Close Encounters of the Second Kind

Notes: The name is taken from describing alien encounters - the first kind is seeing a ship, the second kind is seeing an alien, the third kind is talking to an alien and the fourth kind is being abducted. SInce its first release this story has been edited - no story changes have been made, but some continuity errors (McGonagall's age) and some stylistics (the song) have been fixed.

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I was born in the path of the winter wind

And raised where the mountains are old

The springtime waters came dancing down

I remember the tales they told.

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It was a fine day on the London street. The sun shone, there were only a few fluffy clouds in the sky, and the little sidewalk café wedged between a hotel and a florist's had all its tables filled.

Draco Malfoy sauntered past the cheap chairs of the café, heading towards the hotel. It was one of the few establishments in London where one could get a proper magical night's stay. Not bad, he thought as a woman in a red buisness suit overtook him and turned into the hotel. On any other day he would've stopped her, maybe gone out on the town, then later -- but he was in London with the brat and the 'little missus,' and neither of them would appreciate it.

So he adjusted his Muggle tie - it's strangling me, how can they stand it? - and got a new grip on the briefcase that made him just another buisnessman before pulling open the hotel's door and entering.

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Hermione Granger walked as quickly as she could in the uncomfortable pumps, hurrying with an urgency she felt in every inch of her body. Mother and father - dead-

She barely noticed the pale, ghostly man as she pushed past him and into the hotel, her mind on her family. And Johanna - how terrible it will be for her! Johanna was an adopted child her parents had taken in, an almost Muggle girl who'd had no knowledge of the wizarding world before meeting Hermione.

The hotel's clerk tried to stop her, vainly asking what the matter was, but Hermione simply began to mount the stairs. After all, a clerk - probably a Muggle - wouldn't know or care about the rise of the one hailed as the second Voldemort.

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Sighing, Ginny Weasley pushed a lock of bleached-blond hair back into her bun where it belonged. She was so tired of this job - the wizards assuming she was a Muggle, the Muggles always ignorant. Returning to her novel, she wondered if any of them had noticed that she was the one who cleaned their rooms and checked the locking enchantments on their doors. It's only for a little longer, she thought, but knew she was making herself empty promises. It was a fairly cushy job, and she wouldn't give it up.

Sighing, she put the novel down again (it was a cheap harlequin romance that wasn't worth the paper it was printed on) and welcomed a "guest" to the hotel. Wizard guest, she saw, as the floor and room mumber came up on the computer. "Room 20. You're on the third floor," Ginny said blandly, and the man took his briefcase over to the elevator to go up.

The sun was shining outside, onto the café. A man had taken up his post at the table nearest the window, scanning a newspaper through shaggy black hair. She always wondered why he was there, so casual in jeans and sweater, every day of the year. As she watched he put the newspaper down, then picked it up again; the New York Times.

But there were things to do, if no places to go or people to see. As Marcia came in to take over the post while she cleaned the rooms - Marcia was the Muggle that worked the afternoon shift only, a nice part-time job for the married Mum who was trying to make ends meet - Ginny took the supply closet's keys off their rack and headed up to the third floor. Just for a little while, she thought to herself as a mantra. Just for a little while.

Harry Potter nervously brushed his bangs over his forehead one more time, careful to pretend to read the newspaper he'd brought with him. I'll never get used to this job, it's too damn risky, he muttered under his breath, then thanked a young waitress for bringing his mocha. Being an Unspeakable was exciting, sure, but the parts that were bad were really bad - the fights, for instance, or the long waits staking things out. Glancing into the hotel window next to him, he saw a receptionist staring - You like what you see, he thought. Guess I still have it.

You know you haven't been the same since that piece of shrapnel hit your knee, a little devil on his shoulder told him. You'll never love the job again, since you'll never be in the field again. Besides, what are you doing now? Waiting for Cho to return your calls again, after three months? Sitting and watching for a Death Eater who you'll never see? You've got a nice life but an awful way of living. He brushed off the voice, turning his mind to the huge five-car pileup that happened yesterday in a city halfway around the world.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth after the cloying drink, but he ignored it. He simply sat back, forgetting his duties as a Ministry of Magic agent, as he watched the pedestrians walk by. One tall red-haired man caught his eye, reminding him of a school friend - but no, it was impossible. Besides, this man was much younger than any of his friends. At least, he's much younger-looking than me, and I'm not that bad, Harry allowed himself to admit. Maybe I just don't want to believe that I'm finally seeing the effects of all that wear and tear. Nah.

Ron Weasley hummed an old tune as he walked to the florist's with a spring in his step. Tonight, he thought to himself. Tonight's the night!

It had been four years since he'd started seeing Padma Patil, and he was finally ready for a commitment. Forgetting that awful Yule Ball, and the memory brought a smile to his face, we've been together longer than anyone I've ever dated. Glancing into the sidewalk café as he walked, he thought he saw an old friend - but the man was much too old, at least forty.

Inside the shop, he could smell each separate scent of the flowers. Rose, he muttered, lily, orchids, daisy - but it wasn't the time to take advantage of his magically heightened senses. A perfumery had found the addition of a wizard to their staff very helpful, and he smelled all those scents and more on a regular day in the office. He was going to give Padma a bottle of perfume as well as the ring he carried in his pocket, and maybe some flowers.

"You look like you're one happy man," the old woman behind the counter said, smiling. "Who's the lucky lady?"

Ron blushed. "Am I so transparent?" It was a rhetorical question, because he continued: "A girl I know from school, a long time ago."

"A special bouquet, then." Smiling barely stretched the skin on the crone's wrinkled face as she crouched down and inspected something hidden from his view. "Here it is." She triumphantly held up an exquisite arrangement, the usual roses and baby's breath mixed with lavender and other flowers he couldn't name.

"It's lovely," he responded thankfully, and passed some money over the counter. "Will that cover it?"

She smiled her mostly toothless smile again. "It's free, son. Give it to her in good health." Stammering his thanks, Ron pocketed the money again and left the shop, wondering why she'd bothered. Roses are expensive!

But back behind the counter, the old lady was thinking to herself. Ron Weasley, class of 1997. How could I forget? And Minerva McGonagall, age 180, now retired from teaching and living on a pension while selling her home-grown flowers on the side, laughed and shuffled into the back room. But I'm sure they've forgotten. People always do. At least there's someone who remembers.

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River, take me along

In your sunshine, sing me your song

Ever moving and winding and free,

You rolling old river, you changing old river,

Let's you and me, river, run down to the sea.

-----finis 1/1