30 May 1983
Hog's Head Inn, Hogsmeade Village
It was there, in a familiar little pub that was more dirt and grime than anything else, that Jean found her familial companions in one of the rooms hidden in the back. It might've seemed a little strange, but the sight of the many, many mounted hogs' heads on the wall brought the young witch peace in a way that most other places in Hogsmeade didn't. Although, it was a bit of a trip to see Aberforth Dumbledore so young or to see the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore stuck in place without anywhere to go. No passage to connect the portrait to the ones in Hogwarts, no young wizards crawling through the crumbling rock to courier Aberforth's cooking back & forth.
Still, it was there in one of the backrooms where Ariana's portrait hung tall and still—the only bright spot in an otherwise rather dull place—that Jean's hands met that of a familiar old woman. Many years had passed since Jean had last seen her granny, but she still knew each groove etched into that old face and each divot that carved itself there.
From the bleached curls pulled back and the collar crisp & tight even in the May-day sun, to the curious eyes that watched her from over the rim of her cup. The steam from the lemon-scented tea blinded the features of her face, but Jean still knew what lay there; afterall, Granny Gertrude—like most of the women in their very large family—bore bushels of curls upon her crown and intelligent eyes set into that face of leather.
Speaking of which, next to her sat the young plump face of her (however any greats) Great Aunt Constance Dagworth. Great Auntie Constance was just the same as the last time she'd seen her—like exactly the same, right down to the smallest detail—but of course she would be, being an alchemist and all. They were always stuck in this perpetual state of youth thanks to their work; unless of course, you were Nicholas Flamel, but that was another story entirely.
Not that Jean was on her own either because she had taken up her grandmother's advice and invited Delilah along for the ride (or more accurately, Delilah had invited herself along and Jean just went along with it). But the strange menagerie of critters that accompanied them had kind of just…appeared and followed them wherever they went. Crookshanks, she could understand and Padfoot was likely put on babysitting duties, but the hummingbird? That one was new.
For you see, where Delilah had sprawled herself ever so elegantly across one of the chairs and happily helped herself to the bowl of crunchy crackling, the animals sort arranged themselves around the room at their feet like scurrying little watchdogs (quite literally, in one case). Crookshanks had come with her, of course, (he'd gotten much bigger over time and was now a little closer to what she remembered him to be, but with less of the aches & pains that came with old age) because he rarely ever left her side, these days.
There was this little hummingbird that flittered in between so many iridescent colours that it hurt your eyes to look at it for too long. Somehow they'd picked it up along the way and it didn't seem to be leaving any time soon as it had taken a particular liking to Delilah. Jean couldn't quite recall if her grandmother had an avian familiar or if Hogsmeade was just populated with the things. In any case, it was a rather decently sized one and had nestled itself into the spot betwixt Delilah's messy locks, looking for-all-the-word at peace.
And then there was the ever vigilant "Potter dog" Padfoot or "Paddy" as his name tag read, who—even whilst seated—was somewhere closer to Jean's waist than her knees. Of course, Jean knew that it was Sirius in his animagus form, but she couldn't quite recall if she was supposed to know if she was supposed to know about the animagus secret or not. Did the Potters tell her about that when they told her of Prongs? Or was it something she already knew about from before? Ugh! It was so confusing!
In any case, they were there and they were stuffed into one of the backrooms of the Hog's Head Inn, nursing a large pot of tea and the biggest bowl of crunchy curly pork crackling ringlets between them. As Jean quietly shoved herself into the last available chair, she noted with amusement how confused Padfoot seemed to be. Not that he had been any better when coming here, but it was still funny.
He'd been confused when she'd willingly skipped school after practically devouring the entirety of both the Potter library and the John O'Groats Public Library. He'd been perplexed when she'd met up with Delilah, down by the docks. He'd been puzzled again as they travelled down to Hogsmeade and even further still, he'd been bewildered as they entered this place. The earlier bits weren't really something she felt like explaining to the dog, but the meeting of (supposedly) high society witches in a dirty pub? That one she understood. Because usually that kind of gathering was done in the parlour of some manor or even down at Madam Puddifoot's Teahouse, or other such establishments.
But lovesick fools were not really the kind of thing that Jean wanted to suffer through; this conversation was going to be difficult enough. Nor was it the kind of place that her robust granny would've enjoyed; she was far too rough and tumble for that. Besides—even without this conversation—they would've stuck out like a collection or sore thumbs, she was sure of it. Plus, they didn't allow animals into the teahouse, so their menagerie would've been shit outta luck. Besides, Jean felt safer here—she had good memories of this place—and the same could not be said for the teahouse.
The atmosphere was tense as they settled in—well, at least it was to Jean—as all eyes seem to zoom in on her. She felt her skin crawl as both her grandmother's and great aunt's gazes bore into her like they were trying to divine answers from her very soul. It left Jean feeling very naked and she fought hard not to squirm in her seat. Jean felt like she had been called into the headmaster's office; a rare occurrence for the teacher's pet. The silence seemed to stretch on for an eternity; one breath passing in an eon and a blink opening in the next, before Granny Gertrude spoke.
She sat back in her chair, thick robes folded about her in a decisive air like a viking in the war room, ready to plan. "You are not Jean" She said so, pointedly and precise. Her tone leaving no room arguments. Not that Jean was going to; she never could get anything passed her grandmother.
"Y-Yes" Jean nodded shakily, her mouth suddenly dry as her eyes zoomed in on her grandmother's wand where it sat tucked behind her ear. Jean used to do that, but it kept getting lost in her curls, amongst other things. "And no"
Great Auntie Constance quirked an unimpressed brow, "Yes and no? Explain. Polyjuice couldn't have given you…this level of detail without being in constant contact with the real Jean"
Jean's tongue darted out to wet her lips as she cast a glance towards Delilah for support. Instead of a thumb's up or a smile in her direction, Delilah was making…frogs, of all things, appear from the scraps of pork crackling and just letting them bounce around the room, much to Crookshanks' delight. Allowing the little cat to chase after the multicoloured things like it was the best thing on Earth and looking for all-the-world like a child on Christmas morning. In any case, her apparent nonchalance was enough to settle the time traveller's nerves for a moment and she turned back to face the music
Turning to both her grandmother and her great aunt, Jean steeled herself and began. "I—I haven't taken polyjuice—"
"—Blödsinn [Bullshit]!" Great Auntie Constance scoffed a bark, her face full of disbelief.
"Constance!" Granny Gertrude snapped, turning on the younger witch. She was no less believing of the time traveller, but she had enough experience not to jump down her throat before explaining things.
"What?" Great Auntie Constance scoffed, "You don't get that level of familiarity without some sort of potion or ritual!" She gestured toward Jean
"I am well aware of that" Granny Gertrude soothed, "But let the girl speak"
"Hmpfh!" Great Auntie Constance huffed as she crossed her arms, but settled down, nonetheless.
"You" Granny Gertrude then turned to Jean, pointing a gnarled finger towards her. "Speak"
"Uh—uh, right" Jean nodded, stammering over her own words. Straightening in her seat, Jean clenched her hands into the thighs of her jeans, suddenly nervous. This was would be the second time that she told someone about who she really was—the first being Delilah, who just somehow had this way of pulling words out of your mouth. "In my time, Jean-Marie Jaques von Vianden de Granger is—was—my aunt"
Utter disbelief coloured the faces of the two elderly witches as Jean continued. "As for the real Jean-Marie? I cannot say for certain where she is—or if she's even alive—I only know what I've been told and what little I could find on her. So, for this—for what I plan to do—assuming her identity seemed like the best option…" She trailed off in uncertainty.
"I'm sorry" Great Auntie Constance interjected, not at all sounding unapologetic. "Did you just say your time? As in, you're not from this timeline?"
Again, Jean eyed up the witch's wand, this time going to Great Auntie Constance's mahogany tool that danced between her fingers in a nervous twitch, like one might do a pencil. If Jean was wary of her grandmother, she was downright frightened of what her great aunt might do should she decide that Jean needed to be…dealt with. Great Auntie Constance had always been…creative with those kinds of things, much like Honourable Grandfather Hector. "Yes" Jean replied shortly, punctuating her answer with a small nod.
This seemed to intrigued Granny Gertrude further, as she sat back in her chair and swallowed a thick mouthful of lemon-scented tea. She stared Jean right in the eye, her brows raised in interest and mouth quirked in hunger, as if she could try and puzzle her out with her own mind. It was the kind of look that Jean had seen many a-time before, not just on her grandmother, but on herself as well. Though, Harry had often said that her tongue would poke out the side of her mouth whilst Ron had once commented that she look constipated. She'd smacked him for that.
"If you're not Jean-Marie" Granny Gertrude inquired, "Then who are you?"
Jean swallowed thickly, unable to get the words out after hiding them for so long. But she knew that if she didn't worse befall her than humiliation. "…My—I—my name—my real name, that is—" She stammered out, "Already belongs to someone else, but she's far too young to bare the weight of any of my sins"
"And that name is?" Great Auntie Constance pursued.
"My name…my name is…" Jean audibly swallowed as she shifted a little in her seat. She could already feel the sweat beading as she prepared to drop the proverbial bomb. "Hermione Judith Jean-Marie von Vianden de Granger II, born 19 September 1979 " She scrunched her nose up in distaste at her full name. It was a little bit too long for her tastes, but there was only so many Shakespearian characters and combinations of such that one could roll through.
Also, her mother had become quite taken with the name 'Hermione' hence two daughters named as such. "Second daughter of Lawerence Claudius Jean-Paul von Vianden de Granger and Helen Johnson. First mage of the Granger line in at least three and a half centuries" She continued, referring to both the stillborn daughter of the same name who had been born before her and the twins and had come (will come?) after. "…And—and this is my best friend, Delilah Evermore" She added as an afterthought.
"Hullo~!" Delilah sang, stuffing her face with food and drink, seemingly without a care in the world. Jean was grateful that she was there even if she hadn't really said anything. She was just glad to have a rock of some kind, in this semi-interrogation.
"You—you can't be serious!" Great Auntie Constance choked, disbelief warring with unrestrained curiosity.
As for her grandmother, the elderly witch appeared to be damn-near thirsting for anything pertaining to both her missing grandchild and this new one who'd appeared wearing her name. "Prove it" Granny Gertrude demanded, intrigue colouring her own tone. "Tell me something that only a Dagworth-Granger would know"