18 December 1982
Potter Manor, John O'Groats
Recovery was slow-going; agonisingly so. Those first few months 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 on and so on. Despite being eleven years old again (she'd missed her birthday whilst asleep, so it seemed), she was almost like a toddler, in a sense. Something which Harry, in all his two 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 the potato-shaped gnomes, Jean was left chasing after him on wooden crutches & wobbily knees. When he splashed about in the cool waters of the pond or the fountains, she was sat on the edge with her trousers rolled up & feet dangling amongst the weeds. When he plied his parents with endless blathering questions about anything & everything, she was just trying to wrap her tongue around the various syllables to form more than a few awkward sentences. When Harry learnt how to climb up & down the flight of stairs with his hands gripped tight to the railing or an elf's hand, Jean learn 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 in their inevitable waning, Jean knew that they would not go away so easily. A by-product of her experiences during Hogwarts & the Second Wizarding War were feature most often, but sometimes they were spiced up with snapshots of bloody coups and dastardly revolutions that followed in the succeeding decades.
The ancient time travelling ritual and all that it had entailed was barely a blip on her radar, these days. 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 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 magicks used to complete the ritual had washed over her and filled her up in a way that modern magicks just didn't. So scary? Not so much. If she were totally honest, she almost thirsted for it, those ancient magicks; they were exhilarating!
Her (physical) therapy consisted of a combination of both muggle and magical practises, led by Lily's capable hands and aided by a motherhenning Tilly. Even Sirius had joined in at one point, insisting that learning to play instrument would not only broaden Jean's frankly dismal taste in music, but also help her 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 cabinets. 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 own cantankerous grandmother (the muggle one), battle-worn & weary from the Second World War would limp around the kitchen with her 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 had learnt the hard way that you couldn't fix everything with a snap of your fingers, no matter how fantastical magic may have of seemed.
Nevertheless, throughout it all, little kitten 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 months, filling out into the too-large paws which seemed to engulf his as a kitten, and those broad shoulders, which told you he was going to be 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 over the side of the mausoleum roof in which she lay. A pleased purr arose from the golden-haired beast in her lap as he rolled over, exposing his belly and granting her access to the sheepskin rug he called fluff; for which she happily obliged. "Oooh! You big tarty boy!" Jean cooed lovingly, fingers carding through the ginger curls as her gaze drifted out across the overgrown & snow-laden graveyard in which they hid. From here, she could see a good portion of the Potter gardens, and once again, she felt herself becoming overwhelmed by their obvious wealth. Was this the same for all Pureblooded families?
Although currently hidden beneath a blanket of snow, the Potter's oversized garden had exploded since the last occupants that had lived here (according to Nostle, that was Harry's grandparents, Euphemia & Fleamont), making it look more like of a little pocket of fantastical flora; the kind you'd find on the cover of some trashy romance novel than your average lawn & vegetable patch. The Scottish highlands surrounded them on all sides, except for one which bordered the rough British seas. In fact, that little dwindling path over there led down to a small stretch of pebbles, down below.
There were clear tensions in the house—mostly between Lily & Remus—though what for, Jean had no clue. She'd heard whispers from the house-elves & Harry—mostly Harry—but none of it was really making any more sense. Something about Dumbledore and tattling? Or was it Pettigrew and secrets? But more importantly, her bag was missing. Upon waking, she'd discovered she wasn't in her own clothes, and when she'd gone to check the pocket of her jeans, it wasn't there either. No amount of (not-so-subtle) searching had found it and she was quickly getting to the end of her rope. At this point, she figured she'd just summon the damn thing and run off into the highlands to begin her horcrux hunt.
But—but…but it was passed halloween of 1981 and all of the Potters were still living & breathing—quickly growing frustrated at being in hiding—but alive. And that was another thing, with the Potters out of the cottage in Godric's Hollow, Riddle hadn't arrived (or if he had, they had no idea) and killed them; which mean that the war was still going on. So, as of right now, she had no frame of time for what was supposed to happen. In her time, 1982 had been the first year after the war's end, not during. It was such a mind-boggling thing to wrap her head around. Had her arrival in the past really caused that much of a disturbance? I mean, she'd been meaning to change a few things, but she never could've expected it to be this degree!
Heaving a heavy sigh, Jean flopped back against Hardwin Potter's mausoleum roof, sunning herself in the wintry sunlight. With the Potters still stuck in hiding, Remus (basically) on lockdown, Sirius switching between his role as an auror & the family dog and the house-elves caring for the intricacies of domestic magical life, everyone else found themselves with more hands on than they had ever wanted to. For Jean, it was strange not to have some sort of death threat hanging over her head every hour of the day, for an entire year. For Harry, he was easily occupied with this brand new world that he didn't know, so he didn't particularly care as long as someone was near. James had taken to spending his time in his "man cave", whilst Lily found herself often accompanying Wonky in the gardens.
In fact, it had gotten to the point where the meticulous house-elf had gotten fed up with the muggleborn's hovering and granted her a plot of land to do with as she wished; if only so that she'd get out of his hair. So, with the enthusiasm that most Brightest Mages of their Age enlisted, took to the task of gardening with a certain level of bravado as they did to anything else. The result? What could only be described as a wild bush now covered the land and climbed up the edges of the grotto, turning it into something more akin to a fairytale. Though Wonky was often heard grumbling about the state of things, Lily had said that she saw it more as her own little Secret Garden or Wonderland.
So she turned, instead, she exercised her right as Mistress of the House and took to the back garden and its sprawling lawns; filling the plots with all sorts of wild flora until they had overrun the property of their patches; including that small square of dirt which had once housed Fleamont's prized vegetables. What had once housed prim pansies and prickly grasses lined by stubby brick walls & crisp hedges, was now occupied by bright splotches of free-flowing wildflowers that burst with life. Sleepy poppies peppered the garden path, choking ivy climbed up the lattice fencing and strangling wisteria stretched across the canopies, clogging up all remaining crevices.
Blackberry brambles sprang to life amongst the patches of weeds & buttercups that lined the fences separating the neighbouring properties. Although their bushels were often picked clean by wayward fingers and the juicy fruits were often felled by hungry toddles & moon-crazed canines; fingers & maws stained red & indigo in their haste to devour. Sprigs of leafy green dittany dotted the place and reminded Jean of the numerous times that she used their essence to patch up her trouble-making friends in the past (future?). There had even been that one time where she hadn't gone anywhere without a bottle and a roll of bandages tucked away on her person; such was the way of war.
Speaking of war, Lily had planted several asphodel saplings in remembrance to those already lost in the war. Their staunch branches swept up towards the horizon, ivory flowers glinted in the sun like freshly fallen snow (even in summer) and gnarled roots covered the garden as they reached for any available surface that they could find. There was also the added bonus of finding the occasional bowtruckle hidden inside, which was always fun to seek. Sometimes Jean would see Lily crouched beneath the trees, whispering prayers & hanging tear-stained lanterns to the ones she had lost and to those she could not help, stuck as she was. This included a certain rat whom she secretly mourned; not the one whom had (supposedly) betrayed them to the Dark Lord, but the schoolboy she had once known. If the Marauders knew about this, Jean didn't know.
On a happier note, if you were patient enough, you might haven even seen the gnomes which infested any grassy patch that they could find, mindless of the wards. With the wilderness of the highlands and the sprawling lawns of the Potter property to compete with it, it was forever a chore to hunt them all down. It was a good thing that Wonky made a bit of a game out of hunting them down; it was like every day was a easter egg hunt and the gnomes were the screeching, running, finger-biting eggs.
Also, Lily in all her brilliance, had found an odd sort of compromise that seemed to both enthral and confuse the critters; but mostly they just annoyed Wonky because the gnomes were so fascinated with them. Red-hatted porcelain garden gnomes peered out from beneath flax bushes and greatly intrigued the locals who poked & prodded at them from the shelter of prickly gorse until they broke or were booted from the yard.
The stone-cluttered graveyard which lay in the back corner of the Potter property was someplace that Jean & Crookshanks often wandered down to was a simple thing; really no more than a square stretch of land where previous generations of Potters lay resting. Winter had come early that year, freezing the normally placid grass strands into a blanket of ice that crunched underfoot. The gravestone which jutted out from the land did little to protect them from the harsh winds, but that's okay, that's what jackets & charms were for.
The walking cane—the floral carved one—which Jean had been using in place of the crutches for some time now, currently lay strewn beside her atop the mausoleum (a simple sticking charm kept the reed of a thing in place because she didn't particularly fancy diving off of the stone tomb just to fetch it). Tilting her head just so, Jean could clearly seen the outline of the property edge and the hidden paths that wound through it; this was the place in which she now called home. It wasn't the worse place in the world—in fact, it sort of reminded her of summers at the Weasley's during her school career, or the few times she'd visited her Pureblooded friends in their inherited homes over the years—but it wasn't her home. Not the one in Hampstead where she grew up; where the townhouses were glued together and the local kids teased her relentless for her big buck teeth & bookish nature (though, it wasn't that much different at Hogwarts because some things never changed).
Still, as her eyes traced the line of the manor, she could still clearly picture the hodgepodge cottage (if you could even call it that) of the Dower Estate where Remus and (sometimes) Sirius resided. Could easily picture the edges of the shingle-roofed building which swung closer to the graveyard than the manor, proper, and the hidden basement snuggled beneath the building for their monthly moon-lit runs. There was even a little hatch on the side of the basement for the werewolf to crawl in & out of when he wanted to play. Remus had burnt crimson when Harry had innocently asked about the "…BIG doggy door" and James had just about pissed himself laughing because of it.
Warded to the teeth and lined with both runes & floral barriers, the place was built for the two canines—Remus in particular—a real bachelor's pad (if you could call it that). But more often than not, the pair could be found in the manor, anyways. It seemed after the whole time-travelling-witch-on-our-doorstep, possibly-evil-Wormtail thing and the war as a whole, they weren't too keen on letting any one of their friends out of their sights if they had any say about. It was also likely why they had moved back to the Potter Manor, even though Sirius—drunk on Odgen's Firewhiskey & lamenting about the good ole days of yore—had reliably told them that James had sworn up & down he'd never return to the place of his parents death. But as times were and the need to close their ranks against enemies, there wasn't much a choice. At least, that's what Jean had gathered so far.
In fact, a lot of the property had been adapted to suit the werewolf, if Jean had to think about it; like a parent child-proofing their house in preparation for (young) children. Like the orchard of rowan trees which would be periodically burnt to make mountain ash to mix amongst the compost & such, and replanted for the next season. There was, of course, the numerous wards & protective enchantments in place to keep both wolf & child separate, but there was also the graveyard that sat between the two. It was often painted red from the berries that fell from the rowan branches, or splattered with bird shit thanks to those who divined on the toxically-coloured fruits.
There was the lilac wisteria which climbed every which way, covering both the grotto and the lattice walls like Devil's Snare. It crept over the diamond-shaped fencing and wheedled its way into high-reaching windows with vines that dared to peek into every crack & crevice that it could find. Although pretty in colour, this plant too, was useful in keeping unwanted persons from straying too far (persons—not just wolves). More to the point, as they were so far from their neighbours, there had been more than one occasion where they'd had to pluck a wayward gnomes or adventurous kitten from its branches. As natural magical deterrents, the plants helped to keep unwanted guests out (read: a certain shapeshifting rat and a nosy headmaster), and more importantly, helped to pen in magical creatures such as a certain werewolf & his army of gnomes.
Beyond the brush and the far-reaching borders of their land (each neighbour barely lay within sight of each other), lay the local village. The coastal village of John O'Groats was small (in both size and population), which meant that those who did live within the village were either fishermen, conservationists or (old) families of both the magical & muggle variety. Those who took refuge on the coast tended to view it as either a holiday spot or a safe haven away from the chaos of the mainland of the British Isle (the thing with the mainlanders & the British Isle was a thing all on its own, and not really something you wanted to start up with the locals. You'd be there for hours). Jean didn't mind the smallness of the community; it was almost quaint in comparison to what she was used to, and a thousand times better than the dark & musty corners of Grimmauld Place.
There was a couple of hiccups though. John O'Groats (where the Potter Manor was located) was in Scotland, at the complete opposite end of England, the very places where she needed to go (there was the Floo, of course, but that was besides the point). First of all, the horcruxes were mostly situated in & around London for those were the most easily accessible places for one Thomas M. Riddle Jr to find, orphaned & alone, as hid childhood was. Second, there was a war still going on; one that was gunning for people like her, thanks to the aforementioned Riddle. Not to mention, without her beaded bag, she couldn't very well take off at a moment's notice.
And that there was the crux of the whole thing, wasn't it? Her whole point in travelling back in time, in the first place. It was a universally known fact that time travel, in general, was a crap shoot; even if you had the luck of owning a time turner, or even if you were to be declared a master of the craft. Anyone could tell you that it was a difficult craft to complete and an even harder one to master (one could even argue that you never mastered it). The immeasurable backlash of the act alone was enough to send the smart running, intrigue the stubborn and render all of them insane.
Jean, herself, had only just barely dipped her toes into the craft back in her third year (the first time around), and she knew from McGonagall's numerous lectures impressing upon the fact, just how wrong it could go (that trip to the Artefact Accidents ward in St Mungo's hand 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 beginning when she was still getting used to the time turner. She'd only meant to go back a couple of minutes under McGonagall's watchful eye, but instead she'd found herself standing at the front of the transfiguration classroom three hours earlier, feeling very much embarrassed in front of that fourth year class.
Fred & George had never quite let her live that particular incident down (even if they could figure out how she had gotten there. To this day, they were convinced that she had learnt how to apparate four years too early and were forever trying to get her to tell them how she did it), nor with their teasings or endless questions. But those three misplaced hours were nothing in comparison to these misplaced decades. And there were no twins at her shoulder, begging to be let in on the secret, or her stammered excuses that tried to cover up her cheek-flushing mishap. She was missing those stupid, insignificant moments right then; bringing tears to her eyes which she furiously ignored even as they trickled out.
Everyone she had ever known in her time—friends, family, peers & classmates—were still in their infancies, here; 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 third 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 to the last time she'd seen them. Neither of them had 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. Of course, she wasn't the only one to be full of surprises because she didn't know finding them in Australia would result in her meeting the little brothers she didn't know she had.
Shrill childlike laughter yanked Jean from her stupor and up towards the manor where the bespectacled boy of her once-best friend romped around the garden with his father and uncle. Pulling the multicoloured stocking cap lower over her ears, Jean listened as Prongs—with antlers glinting in sparkly jingle bells—and Padfoot—wreathed in a collar of straggly tinsel—pranced about the snow-frosted garden. Harry, in turn, was wrapped in the puffiest parka that made him look like a marshmallow with legs, and chased after both of the animals. His own pair of red felt & jingle-belled antlers jostled on his head as he toddled about. Although they were not the same as his father's cervine ones, Harry didn't seem to care, instead far more interested in chucking handfuls of snow at the two animals.
Admittedly, the first time that Jean had seen the cervine animagus in real life, she had dumbly turned to Lily and asked why Rudolph the Reindeer was in the garden. The redhead had laughed herself silly at that and Jean had turned a bright red, before the elder muggleborn had turned to each confused party and explained. To the young witch, she told her of James' animagi status and to the wizard(s), she told them of the muggle story of a mistreated reindeer with a shiny nose. Needles to say, Sirius had decided that James needed to sport a bright red nose from that point onwards, and that Christmas he had received a shiny red clown nose for his troubles. At least the bespectacled wizard had been such a good sport about it.
A gentle breath of frosted air fell from Jean's lips as she heaved a heavy sigh as she turned back to the graveyard. In the short time that she had known them, the Potters appeared to govern the household in two separate demeanours. Although both mages were good parents—however young—and clearly enjoyed doing so, they were still complete opposites in more ways than one. 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 manor was warded from here to kingdom come with child-safety spells. Both reactions clearly showed how their own upbringings had raised them; a muggle one where parents were a little less hands on and a magical one where parents hovered a little too close.
Still, whenever the redhead got particularly passionate or heated about something, her Cokeworth accent came out, thick and indiscernible. As for James, he'd occasionally made anecdotes comparing his own childhood with Harry's one, now growing up in the manor. As far as Jean could discern, the reason they had not originally moved into the manor upon graduating, was on account of all the memories that haunted him here. James had lost his elderly parents to a bout of dragon pox only three years earlier, and it still haunted him to this day. It was also why the current generation of Potters had chosen a master suite that was not in the vicinity of his parents' old particular one had become a shrine, of sorts, instructing the elves to leave it untouched for now.
Observing the Potters in everyday life still hurt, though not so much as it had first done when she had stumbled in to the unblemished cottage in Godric's Hollow. To her, they had 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, and oh so young. Jean tried her best to stay in the here & 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 Nevill'e parents; unlike so many others.
Crookshanks meowed pleadingly Jean's lap, begging for more belly rubs as he twisted just so, tail brushing against her chin in an attempt to garner her attention. She contorted just a little as she smiled lovingly down at the attention-seeking kneazle, her own 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 would sort it all out and get it right. She had to.