10 February 1983
Potter Manor, John O'Groats
The new year had passed without much fanfare and though Jean had only been conscious for roughly five months, she was itching to get up and going. Those five months had felt like an arduous task made only marginally better by the fact that her rehabilitation had quickly moved away from the muggle side of things, and more towards the magical side of things. Because, whilst there was nothing that she loved more than sitting there, curled up in a cozy corner of the library with a good book and a cup of steaming tea—something made infinitely better by the gentle pitter-patter of rain against the window—it felt like she had finally rediscovered a piece of herself. A piece that she had previously thought lost, and had dearly missed. It was like scratching at that phantom itch after so long and relishing in the relief that it brought.
Lily had urged her time and time again to go slowly with this part of her recovery, but Jean wouldn't listen; in fact, she almost seemed to devour those (text)books with a fervour that was almost delirious; making her way through the Potter library with a reverence. Something which had played in her favour, as she was currently rifling through her little beaded bag that she'd summoned during the night and took stock of what was there & what had gone missing whilst out of her possession. Thankfully everything seemed to be in there, if a little out of order and a little jumbled from the sudden accio (she still couldn't figure out where it had been). In fact, the only thing that seemed to be missing was Headmaster Black's portrait and, quite frankly, she was glad to be rid of him. Pretentious prick.
It had barely been five months since she'd awoken from her magically-induced coma—two since she'd given herself the all clear to start performing magic again and she had more or less thrown herself into relearning and reacclimatising herself with her own magicks (including the darker stuff that she had refused to touch before, on principle alone. Nimüe had quickly knocked that particular habit out of her; magic was neither good nor bad, it was how you used it. And as such, she found herself practising other such arts under the safety of the stars, warded behind precariously constructed spells and a blanket over her head; like that would help).
Jean had tried to take it slow in the beginning, honest, but her resolve had crumbled like a wet rag almost as soon as she had gotten ahold of that first book—the Standard Book of Spells, if she remembered correctly. Devouring text after text, she was practically living in the library as she chomped at the bit to get more—to know more—to practise again. Admittedly, she had started out with the first year stuff (it was just about the only compromise she had come when to adhering to Lily's warnings), but it hadn't taken long after that for her to move on & up through the years and before she knew it, she was using the sprawling Potter manor property to practise her apparation away from prying eyes.
Going further & further afield (leaving behind her cane more & more until she no longer needed it anymore), until she could reach sites farther from reach and farther from sight. Until finally she found herself hopping back & forth, from one end of the property to the other without much hassle. Destination, determination and deliberation, indeed. In fact, today had been the first time that she had even tried to go further abroad than the Potter Manor and she had chosen to test this particular stretch of apparation under the cover of red-sky dawn, down below on the coats of John O'Groats.
Jean absolutely abhorred having to get up so damn early—getting up even before toddler feet could thunder throughout the house or even before house-elf's fart—but it was (unfortunately) necessary if she wanted to get her practise in before watchful eyes could stop her. So, she had risen early each morning since then, to practise & practise until the world went wonky and she had to sit down. Admittedly, it had taken her a few tries to get it right and even then, she was still worried about leaving a limb behind (not that she had done that during her first stint at apparation, but the worry still remained). Besides, it was progress; progress which she took in stride.
Particularly considering how quickly she had recovered from such an arduous ritual (four-ish months may have seemed like a long time in the moment, but people had taken far longer to recover from such things, if they ever did at all) and it seemed almost like a miracle that her magic had interwoven itself so intricately and settled so quickly, after such a change. It wasn't everyday that you permanently altered your body's physiology, afterall.
Jean was only apparating now, but before she'd know it, she'd be romping back & forth through the Scottish highlands in her own animagus form (not that she did a lot of romping, in the first place). The excitement and anticipation was eating her alive; especially since some of her more animalistic qualities were already starting to come back in full force. Her penchant for spicy things, for example and her fascination with fire, for another. Plus, she couldn't wait until she could go further afield than the Potter property line which she'd circled at least a million times over, by this point. But, that was something she had to be patient about; in the meantime, the Floo Network would have to suffice. Hence why she was currently stuffing herself into time appropriate clothing and setting her alarm in preparation for the next part of her plan: laying the groundwork for Auntie Jean's revival.
Auntie Jean (for which she was named) had passed some time before she was born alongside both of her parents (Hermione's grandparents), leaving only Hermione's father as the sole survivor. Some sort of natural disaster, that her father had mentioned to them about, once upon a time ago. He didn't talk about them much, instead choosing to tell fantastical stories about holidays at their ancestral home; ones filled with magic and fancy. She'd loved those stories, especially when they had started travelling to Luxembourg for the annual family reunion; although she never understood why her mother hated them so. It was't until she was older that she learnt of the stupid family feud which had divided them into "Dagworths" and "Grangers" Or what her mother's thinly-veiled and backhanded comments actually meant; the kind said with forced politeness, smug eyes and thin lips. She did now, but she wished she didn't.
And that thing with her parents—with Hermione's parents—they were a whole other can of worms; certainly not Potter-famous or Black-madness, or even Weasley-poor or Malfoy-snobs; but still a can of worms all the same. They say when sons go in search of their life partners, they (typically) marry someone akin to their own mother. So, of course, when Lawerence Granger, a generational squib married Helen Johnson, a devout Catholic, it was almost expected that he'd marry a good church girl, because he had done the same as his father had done, and his father, before him. Which was all very well and good, until they produced a witch for a daughter and then, well, suffice to say some days were tense.
Her father may have of only been one in the line of many squibs from the great line of Dagworth-Granger, but at least he had grown up on the tales of magic. Her mother on the other hand, was a devout Catholic (the stickiest religion in the world) and such things did not tend to mix well with magic. History could attest to that. So, could her own history, actually, because by the time she was fourteen years old her mother had already had her exorcised three times. Once, when she was eight and a burst of accidental magic burnt down her cabin at sleep-away church camp. Second, when she was eleven, not too long after her Hogwarts letter had turned up and her father had had to come clean about his ancestry. And third, when Sirius Black was in the papers and her mother had thought her daughter was being influenced by "the devil"
Despite all of this, Jean—Hermione—loved her parents, there was no doubt about that. They were her parents, afterall, how could she not? But not everything was not as rosy as she liked to pretend. They had doted on her in the beginning, treating her very much like the beloved daughter she was, but no sooner had the accidental magicks began to make an appearance did those pleasant things go south. Just little things here and there; an out-of-reach book suddenly in her hand, the television turning on without aid and a classmate's juice box exploding in their face would result in unfounded punishments from her mother. When they were all said and done, her father would sneak her down to the local cornerstore for ice cream, so it wasn't all bad.
Until that fateful church camping trip when she was eight years old. Jessica Trawley, covered in burns, still flinched whenever she walked passed and her mother had insisted on an exorcism in the aftermath; the first of many. Though, she tried not to think about that. About how blood-boiling, rage-inducing mad she had been that day, how she hadn't been able to sleep, how the angry tears just wouldn't stop and how she wished to get back at her bullies. How the fire just seemed to start on its own, how it had a life of its own as it danced around the cabin, how it climbed up the wooden bunkbeds with fervour and how her bunkmates had screamed bloody murder as they tried to flee. They were all fine in the end, but that hadn't stopped the bullying like she'd hoped, in fact it only made it all the more worse. It wasn't helped by her mother's bittersweet whispers of promised punishments as she scrubbed her arms raw of the ash & soot. Or the waves of shame that immediately washed over her as her father sat on the toilet, with his head in his hands, only adding fuel to the fire (pun intended).
A lone owl's hoot outside pulled Jean from her thoughts as she returned to the task at hand. Gathering up the papers scattered across her desk, she folded them neatly before stuffing them into her beaded bag; she couldn't forget them when she started tomorrow. These papers were important; most were forms forged by one Blaise Zabini (an art he'd picked up from his mother) and the others were a letter to the matriarch of the Dagworth-Granger families. The forms, when signed, would do two things: officially "divorce" both her parents & Petunia & Dursley and grant guardianship to the chosen party. In this case, Lawerence would retain guardianship of Hermione, whilst Petunia would take Dudley.
If all went well, then Petunia & Dudley would return to her parents' home under the influence that Vernon had been abusing them. Even if Jean was't sure they deserved it, this was more of a failsafe for Harry, than anything else. In case, Merlin-forbid, something did happen to the Potter parents again, Jean downright refused to send Harry to the same situation as before. Because you just knew Dumbledore would stick his nosy beak into where it didn't belong. He'd done before and he'd do it again.
Personally, Jean thought that neither Petunia nor Dudley deserved such kindness but Harry had often lamented on how strangely nice his aunt and cousin had been, the day they had moved out on the eve of his seventeenth birthday. How Dudley had humbly come begging for forgiveness some years later, with curious questions about the magical world when his own daughter turned out to be a witch—a Ravenclaw, in fact. And how, when prodded, Petunia would quickly dive to cover up her husband's misgivings throughout their partnership, instead turning her ire on Harry, a literal child. So, Jean knew that simply nudging the stubborn woman in the right direction wasn't going to cut it. She was going to need direct intervention.
Vernon, on the other hand, had been as abusive as ever, and quite frankly everyone who had ever known him, was glad to wash their hands of him; Harry & Jean included. But to interfere like this? She wasn't quite sure that they deserved it. In this case, she hoped that modifying their memories in such a fashion would direct both mother & son towards the homely lap of her blood family. Perhaps this time, old wounds could heal before it was too late. But first, the grouchy walrus had to go.
As for the situation with Lawerence & Hermione, Jean had to admit she was just being a little selfish. Her childhood hadn't bad, per se—certainly not to the degree of some of her friends—but she'd always wondered, "What if?" What if they'd stayed in Luxembourg? What if she'd attended Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts? What if she didn't have a yearly death threat to look forward to each time she returned to school? Or a bitter mother each time she returned home? Plus, with the Grangers out from under Dumbledore's thumb, they couldn't be used as leverage against Jean, nor would she be forced to do something as drastic as last time (This didn't count).
There was also an envelope containing false identities and passports for her mother, father & younger self, as well as the deed to a small house on the ancestral property in Luxembourg. Auntie Jean had inherited the Granger estate home within the grounds of the Dagworth-Granger property (a bit like the Dower estate on the Potters) and Jean had no problem rehoming her younger self & her father there. As for her mother, she would be set up in Australia as a student abroad, just like she'd always wanted. Mercifully, they had yet to set up their dental practise here, in the UK, meaning that she didn't have to deal with closing that up and so on. The last set of papers in the collection was a letter to the matriarch of the family—of both sides of the family—briefly explaining why they had suddenly relocated and hinted at the revival of Jean Granger. Jean hoped it was enough.
Alarm set, papers safely stashed in her beaded bag and tucked securely within her clenched fist, Jean eventually went to bed. Tomorrow, she would meet with her parents for the first time in nearly a hundred & fourteen years.