When It Rains

Harry Potter and all those characters, locations, and many wonderful, fanciful things associated with him are all the property of J.K Rowling. I own nothing save my own characters. Many thanks to the muse.


Chapter 2

Midday traffic rushed by the sidewalk café where Hermione and her mother had elected to eat their “late lunch” as it was now nearing three in the afternoon. Pedestrians ambled along the sidewalks, pausing here and there to examine a vendor’s wares or purchase a trinket or two. Hermione loved Little Italy. The people were vibrant and the food was fabulous. Today they had chosen a spot often frequented by tourists but boasted such fantastic deserts that she was willing to suffer the huddled masses just for a taste.

Sitting at a small table covered with a checkered cloth, she turned her face up to receive the sun that was peaking around the dark green umbrella shading their table. A small, contented smile found its way to her lips.
“F
“For the millionth time, Mum, thank you for moving us to the States. I really adore this city,” Hermione said at long last, returning her attention to the best slice of cheesecake she’d had that week.

Lilian grasped her daughter’s hand lightly across the table and said, “No, dearest. Thank you. Were it not for you and Dev, I think I would have gone quietly insane after losing your father.”

It had been almost sixteen years to the day that the Death Eaters had come calling. While the pain of her father’s passing had lessened over the years, Hermione still blamed herself to some degree. “I’m so sorry, Mum.”

“Don’t be, love. Your father loved you and wanted the best for you. He would have been so proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

“And what have I accomplished that’s worthy of praise? I’m a thirty-three year old, unmarried bookseller. That’s hardly a noteworthy existence.”

Having grown accustomed to her daughter’s occasional bouts of self-derision and pity, Lilian was growing weary of their frequency. She shook her head. “Hermione, darling. Child of my heart. Listen to me and listen well for this is the last time I will say this: break the fucking contract and tell your son about his father.”

Hermione’s head snapped up at her mother’s use of profanity. “Now who’s the lady?” she quipped.

“Don’t be impertinent,” Lilian commanded. “That damned promise has been eating away at you since the day you signed it. Tell him and then move on. Start dating, for your own sake as well as Devlin’s.”

“It’s not that easy or simple, Mum.”

“Why not?”

Sighing, Hermione looked away, her eyes scanning the crowds aimlessly. Her attention was finally caught by a family, tourists by the look of them. The boy, close to Devlin’s age, walked along side his father, and gave the man a playful punch in the arm before darting inside a music shop. The boys parents laughed and followed him inside. Hermione’s chest constricted at the sight. She wanted that for her son and for herself, but knew dinsiinside that it would never come to pass. Only one man could ever fill the role as Devlin’s father and that man had ed ded down the job.

Turning back to her mother, she said, “The contract can’t be broken. At least not by me. It is a magical document and by breaking it I would forfeit my wand. I just can’t do that. You know as well as I do that the only person who can nullify that contract is Dev’s father.”

“Would it really be so difficult to give up your wand?” Lilian asked podly.dly. The sharp look her daughter gave her prompted her to ask the more important question. “When are you going to admit to the truth, if only to yourself?”

“And what truth is that, Mum? That I’m a bloody coward? We’ve known that for years,” Hermione laughed bitterly.

“Mia, you’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. But you can be so stupid sometimes.”

“What the devil are you going on about now?”

“Mordecai.”

“Oh,” was all Hermione said as realization of her mothermplimplied meaning settled on her. “How long have known?” she asked finally.

Taking her daughter’s hand once more, Lilian gave it another squeeze and said, “From the very beginning. I was wondering if you were ever going to let yourself go and face up to it. You loved him, darling. There’s no shame in that. Cherish it. But realize also that there is more than just your heart on the line. There’s Devlin to think about as well. What is the best choice for him? Think about that and then think about the contract you signed denying him his father. Is it fair to let him go on, day after day for the rest of his life knowing nothing?”

“You’re rightm. m. And everything you’ve said is true. Devlin is the most important thing right now and I know that not knowing has been bothering him more and more lately. I just don’t know how to tell him without breaking the contract.”

“That’s simple, love. You don’t tell him,” Lilian replied. “You let someone else do it for you.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a smile crept its way across Hermione’s face.

“Bloody hell, Mum. It’s so simple, it may just work. Merlin, but you’re a genius!” she exclaimed then leapt up from her seat. Tossing a few bills on the table she grabbed her jacket and stepped out onto the street, one arm raised in the air.

Pressing the speed dial, she phoned her son. “Devlin, love,” she said when he answered, “Gran and I are heading back to the shop. Why don’t you bring your friend for tea later. There’s something you and I need to discuss.”

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“She slapped you?” Devlin asked, incredulous. “Did it hurt?”

Draco couldn’t help himself. He laughed, hard and loud at the stunned expression on his young companion’s face. “Yes, Devlin. She most certainly did. And yes, it hurt. But tell anyone I just admitted that and I’ll make your life at Hogwarts a living hell.”

“Considering that I don’t attend your famous alma mater, Mr. Malfoy, I’ll take my chances.”

“Tread carefully, boy. You never know what fate has in store for you. That’s a lesson I learned when I was only slightly older than you are now.”

Standing, Devlin gripped the overhead bar in the subway car. “While that observation is most certainly truer, Ir, I have to remain firm in the knowledge that Mum will never send me to Hogwarts. She had a bloody fit when I asked her if I could transfer there during my second year.”

“One never knows, Dev,” Draco remarked as he unwound his long frame from the hard plastic seat and stood beside the boy. “She may yet change her mind. Ah, I believe this is our stop. Forty-second street?”

“I’m sorry you won’t be able to join us,” Devlin said, extending his hand to Draco after they exited the train.

“As am I, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Perhaps a rematch?”

“Definitely,” Devlin agreed. “Any opportunity to take down the famous Draco Malfoy would be well worth the risk.”

“So long as there’s no slapping or animal transfiguration involved, I’ll accept the challenge, Mr. Granger.”

“Animal transfiguration?”

Laughing, Draco called out over his shoulder “Just ask your Mum” as he disappeared down the corridor and into Grand Central Station.

“The plot thickens,” Devlin murmured to himself as he turned the opposite direction and headed for the train that would take him downtown to Penn Street Station. Crookshanks Corner was only a few blocks away from the busy subway terminal, carefully concealed in the Manhattan equivalent of Diagon Alley, Gramarye Street. What were the odds of his running into the Head of Slytherin in Central Park? And what were the odds that that professor in particular would turn out to be none other than Draco Malfoy, his mother’s long-time nemesis turned long-lost friend? The more he pondered the sheer luck of running into a little bit of her past the very day he’d been agonizing over his father’s identity, the more unlikely it seemed.

Could it have simply been coincidence? Devlin didn’t think so. It just didn’t feel right. The niggling sense of foreboding that had been a constant companion of late rose to the fore once more and settled heavily in his gut. Events had been set in motion that he was powerless to stop. What sort of events, he couldn’t say but Devlin didn’t need to rely on divination to tell him that his life was about to change. He could feel it. And those feeling were never wrong. While he was uncertain as to what exactly those feelings were foretelling, he was sure that it was bigger than anything he’d ever encountered.

Devlin hurried down the crowded cobblestone street, weaving his way through the thick, Saturday afternoon throng of patrons in search of his mother. He wanted to talk to her about his conversation with Mr. Malfoy but more importantly, he’d decided it was time for him to tell her about the dreams that had been keeping him awake at night. There was something important in all of this, some piece that was missing and he had the distinct impression that it had something to do with his father.

Wrenching open the door to the bookstore, Devlin was greeted by green eyes, and messy black hair.

“Uncle Harry!” he called out in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”


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“Devlin?” Hermione called out as she closed the front door. “Dev, honey, are you home?” She slipped her jacket from her shoulders and tossed it onto a black ladder-backed chair along with her handbag and keys. “Looks like he isn’t back yet, Mum.”

“Don’t worry, love. He’ll be home soon. Will you tell him tonight?”

“That I’m leaving tomorrow? Yes, of course. I don’t want to get his hopes up, but if there’s anyone on this earth who can find me a loophole in that damned document, it’s Albus Dumbledore.”

“For Devlin’s sake, I hope you’re right.”

“He can do it, Mum. I know he can. I’m going upstairs to pack. Send him up when he arrives, will you?”

“I will. I think I’ll open a bottle of Reisling. Would you like a glass?”

“That would be lovely, Mum,” Hermione replied as she tiredly made her way up to the third floor of her home. The townhouse had seemed like an ideal purchase when she and her mother had moved to America from Brittan but it was times like these, when her aching muscles complained, not giving a whit for neoclassic architecture or hand painted frescos.

She was knee-deep in open suitcases when Lilian returned and handed her a glass. “You know darling, I was told once that you are quite the witch. Can’t you just ‘magic’ all this mess into its proper place?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mum. To answer your question, no, I can’t. I’m trying to decide what to take with me and just can’t seem to make up my mind.”

“You’ll only be gone, what, two, three days tops?” her mother said as she sat down on the edge of the bed and sipped her wine. “Why go to so much trouble?”

Hermione shot her a look that said “What the hell are you talking about?” before spinning on her heel and pulling another pair of jeans from her closet.

“Oh, yes,” Lilian said as though she were having an epiphany. “Because you’ll see him again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,” Hermione said. “Why would I care what he thinks? I’m not the one who’s been denying my son a father. He has. My only concern is that I won’t be successful in this endeavor.”

“Are sure that is your only motivation, Mione? After all, you were in love with him.”

“Now you really are being ridiculous. Whatever affection I felt for him was born of the fear of dying and the fact that he saved my life. It was a passing adolescent infatuation. End of story.”

“That’s Dr. Phil speaking, love. But if you’re aiming for an in depth psychoanalysis, maybe you should give the show a ring. Otherwise, leave the bullshit for television. You loved him. So what? Get over it. This isn’t about you anymore. It’s about Dev.”

“That’s twice today you’ve reminded me that this is about Devlin and not about me. I know that, Mum. No one knows that better than I do.”

“Why don’t you shed that stubborn Gryffindor pride of yours for two seconds and admit that you’re afraid, darling?”

Sitting down on the bed next to her mother, Hermione dropped her head into her hands and whispered, “I’m terrified.”

“He’s just a man, Hermione. Flesh and blood, that’s all.”

“And a brilliant mind.”

“I’ll concede that but little else. What I’m trying to say to you is that you shouldn’t let the fear you’re feeling rule you. Let it pass over you.”

“Are you quoting Dune to me? That settles it. No more SciFi Channel for you.”

“Would you rather I sound like Yoda and tell you that ‘fear is the path to the darkside’ and all that mumbo-jumbo? All I’m saying Hermione is that you have admitted your fear, don’t let it control you. Use it to sharpen your resolve. Be afraid for Devlin and what effect it’s really having on him to not know where he comes from.”

With a groan, Hermione flopped backwards on the bed. “Gods, but I hate it when you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m your mother. I’ll leave you to your packing, love. Oh, and be a dear and finish your wine. After all, I did take the trouble to bring it all the way up here to you.”

“Yes, Mum,” she said as her mother quietly pulled the door shut behind her as she left.

Sitting up, Hermione ran her hands across her face the picked up her glass and drained it. “Well then, no time like the present,” she muttered to herself as she began rummaging through the clothes strewn about her bedroom and tossing random pieces into her suitcase.



AN: I don’t own Dune (by the immortal genius of pen and page Frank Herbert) nor do I own Yoda or anyone (or anything) from the Star Wars universe.