For the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition — Semifinals — Seeker, Chudley Cannons — Prompt: Alien Encounters (in which humans encounter aliens).

Note: Very, very AU

Word Count: 2939 (excluding A/N and title)

Thanks to my wonderful teammates, Queenie and Ashleigh for the beta!

The Birthday Guest

At the end of the street stood the very large house. It was old, too, given the creepers that curled like wires around the grilles of the windows. There was a rusty gate at the entrance. The two pillars on either side of it held up the sign that read, "St Agnes' Home for Children" in round, loopy letters.

The inside, however, was anything but ancient and run-down. It was bursting with life, in fact. Children of all ages filled the rooms with their voices. They were running up and down the staircases, they were tripping over toys and falling, then getting up and running again. It was a very chaotic, dynamic atmosphere.

Mrs Fernsby, a fifty-something woman who liked to dress in frilly clothes was the one who ran the place. She was very patient with the children, and kind and funny, and even strict if need be. The children loved her, even more so for the fact that she apparently baked the best cakes in all of England. Mrs Fernsby had a pair of assistants, a much younger woman called Kate and a younger man called Simon. They were both mainly in charge of looking after the younger kids, letting Mrs Fernsby know when which child was about to fall sick, or if one of them needed new clothes.

Tim Good was one of the children who were on the older side. Or so he thought. It was his eleventh birthday today, and he couldn't stop smiling ever since he woke up an hour ago. His friend Maggie had given him a really cool kite that looked like a vulture. Kate had made him a card, Simon had given him a small wooden box that Tim figured would be useful to keep his marbles in, and Mrs Fernsby had given him a fancy-looking pen and an even more fancy-looking notebook (she knew he wrote poems sometimes).

He had just gotten dressed and was out of his room when Simon appeared before him.

"Mrs Fernsby's looking for you," he said, panting . "You'd better hurry."

Tim frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Simon shook his head. "I don't think so. She didn't look as though something was wrong."

Tim looked as though he was about to speak again, but Simon gave him a little push in the direction of the stairs and then disappeared around the corner.

"There you are! Happy birthday, my dear." Mrs Fernsby beamed at Tim when he reached the office.

Tim turned pink when Mrs Fernsby pulled him into a large hug. Her hugs were known for being very warm and motherly, and Tim thought she smelled of tea and old newspapers.

"Thanks, Mrs Fernsby," he said when she let go of him. "And thanks for the present. It's going to be very useful."

The woman smiled. "Aren't you sweet!" she simpered, ruffling his hair fondly.

"Mrs Fernsby, Simon said you were looking for me."

"Was I? Oh, yes!" Mrs Fernsby pulled out a drawer and placed before Tim a fat book that had pages coming out of it.

"It's a birthday present. A man arrived this morning when I'd just woken up. Told me he was your father's friend and that he's come back from Cuba after ten years just to give you this."

Mrs Fernsby looked slightly wary as she touched the spine of the book. It had a brown cover, and looked like one of those diaries in the books or movies that contained life-changing secrets.

"My father's friend?" Tim asked. "Is he going to come back to see me?"

"I don't think so, darling. He said he was in a hurry, he had to take the earliest flight possible back to Cuba."

Tim felt a strange mixture of curiosity, annoyance and sadness. If he was so special to that man that he'd come back after ten years just to give him an eleventh birthday present, surely he could have waited another hour or two to see his friend's son in person.

Tim remembered almost nothing of his family. Mrs Fernsby had said years ago that his parents had died in a house fire when he was out with his grandmother. His grandmother had been the one who had contacted the orphanage a little over a year ago. She had fallen sick, and seemed to know her time was coming to an end. And that was all the family Tim knew he had.

So, obviously, it would have been nice to meet someone who apparently knew his father well enough to be his friend. It would have been one of the best birthday presents.

Tim sensed Mrs Fernsby watching him. He shook his head to clear it of all the thoughts and looked up at her.

"I haven't read through this," she said. "But I don't think it contains anything sketchy. It's a book, after all. I'm sure it'll have something interesting for you to read."

"Erm, yeah, thanks," mumbled Tim, taking the book for Mrs Fernsby. He opened it to the first page. Someone had scrawled their signature on the yellowing page, and below it were the words: 'Happy birthday, Tim! Love, Uncle Pat.'

"Have a good day, dear," Mrs Fernsby said with a kind smile. "And let me know if you need something."

"So you're telling me, that there's this whole other world we don't know about, and it's got witches and wizards and elves and dragons and goblins and — "

"God, yes!" said Tim firmly. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

Maggie eyed the book apprehensively and shrugged.

"Well, obviously, you can't just read about some fantasy universe in a book and expect me to believe every word of it," she stated.

Tim sighed in exasperation, snatching the book back from his friend and opening it to a page that had pictures.

"How do you explain this, then?" he thrust the book before her eyes, gesturing at the picture of what was unmistakably an elf — complete with a pointy nose, large watery eyes, wide floppy ears and a tiny stature. What was most striking, however, was that the elf was blinking up at Tim and Maggie from the picture, and its ears were moving like an elephant's.

Maggie looked strangely at Tim. She looked as though she was about to tell him he needed to see a psychiatrist.

"Explain what?" she asked.

"The elf's moving, Maggie. Look at his eyes — and his ears! He's blinking at us."

"Tim, are you all right?" Maggie put a hand on his shoulder. "We should send for Mrs Fernsby."

"NO!" Tim half-shouted. "Listen… are you sure you're not seeing the elf move?"

Maggie bit her lip and nodded.

"And so you're not seeing the colour of the ink change either, are you?"

Maggie shook her head. Tim stared at her for a while, wondering if he had gone nuts.

Some people will not believe your words, but don't let that worry you, Tim. You are special, like your mother and father and me, and soon you will be discovered by more of us.

That was what the note at the end of the book had said. That apparently wizards and witches were real, and magic was real. And every time a young wizard or witch turned eleven, they'd be given wands and sent off to a school for magic. And people who weren't witches or wizards were called 'Muggles', and they couldn't see or do magic.

It was all so fascinating, and it was a pity Maggie might just be a Muggle. She'd be missing out on so many different things.

If any of it is real in the first place, of course, a voice like hers sneered in his mind.

"Tim?"

"I'll see you later, Maggie," the boy said, standing up and running back to his room.

That night Tim couldn't sleep. It was partly because he might have eaten too much at the small party the other kids and Mrs Fernsby, Kate and Simon had thrown for him, or maybe it was because of the book. He tossed and turned in his bed, hoping that he would eventually tire and fall asleep.

Which he did, but it was a very light sleep because not two hours later, he was woken up again. This time, it was almost sunrise — there was a cosy blue light filtering through the window, he could hear the birds and even the neighbour's lawn mower (the last one was a bit odd given it was only five o' clock, but Tim did not give it much thought).

He considered going to Mrs Fernsby (she was usually awake by this time) to ask if she had any tips for better sleep when he realised it wasn't the early morning light that was entering his room through the window. Neither was it the lawn mower.

His room was on the first floor of the orphanage, and at the back of it. He could see the yard through his window, and when he rushed to it now, he could see very clearly a giant sphere lying half-buried in the earth. It was a metallic blue, and it had a set of lights blinking around its middle.

You shouldn't have had all that cake, he told himself. It's upset your stomach, and now you can't sleep so you're hallucinating. You shouldn't have read that book either; Maggie was right.

Tim shook his head and looked down again. Fortunately, the — thing — was not there anymore. Tim heaved a sigh of relief.

"I think I messed up the landin'. Dumbledore's goin' ter kill me."

Tim's eyes widened and he screamed — but he couldn't hear his own voice. In the middle of the room stood a man, larger than anyone Tim had ever seen. He held in his hand a pink umbrella. His hair and beard were bushy and long, and they could easily hide a bunch of trinkets in them. In short, he looked like Father Christmas but with darker hair and clothes and a scarier disposition.

"Yeh're gunna ter get me in trouble, Timothy ," the intruder said in a gruff voice. "So yeh better sit down and listen ter me."

"Who are you?" Tim asked harshly, watching as the man put his pink umbrella on his desk and hung his trenchcoat on the wall. There was a distinct click that told Tim the door had just been locked.

"I'll explain, I'll explain," he said calmly. "Have a seat, and don't scream unless yeh want yer neighbours to call the — please-men."

Don't scream?

The stranger fashioned out of nowhere a chair the size of a young elephant and sat down in it, wordlessly compelling Tim to sit down on his bed himself.

"Want summat to eat?" he asked kindly. Tim shook his head.

"Right, then. This might be a bit confusing to yeh, but I promise — yeh've got nothing to be 'fraid of."

"Are you a wizard?" Tim asked suddenly; the question had been in his mind since he saw the man silently lock the door and conjure the chair.

The man surveyed him with a knowing smile and twinkling beetle eyes, before twining his fingers together in his lap and leaning back.

"Name's Rubeus Hagrid," he began. "You can call me Hagrid. Everyone does. And no, I'm not a wizard. Not technically."

Tim was now sure there was something funny in his birthday dinner. Or this man was a fraud that really was a wizard.

"I'm what yeh folks call an 'alien'. And so are yeh. And so were yer parents. And Dumbledore."

Alien? Wow, so this is what they call lucid dreaming.

"Yeh don't believe me, do yeh?"

"Well, of course not!"

"But yeh believed everything that book said about wizards and witches and magic?"

"That's because it had proof!" Tim cried. "The pictures were moving, and the ink was changing colour, and — "

"I gave yeh proof too, Timothy. Conjured this chair out of thin air, didn't I?"

Tim had no answer to this.

"Yeh really think witches and wizards are real?"

Tim shook his head.

"They're not. Well, technically, there are creatures who show exact characteristics, but we're actually called aliens. And those moving pictures and the ink? They weren't magic, either."

"What were they, then?"

"The ink's got reprogrammable dye in it, changes colour when it's exposed ter light. And the pictures are made with very advanced technology; you must see the manufacturing one day — "

"Who's Dumbledore?"

"Oh, he's Headmaster."

"Of Hogwarts?"

The man winked.

"The very!" he grinned. "Hogwarts School of Extraterrestrial Education. Dumbledore's the best Headmaster we've had in years. Brilliant man."

"So, how do we get to this school, then?"

"There are many ways. We can connect yer fireplace to the Floo network, or take a Portkey. Or, I have my spacecraft with me. Looks tiny, but it can fit up ter five people, so yeh'll have no trouble at all."

Tim barely realised he had read about the Floo and the Portkey in the book, but he couldn't remember distinctly what they were exactly. Oh, what wouldn't he give to be able to go back to sleep! But then again, this man had some really cool information.

"So, do you know Uncle Pat, then?"

Hagrid chuckled. "He's a scientist, like yer parents were, and a friend of Dumbledore's. In fact, he's the one who invented the moving photographs. He's a genius."

"Did you know my parents, too?"

"I sure did. They were among the best people I knew," Hagrid dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. "'S a pity they died so young. Gave up their lives for our kind, they did."

"What happened?" Tim asked, more curious than he'd ever been.

"They were a part of the team that was working on building better staves. Something went wrong, and the place caught fire. And no one even realised until it was too late," Hagrid sniffed.

"But my grandmother — "

" — is a Muggle. She was the only family you had left, so we sent yeh to her. Dumbledore thinks it's much healthier for a young alien ter live with their family until they are old enough."

"What are staves?"

"Oh, they're like — say — magic wands, but bigger and much stronger. Every alien contains in them a core that's very powerful, see. Staves help us project the core's powers so we can do things that are normally impossible. Like conjure furniture, or create fire, or transfigure objects."

"Why does your stave look like an umbrella, then?"

Whatever was visible of Hagrid's skin turned pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Well, er," he began with a sigh. "Thing is, I was expelled from Hogwarts in my third year, wasn't I? They broke my stave, but I kept the pieces of it. Works just as good, though, mind yeh."

Tim frowned. "Why'd they expel you?"

"Yeh ask too many questions, young man," Hagrid wiggled a fat finger at him. "But it's time fer me to leave. It's been too long; Dumbledore's waitin'."

"But — what am I supposed to do now?"

"Read this," he said, producing an envelope and handing it to Tim. "We have ter go shopping fer staves before yer school starts. I'll be back on the 30th of August an' take yeh to Diagon Alley."

Tim nodded stiffly, still processing everything he'd been told in the last hour or two.

"By the way, why does the book talk about wizards and witches in the first place?"

"Good question," replied Hagrid as he put on his trenchcoat. "Yeh see, we need ter keep ourselves hidden from Muggles. Yeh know how yer people get if they see summat in the air tha' looks even remotely like this craft. What do they call 'em — UFOs? Your scientists woulda gone absolutely loopy if tha' book talked about aliens an' all the powers we have an' some Muggle got their hands on it. They woulda cut us up and run tests on us." Hagrid shuddered a little. "It's jus' much easier ter dismiss the existence of magic."

Tim blinked rapidly as he watched Hagrid's large form slipping effortlessly through the window and into the spaceship. He pulled down his goggles and gave Tim a small salute.

"Crikey, I almost fergat," Hagrid said. "Happy birthday, Tim! I didn't know what stuff yeh'd like so I didn't get yeh any presents. Know what? We could just get yeh a nice quill or summat when I take yeh to Diagon Alley."

"Erm — OK."

"I'll see yeh, then," Hagrid grinned toothily. "Goodbye, Timothy!"

And then he was gone.

"Hey, Maggie. Do you believe in aliens?"

"Well, UFO sightings date back to around the fifteenth century, before Christ. There are Egyptians scripts that report fiery disks floating in the sky. In fifteen hundred and sixty-one, people in Nuremberg witnessed alleged aerial battles between sphere-shaped crafts. In nineteen hundred and fifty-nine, goblin-like creatures appeared at a farmhouse after emerging from a disk-shaped aircraft. And in nineteen hundred and seventy-four, an UFO crashed in North Wales and the impact caused a three point five magnitude earthquake. So, yeah, I do believe in aliens."

She said all this very fast, as though she was reading off a list. Tim stared at her in wonder.

"Why do you ask?" she added brightly. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Tim knew she was eager to say more.

"But you don't believe in magic?"

Maggie scowled. "Well, there's not a smidge of evidence. So, no. Get over it, Tim."