Author Notes:

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Fairy Tail. Not the Potterverse. Wish I did. It'd be lovely. But I don't. I am taking a little bit of liberty with some of the characters, but as this is a fan fiction story, that should be kind of a given...

Another disclaimer: I am neither British nor Irish, so expect my word choices to be highly Americanized. Sorry about that. Corrections to stupid nonsense I put in here is welcome. I'll try to fix it.

Feedback's highly welcome. This is really meant to be a writing exercise for me to take a story from creation to completion, so the more feedback the better. The length on this is probably going to be a bit long... sorry. Feedback on where I should maybe break these chapters up is also welcome.

This is Rated T. Largely for swearing, 95% of which will probably come from Gajeel. Some darker subject matter. Nothing much worse than you'd find in Harry Potter books, though. This is a Juvia-centric story, though there is a definite Gruvia bias in the story. It's just not really the focal point of this.

CHAPTER ONE

The Little Rain Witch of Inis Stoirm

Josephine woke to the roar of rain and the wail of a babe flitting in through her open bedroom window, stirring her from her dreamless sleep well before dawn.

The former wasn't too unusual. Though it had been a pleasant and warm spring day hours earlier without a cloud on the horizon to suggest a coming storm, the weather on the little island of Inis Stoirm was always a breath from turning. She had more than once woken to a flooded cell after having been deceived earlier in the day with the promise of a clear night. That this had been one more night she'd been misled would never have elicited a second thought from the woman if rain had been all that had waken her.

The babe, however, was a different matter entirely.

Crying children were as expected as storms at St. Brigid's. After all, the abbey had served as an orphanage and school for abandoned girls for well over a century. She had more than her fair share of restless nights listening to the cries of toddlers and babes, but the youngest currently in their care was well over three years old and the wail that woke her now clearly belonged to an infant. And, more distressing still, the cry was clearly coming from outside, somewhere out in the torrential rain.

Groaning, the abbess of St. Brigid's rose from her bed, feeling every year of her fifty-eight years and another twenty on top of it for good measure. After fetching a pair of slippers that had managed to avoid the ran that flooded her cell through her still open window, she donned her heaviest coat, fetched her temperamental umbrella and stepped out into the silent and chilled halls of the abbey, its other occupants still slumbering in blissful ignorance as they waited for the coming morning. She decided to leave her Sisters to their dreams. Something about the rain and its little banshee told her that an audience would be unwanted. Instead, she headed for the abbey entrance and pushed open the great oaken doors, struggling slightly against the wind that battered the old abbey. Emerging victorious in her battle against the wailing wind, she stepped out into the rain.

No child waited for her outside the abbey's doors, not that she rightly expected to find it there. Children were rarely left at their gates. They were far more likely to brought in from the mainland, left at some more accessible parish door than an isolated abbey on a barely populated isle. This child, however, seemed to have arrived by a far different method. She could hear the child's wail drifting up from some point below the bluff the abbey was situated on, from the small rocky beach nestled between the steep cliff faces all around it.

Frowning, the abbess carefully set down the path that had been carved into the bluffs to reach the little beach, hounded by wind and rain at every step. When she reached the beach, she followed the child's cry to a rocky outcrop where, half-sheltered by the stones that jutted out overhead, Josephine found a basket with the wailing child inside. The moment Josephine lifted the basket from its hiding place, the wailing stopped. The child opened their deep blue eyes, as dark as the sea that swelled around them, and looked up at her. Josephine noticed a moment later that the rain too had gone largely quiet, the downpour reduced to little more than a light patter against her umbrella. Pushing the thought away for the present, she made her way up the bluff as quickly as her age and the damp remains of the downpour would allow.

Once back safely on the bluff and inside the cold stone halls of the abbey, Josephine headed for her study, taking care to make as little sound as possible and praying that the child remained silent as well. After a quick glance about to make sure she wasn't likely to be disturbed by any of the abbey's other occupants, she ducked into the study with the child and bolted the door shut once inside.

Josephine set the basket onto the old, simple desk of the study and then fetched from a wooden box on one of the few shelves in the room, an old wand. With a flick of the wand, the fireplace in the study crackled to life, its warmth quickly driving away the chill of the stone and rain. Returning to the basket, she flicked the wand again and dissipated the water that had settled in the basket.

"Let's see what we have, then," she muttered to herself as she pulled the child from the confines of the basket, the babe fussing a little as she did. The child, despite being left outside in nearly torrential rain for who knew how long, seemed a perfectly healthy four-month-old girl with a head of blue hair. Josephine checked the basket for any other occupants and found within it a single envelope. After taking the item out and placing the child back in the basket, Josephine opened the envelope, finding in it two sheets of papers and a necklace. On the first piece of paper was simply one sentence: Her name is Juvia Lockser. Just that and nothing more. The other sheet was entirely blank. Frowning, she examined both pieces carefully, but all it held was that one single sentence.

"You're Juvia, are you?" She asked the infant, who in true infant-fashion, merely fussed in her basket in response. "Pleasure," the abbess replied.

She turned her focus to the necklace, reaching into the envelope to retrieve it. As soon as her fingers grazed the seashell amulet, she drew her hand back, drawing in a breath with a sharp hiss as her body recoiled from the talisman. After taking a couple of deep breaths, she tried to remember what it was that hit her only a couple seconds previously, but the sensation and whatever had brought it slipped away like fragments of a dream. She tentatively reached for the necklace again, but whatever it had been that had repulsed her before was gone now. It was just a seashell on a chain. She held it in her hand and glanced at the babe. As though the child knew Josephine's focus had shifted back to her, the girl began to wail once more.

The abbess set the necklace onto the desk and took the babe from the basket, the rain outside pelting the old abbey mercilessly. "Come now, Miss Lockser. Hush," she said as she cradled the girl. "You're alright."

The child's whimpers turned softer, but the girl still seemed uneasy in the abbess' arms.

"I know. This is a poor replacement for a mother's embrace, but we must make do with what we're given in this life, little rain child," she told the girl as she rocked her in her arms. She took her wand tapped it lightly on the girl's nose, a butterfly made of blue light emerging on the point. It fluttered its iridescent wings as it perched on the child's nose.

The child didn't smile or laugh, but she did go silent, one little hand reaching for the shining blue illusion.

"Welcome to St. Brigid's, little Miss Lockser. May your future be brighter than the past that brought you here."

Outside, the sky rumbled.


"I am more than capable of going down to the village and collecting our supper for the day," Josephine chided the fevered Sister Hildegarde as the woman lay on one of the abbey's infirmary cots after Josephine placed a cool rag over the ill woman's forehead.

"But Reverend Mother," the woman protested, "it's a long walk to the village. It's better that I go. I'm not that ill."

"Enough, girl," the abbess snapped, using the tone that her children, no matter how old they became, knew better than to argue with. "You'll only make yourself worse. A little walk will do me no ill. Rest, and I'll return shortly."

Not waiting for any further disagreement, Josephine left the abbey infirmary. She stopped by her chamber long enough to fetch her coat and umbrella, both items constant accessories every since the sea brought the little blue-haired girl to them and she, in turn, brought the rain that never stopped.

As it was, the rain that greeted her once she left the shelter of the abbey was little more than a slight drizzle, which brought the abbess and the island some relief. She turned towards the long winding path that would take her from the abbey to the village far below on the shore, but she hadn't taken more than a few steps down the worn path when a song flitted up from the little beach below.

With a sigh, Josephine peered over the edge of the bluff, able to make out the little blue curls poking out from beneath the small form's wool cap. Wishing she could just Apparate down to the rocky beach but knowing it wouldn't do to be seen by the girl or any of her Sisters doing so, she started the descent down to the rocky beach. The girl was sitting on a large rock just beyond the shoreline, the tide just below her dangling feet, her gaze on the sea that swelled around her as she sang. The pale girl had no umbrella, the rain falling unhindered on her, not that she seemed to notice.

"Miss Lockser," Josephine called out to the girl.

The song stopped as the girl turned her endless blue eyes to the abbess, her expression neutral as it normally was.

"What are you doing here, child?" Josephine asked, extending the umbrella to shelter the girl as the rain began to pick up.

The girl paused at first, chewing on her lip, before answering in a voice so soft Josephine had to lean in to hear it properly. "Juvia was singing with the sea."

"With the sea?"

The girl nodded slowly. "The sea was singing to Juvia, so she sang with it."

Josephine frowned and looked out to the sea, listening for some sound to explain or corroborate the girl's statement, but she heard nothing but the pattering of rain against the waves and the low rumble of thunder overhead, a clear sign the girl was starting to get distressed.

"Well, no harm in singing, but you need to remember your umbrella, my dear. You'll catch a chill," she said. The rumbling overhead ceased, and the rain returned back to its slight drizzle. "If you've had your fill of the sea for now, would you like to go with me into the village? Sister Hildegarde is ill and cannot go to fetch our supper for tonight, so I'm going instead. Do you want to go with me to collect it?"

The girl's face broke into a rare smile as she nodded enthusiastically, the cerulean curls poking out beneath her woolen hat bouncing around her.

"Come on, then," she said, holding out a hand to the girl. The child took it, and Josephine helped her off her rock and back onto the beach. The abbess guided them up the bluff stairs and then down the winding road that meandered through the hills as it wound its way down to the little village just barely visible beyond. The little girl tugged at her hand as she darted from one side of the road to the other, taking in sights she could only glimpse from the confines of the abbey grounds she had never left before.

Josephine gave the child some free reign, letting the girl drag her one way or another so long as they continued forwards. She answered questions when asked - "They dye the sheep's wool to tell who owns which one." - but otherwise said nothing, opting to let the girl absorb the sights on her own. Josephine was no stranger to children and their nature, but she was not the maternal sort. She knew how to take care of her abbey, but the children she left to the care of her Sisters. She just never really understood them and this little rain witch was scarcely more sensible than the girls before her, so she let the girl do as she pleased.

After about an hour, they finally reached the village of Baile Stoirme, the village largely quiet as it started to wake for the day. The child nearly buzzed with excitement as they walked down the main thoroughfare, stopping in front of every shop still open to peer at the wares inside once Josephine had finally relinquished her hand, finding that restraining the girl was now a lost cause. She'd smile up at Josephine every so often as she pointed at some pretty trinket or bauble in the window.

Josephine only frowned, noting how many more of the stores were closed compared to the last time she visited the village.

With a little gasp that drew Josephine's focus away from another boarded shop, the girl stood awestruck in front of the village's bakery, eyes fastened on a tray of fairy cakes in the window, each topped with a little frosted butterfly. The corners of Josephine's mouth twitched into a smile, and she entered the bakery.

The young woman on the other side of the counter smiled at the abbess as she entered. "Good morning, Reverend Mother."

"Good morning, Mrs. McKenna. I don't suppose I can persuade you to part with one of your fairy cakes for one of your little sisters." The abbess gestured to the blue-haired girl as she entered, wide-eye and entranced with the little bakery so warm and full of light.

Mrs. McKenna paled as she looked at the gestured girl. "That's the devil's girl," she gasped, flinching back.

Josephine stared unblinking at the baker, her brief smile settling into a scowl. "Edith Mary Kerry, I know we raised you better than that," she growled, the tone of her voice one that her girls heard rarely but all knew meant the abbess' wrath was not far behind. "You can't possibly believe in such idiotic, cowardly nonsense." The abbess stole a glance at the accused devil's child, but the girl, thankfully, seemed far too interested in looking about the bakery to notice the conversation going on.

Mrs. McKenna flushed, looking every bit the reprimanded Miss Kerry instead of the woman six years married with girls of her own. "Of - of course, Reverend Mother." She fetched the plate of fairy cakes from the window case and carried them over to the little girl in the patched blue coat and shawl.

The girl looked up quizzically at the abbess.

"Go on, dear. Take one," the abbess told her.

Her face lighting up in delight, she plucked the cake with a blue frosted butterfly from the plate. The child looked up at the baker with a shy smile, followed by a quiet, "Thank you."

"Thank you, Edith," the abbess echoed, giving the woman a glare as she did.

Mrs. McKenna meekly nodded and backed away, her eyes fastened on the little girl who had turned her fascinated attention back to the cake in her hands.

Before the girl could notice the fear in the woman's face, Josephine herded the girl outside, holding the umbrella over the child to keep her and her little treasure dry. The girl looked up at the abbess as they stood in front of the bakery. She split the cake in half and held one of the pieces up to the abbess. The old woman smiled at the girl and patted the child's head. "Thank you, dear, but I've no taste for sweets. It's all yours. Eat it quick, now, before it gets wet."

The girl looked back down at her cake and obediently started to eat it, a small smile on her face as Josephine led her further down the street. By the time they reached the fishmonger's shop, the fairy cake had been devoured and the girl, with a smile on her face and her hand clutching the abbess', returned her focus to the shops they passed. Josephine's own smile was long gone, becoming increasingly aware of the villagers that had started to stir outside of their homes staring at them as they passed and aware of the whispers that followed them, echoes of Mrs. McKenna's own fears. This hadn't been a good idea.

With a small sigh of relief, Josephine pushed pen the fishmonger's door, the little bell overhead chiming to alert the owners of their arrival. A woman at the counter looked over at her and smiled. "Good morning, Reverend Mother."

"Good morning, Mrs. Ryan. I'm here for the abbey's order for the day."

"Of course, Reverend Mother," the old woman smiled and ducked behind the counter. She reemerged with a small brown package and handed it to the other woman.

Before the abbess could thank the woman, a voice bellowed from further inside the shop. "Get that thing out of my shop!" it roared.

Josephine turned quickly to see the red-faced Patrick Ryan storming towards them. Behind her, she heard the child whimper. Instinctively, she placed herself between the girl and the man.

"Get that devil spawn out of my shop!"

"She's a child, Mr. Ryan," Josephine said, her voice steady but full of venom.

"It's a demon! Get it out! Better still, drown the bitch as you should have when you found her!"

The rain outside began to pour mercilessly. Lightning split the sky, flash after flash, followed by a steady roll of thunder.

A litany of hexes passed through Josephine's head, but she wouldn't give them voice. She didn't think any of them would help the girl's cause much. "God find it in His hear to forgive you, Mr. Ryan, for the cruelty you show His most vulnerable subjects, but take a step towards the child and I've no doubt He'll forgive me what I'll do to you," she snarled. She felt the girl clutch her coat, felt her tremble behind her.

The man made no further step towards her or the child, but nor did he back down.

Josephine herded the girl out of the shop, out into the deluge outside. "Come now, little one." Back outside, the street seemed full of people staring at them. Even through the pouring rain, she could see them. She could hear their whispers. And judging by how the thunder grew, so too did the girl. She found the child's hand and clutched it tightly in her own as they quickly made their way to the road back to the abbey.

When they were half an hour out of the village, the rain lightened to a steady patter, cold but not quite as heavy. The thunder and lightning had largely disappeared.

Josephine heard the girl sniffle beside her. "I'm sorry, child," she said at length. "Forgive them. They don't understand, and it frightens them. They'll learn. They'll lose their fear in time."

The girl was quiet for a few minutes longer before quietly saying, "Juvia doesn't think she should leave the abbey again."


"You did pick up a handful this time, didn't you, Josie?" her guest said as she leaned back in the battered and frayed wing chair of the study, a wand idly twirling between the woman's long, thin fingers. Josephine merely rolled her eyes as she handed her guest a glass of whiskey. The other woman took the glass from the abbess, mindlessly swirling the contents while her gaze remained fastened on the rain that gently pattered against the window.

Josephine studied her old friend's expression, trying to glean from it information that the other woman was holding back, but she was impassive as ever. She always played the part of a Ministry official perfectly. Always serious, severe and steady. Every hair on her gracefully graying head neatly arranged in a tight bun. Her clothes, suitably drab and gray, immaculately fitted and pressed, not a wrinkle or tear to be seen. Every part of her in perfect order. It was a far cry from the girl with the toothless smile who used to conjure toads in to the beds of their classmates.

"Can the Ministry really do nothing for her, Mary?" Josephine asked at length, when the silence became unbearable.

"I'm afraid not. We've had some of our best wizards try a multitude of weather charms, and nothing could break through the rain. We've had curse breakers come and try to discern and dispel whatever curse the girl might be under, and all of them agreed that they couldn't detect any. The rain's just a part of her. We've never really seen anything like it. I've heard that the Department of Mysteries has even assigned an Unspeakable to study her."

Josephine frowned. "I've not noticed anyone around."

"You won't, dear. Not if they're doing their job right," she replied with a lopsided grin, a ghost of the toothless girl emerging from decades of Ministry service.

"Well, what about finding her family?"

"No record of any wizarding family named Lockser, and we went back several centuries looking for one. Nor any families with similar, let's say, difficulties," she said, gesturing to the pattering rain against the window. "Orphans are, unfortunately, common at the moment, but the Ministry has been keeping careful track of the children displaced by the latest civil war, and she's not among them. It also seems unlikely that she'd wind up all the way out here if she were a product of it. The Ministry is therefore inclined to believe she's Muggle-born. She would not be the first child to be dropped at your door by parents terrified of their child's peculiarities."

"Such parents don't usually bother to leave their daughters a name," Josephine muttered. Her own certainly hadn't.

"A mother's momentary guilt," the Ministry official offered.

"Perhaps." Josephine sighed as she took a seat at her desk, propping her elbows on the surface, her fingers interlocked and head resting on them. "I want to send her to St. Rowena's."

Mary shook her head. "The Ministry wants her left here, Josie. Here, she's isolated. Monitored. Contained. The storms are easier to explain her as well. It's not the first time the island's seen so many storms. It's not as though the island called Inis Stoirm by accident."

"It's never been anywhere near this severe before, and those earlier bouts weren't caused by a seven-year-old girl, Mary."

"All the same, precedent goes a long way to explain away the unnatural. It keeps the outside world from looking too closely, and with only a single port in or out, we can monitor Muggles leaving and clear their memories of the girl once they're gone. It's harder to contain her at St. Rowena's. Or anywhere, really."

"Mary, I am not qualified to care for this child. I can scarcely manage Muggle children. Isn't there someone who could foster her? A more powerful wizard? What about Professor Makarov?"

"Headmaster Makarov, now," Mary reminded her, "and he just took in Irene Belsarion's girl now that she's dead. Not to mention caring for his grandson with Ivan in Azkaban. He has his hands full."

"What about Headmaster Precht?"

"Darling, he's 120 if he's a day."

"Still, he's powerful, and he must be bored out of his mind in retirement."

"He was. He's returned to teaching at Hogwarts as a Professor," Josephine flinched, a reaction that didn't go unnoticed by her old schoolmate. "I know, dear. Professor Precht and Headmaster Makarov. Pity the new generation. If they make it to adulthood alive, it'll be a miracle. We did ask Precht, but he was unenthusiastic at the prospect, to put it politely. You may substitute whatever words you think he might have used, less politely, and you'll probably be accurate."

"Professor Warrod?"

"Ignoring the fact that he's older than Precht, are you really forgetting sixth year when he lost an entire class of students in the Forbidden Forest for three weeks?"

"The Fullbusters?"

"Mika Fullbuster died in the Battle of Raven's Hollow last year. Silver's hardly in any shape to raise his son, much less someone else's daughter."

"The Heartfilias?"

"Layla nearly lost her life in the same fight and isn't likely to ever rise from her bed again. She's not likely to be of much help." Josephine paused, trying to fetch a name, any name, suitable to protect and raise the little rain witch, but Mary was quick to capitalize on the silence. "Trust me, dear. We've thought this through thoroughly. It's not an ideal situation, but with this latest Zeref not a year gone, there isn't much that can be done. You haven't seen what's happened outside of Inis Stoirm. You've been protected out here. So has she. The wizarding world is in disarray right now. Most of the older houses were caught up in the latest civil war. No one has emerged unscathed. It's not a world that's ready to handle a quite literal force of nature. She's safer where she is. I imagine you've already written to Makarov."

Josephine sighed and nodded. "He'll speak with the school governors and persuade them to offer her a scholarship."

"Good. In four years, she'll get the training that she needs. You just need to keep her safe until then."

"It's not that simple, Mary. She's not happy here." The storm took that moment to illustrate the abbess' point, pounding mercilessly against the window pane while a steady roll of thunder broke out overhead. Both women turned towards the sound.

After a moment, Mary turned back to her friend. "It's not a happy world at present, Josie. Keep her safe. Happy will have to wait." The Ministry official rose from her chair and, after downing the contents in one swig, set the whiskey glass on the desk in front of Josephine. With a casual wave to the abbess, she apparated out, leaving Josephine to a silent room save the crackling fire.

Josephine remained sitting at her desk for several minutes afterwards, listening to the thunder overhead as she pondered what she should do. This wasn't the first witch to arrive at St. Brigid's, but Josephine was always quick to see them removed to St. Rowena's where they could receive proper care without having to worry about Muggles. And none of those girls had even an inkling of the same sort of strength as the little rain witch. She wasn't qualified for this.

Her wallowing in self- doubt was out short when a strong clap of thunder erupted over head, the window rattling of the force of it. Josephine frowned. Leaving the relative quiet of the study for the cold halls of the abbey, she left to find the source of the trouble now. She didn't have to far before she heard a number of voices clashing. With a pulsing headache, Josephine approached the source, finding Sister Adele scolding a couple of the novices.

"Should I ask?" Josephine asked as she reached the group.

Adele merely shook her head.

"Where is she?"

"She ran out," Adele replied simply, glaring at the two novices.

With another sigh, Josephine headed outside, stopping to pick up one of the umbrellas that were now kept by the heavy oaken doors. She didn't bother to look about or call out. She merely headed down the path to the little rocky beach below, spotting the little blue-haired child, sitting on the same rock Josephine had found her on countless times previously. She wasn't singing this time, though. She heard the child sniffling as she approached, the girl's knees pulled up to her chest and face pressed against them. "Come now, child." She set a hand on the girl's shoulder.

The child's endless blue eyes turned up to her.

"Let's get you out of the rain, child." She held a hand out to the girl. The child's small hand wrapped around her own, and she allowed the older woman to help her to the feet. Neither spoke while Josephine led the child back up the bluff and back to the abbey. By the time they entered the abbey, Adele and her charges had already vacated the hall. Rather than taking the child back to the dormitory, as she had done a dozen times before, Josephine led the girl to her study, the girl following mutely behind, her grip tightening around Josephine's hand.

Once inside the room that the little rain witch hadn't been in since the day the sea brought her. Josephine ushered the girl to the fireplace and its softly crackling fire. She set to work unbuttoning the girl's waterlogged and patched woolen coat. Once the garment was removed and laid draped over the back of a nearby chair, Josephine removed the girl's little woolen cap and set it aside as well. She fetched a blanket and draped it around the girl. "Warmer?" she asked.

The girl just nodded.

"Good. Now, then," she started, settling down next to the girl on the rug, "care to tell me what happened?"

The girl shook her head, her eyes focused on the fire in front of her.

"Come, little one," she said, cupping the child's chin to force the girl to look at her, "you need to tell me what is wrong. I cannot help if you do not tell me."

The little blue-haired girl chewed on her bottom lip, looking far older than the seven years she had. "Eithne and Grainne said that you're going to send Juvia away. They said that you'll send Juvia to live alone on Inishdalla so that the rain goes there instead."

"We aren't sending you away, little one. What sin might you have possibly committed to warrant such punishment?"

"The rain -," the girl started.

"There is no sin is rain, my child," Josephine interrupted. "Rain is a blessing. Without it, nothing could grow. There is no reason to curse its presence."

"But it doesn't stop!" Tears welled up in the girl's eyes. Outside, the rain roared.

"It will, little one. You just need patience." In an awkward show of affection, something she rarely showed to any of her daughters, she pulled the child to her chest and stroked the cerulean tresses that cascaded down the child's back like waves upon the beach. The child whimpered in her arms, but the beating of the rain slowed to a gentle patter on the panes. "The sun's there, my child. You just need to learn how to see it, and you will. It'll just take a little more time." Josephine kept the child close to her, stroking the cerulean tresses and humming softly, until the girl's breathing steadied and the storm has grown relatively quiet. She then pulled away from child, setting her back closer to the fire.

"Alright, dear. I need to get back to my work. Do you want to go back to your lessons with Sister Adele?"

The girl quickly shook her head, cerulean tresses scattering about her.

"Would you rather stay here and help me for the day instead?"

A ghost of a smile flitted across the girl's face, and she nodded enthusiastically.

"Very well, then, you can help me some more tonics for the infirmary, but it's a secret recipe. You can't tell anyone. Understand?" she asked the girl, who nodded again, not that the abbess was particularly concerned about it. It was difficult enough to get the child to speak as it was. Josephine unlocked one of the cabinets in the study and retrieved her cauldron, a mortar and pestle and a few amber bottles. She motioned for the girl to take a seat on the chair on the other side of her desk and waited for the child to climb up. She set the mortar and pestle in front of her and added a few snake fangs. "Now then, you grind them up like this."


They were looking for her again.

Juvia scowled and curled up tighter in the alcove, the book on plants and herbs given to her by the Reverend Mother propped open against her knees, its well-worn cover threatening to come apart on her. She couldn't imagine what they wanted from her now, but she imagined it wasn't going to be good. It never was. No one ever wanted the little rain witch.

"Miss Lockser, where are you?"

Sister Paul. Juvia flinched. Sister Paul didn't appreciate disobedience. The Reverend Mother didn't tolerate physical punishment, but Sister Paul knew plenty of ways to torture the little rain witch without raising a hand to her. Juvia debated whether or not it was worth keeping quiet, but she eventually decided it was better not to be discovered and lose her hiding space.

With a sigh, she tucked her beloved book into the worn crevice behind the alcove's stone urn that sheltered both her and her one possession from disapproving Sisters and jealous girls. Her only treasure safely tucked away, she shimmied out from behind the urn, noting for not the first time that she was rapidly outgrowing her hiding space, slight as she was. Another year and she'd have to find another spot to hide.

But that was a problem for twelve-year-old Juvia. Eleven-year-old Juvia had her own worries, chief among them, Sister Paul.

"Miss Lockser! Now!"

Grimacing, Juvia followed the voice through the halls back its source, to the squat, elderly Sister. "Here, Sister Paul."

The old woman pushed her pince-nez spectacles back up her bulbous nose as she looked down at the blunette, a scowl set on her weathered and pudgy face, a scowl that only deepened when a low rumble of thunder filled the silent pause between them. "The Reverend Mother has sent of you. She's waiting for you in the study."

The girl nodded and quickly ducked past Sister Paul, suppressing a smile as she went. Maybe the Mother Superior was going to have her help make some more tonics for the infirmary. Or work in the garden. Or organize the library. Anything would be preferable to lessons in the afternoon with the other girls.

She kept her pace steady, not wanting to incur the wrath of the Sisters she passed. As it was, the Sisters she passed still glared as she went by and, when they thought she couldn't see, crossed themselves. She always saw. They weren't as subtle as they thought they were. Or maybe they weren't trying to be. It didn't matter. She always saw, and just as she had all the times before, she felt the dull burn of anger deep in her chest. She tried to bury it. Tried to remember that it was just ignorance that made them fear.. Tried to replace the anger with pity, but it was difficult. Too difficult for Juvia and her eleven years.

Instead, she settled for internal seething. Well, she tried to keep it inside, anyways. Overhead, another clap of thunder broke out while the abbey groaned with the weight of her rain.

Once she reached the study, she paused and took a deep steadying breath, trying to still the storm outside, not that it ever listened to her. With a resigned sigh, she quietly knocked.

"Enter," came the Reverend Mother's voice from the other side.

She opened the study door and stepped inside, smiling at the Reverend Mother as she did. The smile quickly faltered when she realized the abbess wasn't alone in the room for once. Sitting in the faded wing chair in the corner sat a tall, thin man dressed in a peculiar robe and hat. He was an odd looking man, not that Juvia had seen many men in her years at the abbey to really be a judge of oddity. His face was angular, all his features sharp and pointed from his nose to his chin, even to his peculiar mustache which curved at his lips in nearly a right angle and ran straight down to his chin. There wasn't a feature on his face that didn't fill Juvia with unease, but most of all, she disliked his eyes, small and dark, focusing intently on her as though he saw straight into her soul and found it wanting. She shrank back against the door.

"Come here, child," said the Reverend Mother. In the time that Juvia had spent examining the odd man in the corner, the abbess left her desk and taken a position beside the stranger. She held her hand out to Juvia, while leaning heavily on her crosier, a constant accessory for the abbess as of late.

Keeping a wary eye on the stranger as he got to his feet, his pointed hat bending as it scraped the low ceiling of the study, she joined the Reverend Mother, trying to keep as close to her and as far from the strange man as she could.

"Miss Lockser, this is Professor Jose Porla." The Reverend Mother motioned to the man. "Professor Jose, this is Juvia Lockser." The man merely nodded while Juvia eeked out a quiet hello. "Miss Lockser, Professor Jose is from a school called Hogwarts. They've offered you a scholarship to attend school there."

"For Juvia?" She regarded the Reverend Mother quizzically.

The woman nodded. "Hogwarts is a special sort of school," she said. "It's where I was trained as a girl. The abbess pulled down a small box from a shelf and pulled from it the piece of gnarled wood that she often used to stir the tonics Juvia helped her make. She took the wand and tapped its point on Juvia's nose. When she drew it back, light sprang forth from the point, forming a bright blue butterfly, shimmering with wings of blue and green as it settled on Juvia's nose.

Juvia's breath hitched in her chest as she reached out to touch the creature. It moved from her nose to her fingers, fluttering its wings, a trail of light following its every movement. The abbess tapped the butterfly again with the instrument and it vanished in a shimmer of light.

"Hogwarts is a place where children learn to control their magic," the abbess explained. "It's a place that can teach you to control the storms."

Juvia's heart leapt into her throat, feeling like she might drown in the sudden rush of hope that threatened to overwhelm her. "Can they - can they really teach Juvia to sop the rain?"

The man scoffed, the first sound he had made since she arrived. "Of course we can. Your storms are, admittedly, impressive, but nothing that hasn't been overcome before. With proper training, we'll be able to focus your talents."

"What do you say, my dear?" asked the Reverend Mother. "Would you like to go?"

Juvia's gaze shifted to the window, to the rain that pattered against the glass, towards the village she couldn't see through the storm. She remembered the villagers. Remembered the whispers. Remembered the Sisters who crossed themselves in fear. "Won't they be afraid of her? Won't they hate her too?"

"Fear and hate are merely by products of ignorance, my dear," said the Reverend Mother. "You'll be with wizards. They'll understand. They won't fear you. They'll help you."

Juvia looked back to the Reverend Mother and the professor and, after a deep breath, nodded.

"Very well," the professor said. "I will spend tonight in town, and we'll leave in the morning."

"Thank you, Professor," the Reverend Mother said. He nodded and then exited the room, leaving the girl and the abbess alone. The woman turned back towards her desk, leaning heavily on her crosier until Juvia moved to her side to give the Reverend Mother something else to support her. "Thank you, my dear," she said as Juvia helped her to her chair. "Are you nervous?"

"Frightened," Juvia admitted after a pause. "She has only ever left the abbey once. What if she leaves the abbey again and finds it the same as before?"

"You will always have sanctuary here, my dear. No matter what occurs, but now it's time for you to set out on your first adventure. Face it bravely, and you'll be rewarded for it," she said, patting the girl's hand. "Now then, child. You must not speak of what we've talked about here with any of the others in the abbey. We'll tell them you're going to a boarding school. Don't speak about magic. They won't understand, and they wouldn't approve."

"Yes, Reverend Mother."

The abbess paused, studying her, and Juvia fidgeted under her gaze. At length, the woman sighed. "Will you fetch that box for me, child?" she said, gesturing to a small box on the shelf. Juvia dutifully pulled it down and set it before her. The Reverend Mother reached in and pulled from it a necklace, a seashell fastened on a silver chain. "I was going to give this to you when you were a bit older. I didn't want you losing this to one of the other girls. I know how they can be." She placed the necklace in Juvia's hands. "This was the only thing of yours that we found with you when you arrived here."

Juvia took the seashell amulet in her hand and turned it around. It looked so ordinary. Like a shell she could find on the beach below the bluff. Still, someone had left it for her. Someone had cared enough to give it to her. Ordinary as it was, she felt a smile tug at her lips. "Thank you."

The Reverend Mother patted her hand once more. "Off you go now. You've packing to do, and a long journey in the morning."


Before the sun had risen, not that she or the island of Inis Stoirm had seen the sun rise in all the years she'd been there, Juvia stood at the abbey entrance. In one hand, she held her small case containing her few possessions; her few patched and threadbare clothes and the book of plants and herbs that the abbess had gifted her. In her other hand, she gripped the handle of her little pink parasol, one of the donated umbrellas given to the abbey that the other girls had cast of as being tacky and childish decorated with red hearts and white lace trim. Juvia, however, had taken a liking to the parasol. One little outcast finding comfort in another.

Juvia waited impatiently for the strange man from yesterday to arrive, shifting her weight from one foot to the next at different intervals. The abbess waited with her with far more patience, seated quietly on a bench along the wall. The strange man did not make them wait very long, appearing through the gently falling rain and swirling mist like a ghost. A knot formed in Juvia's stomach, both anxious to be going and apprehensive to be going with the peculiar Professor away from the abbey.

He nodded at them as he approached. "Come," he motioned to her.

Before she followed, she turned to the abbess and embraced her. She felt the abbess stiffen a moment, but she soon returned the embrace. The woman patted the girl's head once more.

"There now, girl. You've an adventure waiting for you. Best not keep it waiting."

Juvia nodded and, smiling one last time at the old woman, waved goodbye before following after Professor Jose.

The man said nothing to her as they followed the path that wound its way to the village of Baile Stoirm, something Juvia was relieved about. She didn't like the sound of his voice, like oil on the ears, slimy and slick. His eyes, however, flicked down to her occasionally, and she reflexively clutched her bag closer to her, wanting to shrink away from the man's gaze. Shortly before they reached the village, he paused, Juvia obediently coming to a stop beside him. A thin, long and pointed finger, rather like a spider's leg, reached down and touched the amulet around her neck.

"What is that?" he asked.

The hand that clutched the parasol instinctively rose to shield the amulet from view. "It's Juvia's. It was left with her when she was brought here," she said.

The professor frowned, his eyes on the hand covering the amulet. "How very peculiar." Muttering to himself, he carried on, Juvia falling into step behind him.

The village of Baile Stoirm was quieter than she remembered from the last time she was there. Many of the shops that she had seen before, including the bakery and its window filled with sweets, were dark and boarded up. The streets that had seemed so full of people to star and whisper were now abandoned. Empty. She heard the Sisters whispering about it before, of the families that fled the island, driven way by the rain. Gone. Gone because of her.

As Juvia and Professor Jose passed through the ghostly streets, she wondered whether or not Baile Stoirm would remain that way. Would it recover? Would the families return? Or had she permanently destroyed Inis Stoirm?

Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed when they reached the docks where a boat waited for them. The man on deck nodded at Professor Jose as he approached and then smiled at her, reaching out a hand to her to help her board. "Watch your step, love," he said as she made her way up the gang plank.

Once both his passengers were aboard, he moved to the helm and the ship made its way to the open sea. Juvia looked back to Baile Stoirm and the abbey beyond, watched them grow smaller in the distance. The knot in her stomach tightened as the only home she had known, unfeeling and unwelcoming as it had largely been, was lost from sight. Burying the fear, she turned her eyes to the horizon, to the rising sun she couldn't see.