reach an agreement.

In the end, Percival had decided against changing its colour and had left it in the patchwork rainbow that his late mother had loved so much. It was a house just as quirky as herself. Daddy had said that it was like a tribute to his late mother; like a live-in memorial that he—and several other generations—could still visit. And though both had passed on since then, no one else was allowed to change the colours either; that's the rule.

Which must've been true because the Dower Estate had started out as something that had more closely resembled a gingerbread-style farmhouse with its intricate details on the awnings, with the rickety chimney that looked to have seen better days, and the wraparound porch which encompassed one side of the house. But throughout the different generations, more & more additions had been added to the once small building, until it was more than the four little walls which had once stood there.

Now it bore a topsy turvy turret on the one side, what looked like an entirely new stone house that extended out from the back, more liquorice-painted walls and loose shingles that stretched out towards the horizon on either side. The eyesore of a building looked like someone had taken a handful of smaller buildings, and just smooshed them altogether with no regard for aesthetics or conformity. There it sat, overlooking both the stretching sea, gargantuan gardens (the very same one[s] that Harry liked to play in and occasionally chase after the gnomes that liked Mummy's flowers) and the creepy graveyard.

The result was like something out of a children's book; equal parts mesmerising and confusing, like the house was trying to make sense of all these new pieces that had been added on. LIke it was something that a growing family might build without care for how it looked to others, and yet, somehow this sickeningly sweet gingerbread house with all of its quirks, still worked. For inside was no less lopsided than the outside. Although there were only two—maybe three—levels to the house, each room was stacked one atop the other like Legos or Tetris blocks. Bedrooms were warmed by the roaring fireplace (the same one that Harry and the cats liked stretching out in front of the fireplace in both summer & winter, as the stones were warmed by either sun or flame), light danced through every haphazardly-placed window and the scent of every home-cooked meal wafted into every corner of the house.

And then there was the manor, proper, in which the Potters lived. Like Harry had said before, it was huge! With so many floors and windows, and rooms spread out across the property that it would take you days to even figure where you were. Harry had gotten lost more than once, and more than once he had been led back to the right path thanks to the army of house-elves that governed the manor (and had continued to do so since Nana Euphemia & Grandad Fleamont had died, and Daddy had left home).

There was Tilly, his nursemaid, who was so old that you could pull her wrinkles and watch them snap back against her skull like elastic bands. She had raised several generations of Potter children, and that had been one of the reasons that she had moved out of the manor with the young couple did. There was Hoppy, the head chef, who ran the kitchens like it was a navy ship; it was a tightly-run ordeal. Mummy was allowed nowhere near it (much to her chagrin)—not even to make a cup of tea!—and Hoppy guarded the wine cellar like a cerebus.

Nostle was the housemaid, who was in charge of keeping the house clean and in order, in the stead of housewives and such. She—like a collection of the house-elf community—was meant to complete this out of view of the mages she served, so she rose early each morning and you knew when she was about because you could hear her happy little tittering that she made as she cleaned. There was Wonky the head gardener who, ironically, had a head like a pumpkin and could often be seen amongst the wild bush of their backyard, tending to the vegetable patch and chasing off the gnomes.

The last of their notable house-elf crew was Fishy, who like his name implied, almost smelt just that little bit off; not that it seemed to bother him. Either nose-blind or uncaring of his own stench, the young house-elf tended to the graves in the back corner of the garden. The one time that Daddy had brought Harry down to meet Nana Euphemia & Grandad Fleamont, Fishy had been sprawled across one of the mausoleum rooves and stinking of that adult juice that Mummy and Daddy loved so much, whilst Hoppy yelled at him from the ground.

With a small sigh, Harry returned to the present and turned to give Tilly his empty cup, now that he was done with it. Clambering to his feet, he quietly (or as quietly as any toddler could) sloshed out of the fountain and padded back up the pathway to the manor, making his way up the stairs with Tilly not far behind him. Eventually, he made his way to where Jean was still sleeping in her room (his was across the hall). The old door creaked, pulling a low groan from both of the hinges and the girl in the four-poster bed who lay encircled by a halo of wild curls, as he crept inside. This was his big sister, Jean Granger.

Just like usual, she was connected to the medicine stand in the corner, but otherwise she made no movement to waken just like all the other times he had come in here. Mummy had said that the funny stand in the corner let Jean eat & drink stuff, even whilst she slept, when Harry had asked and that no, he couldn't have one of his own. Still, Harry thought that it must be mighty nifty to be able to eat even whilst you were asleep—imagine all of the awesome things you could try!—But Mummy said that only sick people got those; although when he had had a cold that one time, he didn't get one. So, Jean must've been really, really sick to always need one.

Once, when Mummy was teaching Uncle Padfoot about a muggle invention called the 'television', she had shown him a fairy tale called 'Sleeping Beauty' (as seen on VHS) that Harry absolutely adored. It was a story about a princess who had been cursed to sleep for a hundred years by an evil dragon witch, and a nice prince woke her up with a kiss—true love's kiss—and when he saw that, a thought struck him. What if he could do the same for his big sister? Because it was the same for her, wasn't it? Jean had been cursed to sleep for ages by a bad rat man (at least, that's what he'd put together when eavesdropping on his parents). The only thing she was missing was the prince to come and wake her up! And no one said that he couldn't be that prince! Harry would be a great prince! Prince Harry the Courageous! Prince Harry the Breaker of Curses! Yeah!

"G'morning, Tilly" Harry whispered as he tiptoed over to her bed and pulled himself up onto the bed, legs kicking in the air and entangling in the duvet as he scrabbled upwards. He did his best to try and mind the temperamental kneazle kitten tucked into her curls, but that was a bit of a hard ask & he received an annoyed hiss for his efforts. "Are—are—are you gonna wake up soon? Please? Hop-Hoppy's gonna make dis big bweakfas! Wiv lots of sywup! Unca Paddy says-says he's gonna take me fwying—! Wanna go fwying, Sissy? Come—come—come fwying too? If you wanna…"

And so, as Harry had done every day of every year since Jean had fallen asleep, he pressed a big sloppy kiss to her cheek in the hopes that his "True Love's Kiss" would, one day awaken her. At first nothing happened just like Daddy said it would, but over the last few months she'd been twitching and moaning in her sleep like she could hear Harry; like she was trying to wake up. But on this morn, as the bespectacled toddler greeted his self-proclaimed big sister with a big wet kiss, he found himself staring down, not at closed lid & fluttering lashes like usual, but at big brown eyes that blinked languidly up at him.

"Sissy…?" Harry breathed reverently, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. Jean blinked blandly back at him again, and this time her eyes crinkled up at the corners like she was trying to smile. Harry beamed. "MUMMY! DADDY! I DID IT! SISSY! SHE'S UP! SISSY'S UP!"