30 May 1983
Hogsmeade Village, Scottish Highlands

Coming back from her little expedition down to England, Jean had returned to the Scottish Highlands with one final intent in mind. There was one more thing that she had to do that afternoon and she could only hope that the Potters were still busy enough that they didn't notice she wasn't at school. Instead, she'd met up with her best friend from school—one of the few magical folks who inhabited John O'Groats—and together, they'd gone off on their little adventure to Hogsmeade Village, where Jean was set to meet with the matriarch of her family. Delilah Evermore was a spunky young thing full of ever-changing hair & mismatching eyes (Jean suspected she might've been a metamorphagus) and studded jackets, and trawling, trailing sentences that looped in on around themselves.

The young pair of witches had met at school—the muggle one in John O'Groats—and had quickly become fast friends when Jean had mentioned around a mouthful of egg salad sandwiches one lunchtime, that Delilah had reminded her of old friends. Of Luna Lovegood's airy not-quite-there-but-everywhere persona & Tonks' ever-changing face, and how bright they had been—will be?—once upon a time. Delilah had appeared delighted by that and had declared them the bestest of friends, right off the bat.

Not that Jean was complaining. She was, afterall, in a sore need of friends. But it was still strange for her; the notion of having female friends, that is. For she'd only ever had boys as friends (if she'd had any at all) and where Jean was all grounded logic and factual evidence, Delilah was loose giggles and airy thoughts. But they were attached at the hip, nonetheless. So, Jean thought of no other person to tell of her exploits when skipping school that day, nor did she see any issue when Delilah had invited herself along.

So, together the young witches had travelled down to the familiar little village on the outskirts of the Scottish Highlands where it seemed far less rambunctious and strangely quiet in the wake of the school day. To the discerning eye, Hogsmeade might've seemed like an odd choice for a place for them to meet, but it was all a matter of convenience, you see. For Jean, it was closer to the Potter Manor than travelling all the way down to London, or even further afield to the ancestral home.

Besides, the witches that they were to meet with were coming via transatlantic portkey, so it didn't really matter to them if they met up in the bustling city of London or the peaceful Highlands of Scotland. But Great Aunt Constance—the Dagworth alchemist who'd studied in Britain—had been the one to suggest to meet in Hogsmeade. She was probably under the impression that Jean (who was of schooling age) was already attending the wizarding school in the Highlands and was, therefore, within walking distance. Not true, of course, but again, its not like she was complaining.

So there they were, strolling through the streets of Hogsmeade as Delilah listlessly oohed and aahed over various things, with Jean agreeing with the barest minimum of replies. It's not that she didn't agree with Delilah over the magic of Hogsmeade, its just that she had a lot on her mind. On any other given day, Jean was sure that she would've joined in with her friend and become so thoroughly entranced with the idea of being back in the magical little village.

Together, they'd pick & point out all of the little differences between this time and the one she had known, just like she had done when she'd first traversed Diagon Alley in this era. Because there was just something about Hogsmeade Village that drew people to it like moths to a flame. Honestly, if one could bottle the magic of this place and sell it, then they'd soon find themselves rolling in coin, she was sure of it.

Hogsmeade Village—or simply, Hogsmeade, to the students and the locals that frequented the place—was one of the few only all-wizarding communities still residing in the United Kingdom. Founded by Hengist of Woodcroft somewhere in the early 900s, the village had been home to mages and magical folk of all kinds ever since. There was even a little museum on the corner of High Street that wove stories of its inception and the notable events that had happened there. Like the scores of mages who sought shelter during the eons of Witch Hunts, the debacle that was the 1612 Goblin Rebellion and the Troll Incident of 1890, to name a few.

There was even a section dedicated to the 1714 Edict pertaining to the visiting Hogwarts students. Ever since then, third-year to seven-year students from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, who had been so graciously been granted permission to enter the borders of the little village once every weekend or so. Their only stipulation? Behave. Hence the age restrictions and the parental-signed permission slips.

Jean had always loved her little trips down to Hogsmeade Village and even now as she walked arm-in-arm with her friend, in a time that was not her own, she could see the magic of this place. She could still recall the very first time that she had traipsed down to the village, layered in wool & cotton with Ron at her side, whilst Harry had been grounded to the castle thanks to a blank permission slip and petty guardians. She could remember how the snow had blanketed everything as far as the eye could see, how the buildings had reminded her of Diagon Alley and how she felt like she had walked straight into a fairytale.

In her later years (after the debacle with the time turner in her third-year and the village had lost a little bit of its initial shine), she had found herself taking a particular penchant towards the bookshop with its towering spirals of tomes (of course) inside Tomes and Scrolls. There was the Hogsmeade Post Office with all of its colour-coded owls, which had both surprised and relieved her at first. If only because there would be a way to send letters & packages outside of the school-issued owls. And then there were the cozy hollows of the Three Broomsticks where they'd spent many an afternoon chowing down on bowls of fries and chugging steins of butterbeer as laughter & chatter filled the air.

So yes, whilst Hogsmeade Village was no doubt magical, it wasn't why she was there today, no matter how much she wished otherwise. Jean cast a longing look in the direction of Tomes and Scrolls as they passed, heading down the street towards their destination with an impromptu menagerie trotting at their heels. Instead of traipsing through the dusty aisles of the bookshop, her loving fingers grazing the spines of the shelved books and eyes trailing over titles she had yet to read, Jean fingered the crinkled parchment of the envelope that she'd stuffed into her pocket before leaving this morning. The edges had already been worn down by her constant fiddling and the paper had long since lost its crispness despite being only delivered a couple of days earlier.

Her fingers worried the edges of the envelope for the umpteenth time as both witches and menagerie stalked through the street of Hogsmeade; her nerves eating at her and her teeth chewed at her lower lip in thought. It had taken quite some time as owl post wasn't exactly the most reliable, but Granny Gertrude's letter of intrigue had finally arrived, causing Jean's nerves to stir. The elderly witch had admitted to being curious about her own letter, deigning to note that Hermione & Lawerence had settled in nicely and had named both time & place for whence to meet.

Apparently it had been Great Aunt Constance's idea to meet in Hogsmeade (something about it being familiar stomping grounds for the alchemist & presumably the young witch who they assumed was attending Hogwarts given the return address) the very same one who would be guiding their grandmother through the Highlands and sitting in on the meeting. Moral support, supposedly, but Jean was more of the opinion that the alchemist's own curiosity outweighed any suspicion. As was the way with her family; wit beyond measure and all that.

In any case—according to their fleeting correspondence—it was there in the village, where they were to discuss the going-ons of the young time traveller. Although, Jean would admit that she couldn't quite recall what she'd said in her own letters to the matriarch—for it had been some time since the first one had been sent and she had been frustratingly vague for fear of the letter being intercepted—but the latest letter in her pocket was currently burning a hole in there, nonetheless.

Dearest Granddaughter,

I must admit that you have piqued my interest. Afterall, it is not everyday that someone returns from the grave; if you are, in fact, who you say you are.

I have spoken with young Constance on the matter and whilst she is admittedly curious about the prospect of such things, she has also impressed upon me the fact that the tensions within the Isles are steadily outpacing what you would have us believe. You wouldn't be lying to your dear old granny, now would you, granddaughter? Thus, I believe it is pertinent for us to meet sooner rather than later, to discuss such matters.

As for Lawerence & Hermione, you'll be happy to hear that both of them have settled in rather nicely. It will take some time for them to reacclimatise to this place, but I have faith that all will be well. Although I have asked of them what had happened, I find their answers to be perfectly murky on the matter. Whatever happened for you to send them back home, has me both curious and concerned.

Thankfully, they don't seem to have been affected too much by what happened, although Lawerence remains steadfast in his belief that his sister—you, granddaughter—no longer lives. I'll admit that I would prefer to figure you out myself before letting him know, but whatever you've gotten yourself wrapped up in, granddaughter, also has me concerned.

On a lighter note, the family is helping him through the aftermath of his divorce and, after tracking down Helen's whereabouts, we can safely say that she is enjoying the life of a free woman. As for Hermione, it appears that you were correct in the assumptions of magical heritage, sneaky granddaughter of mine. For she has already burnt through several items; least of which was Cousin Natty's gaudy meditation cloth (but for that, I am eternally & silently grateful).

I invite you to join me for tea, this coming Monday so that we may discuss these matters in person, further. This is not me saying I believe you, granddaughter, I am, however, curious as to what you have to tell me. But know this, if you are truly not who you say you are, then know that these most treasonous of actions will be dealt with accordingly.

However, if you are truly who you say you are and explain what was befallen you these past years, then we may very well be able to reach an accord and welcome you home. I understand that you have gotten yourself mixed up with some very unsavoury characters, and should we find your answers satisfactory, we will endeavour to assist you in your time of need.

Young Constance has insisted on accompanying us for this meeting as a witness, for I am unfamiliar with the United Kingdom and its customs unlike yourselves. If you wish to bring a trusted confidant, I see no issues with thus. Might I suggest one of those guardians you spoke of earlier?

I'll be seeing you then, granddaughter.

Sincerely,

An intrigued Grandmother

Jean shuddered to think what kind of punishments that she might befall should Granny Gertrude decide not to believe her. Afterall, Dagworth-Grangers (either side of the family) weren't exactly known for their restrain when it came to disciplinary actions. Just look at Jean's own slew of questionable punishments. Or even Honourable Grandfather Hector's laundry list; her favourite of which, had been when he'd turned a Peeping Tom into the centrepiece of a gorgeous gorgon-inspired water fountain.

She could only presume that the poor young muggle was long since dead by now, but he had been kept perfectly preserved in stone. His shocked & fearful expression so pristinely captured in the hard material as he remained crouched in the position of which he had been caught all those years ago. But instead of hidden beneath a window ledge, he now say crouched next to an upturned vase of endlessly pouring water in the gardens of their ancestral home. In the Veda Estate, if she remembered rightly. She hoped she wouldn't be the next garden fixture to grace those lawns.

"…Hey, Jeanie?" Delilah mused as she pulled Jean from her thoughts, twisting about with her arms floating through the sky.

"Hmm?" Jean hummed in response, blinking back to the waking world.

"What's the word for the feeling that leaves you all sort of frightened but jibbly and jumpy?" She asked, slipping a little to the side as she wobbled on her feet like jelly, dancing across the threshold of the Hog's Head Inn. "Where you're kind of excited but also sorta scared about what might happen?" She held the door open for her friend and their strange menagerie.

"Trepidation" Jean replied with ease. Delilah was always sort of lost for words, even is she always had more than enough to say at any given time.

"Ah, trepidation!" Delilah grinned, "It's a good word! Trepidise these lies or you'll be hypnotised~!"

"Nice song" She smiled fondly, hands clenched into fists inside her pockets.

Delilah grinned, twirling through the spaces between the tables as they were directed to the backrooms where Granny Gertrude & Great Auntie Constance lay waiting. "Oh, oh, I've got a better one! I just made it up! It's very good"

"Oh yeah? How's it go?" She quirked a brow in interest.

As Delilah opened her mouth, the words sort of tumbled out in this strange but comforting sort of tune that flowed in tune with the flickering colours in her eyes. Like the shoals of shimmering fish, the delicate song flowed from her lips and a couple of the shrunken heads that hung above the bar amongst the taxidermied hogs heads, joined in too. It was a bit silly, if Jean were being honest, but hit Scotland completely on the nose, in hindsight.

"Scotland's too cold, too bloody cold!
Since living is pain, here
Why anybody came here, I've yet to be told

If isn't the wind that makes you cry
It's the snow in mid-July!
I can't feel my fingers
And my bitterness lingers

'Coz Scotland's too cold,
Too bloody cold!"