T.A. 2941, April

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down or eat; it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

In one particular hobbit-hole in the small and quaint settlement of The Hill was one Mister Bilbo Baggins. He was a Baggins, and a Baggins, you see, are of the respectable sort, and folk regarded them well, not because they were rich (although they were) but because they were perfectly ordinary and did nothing adventurous or unexpected of any sort. And, on the outside, Mister Bilbo Baggins was very much like his parents and grandparents and his grandparents' parents before him, and appeared to be perfectly relaxed and comfortable in the estate of Bag-End that his father Bungo Baggins has built for his mother, Missus Bungo Baggins.

But you see, before her marriage, Missus Bungo Baggins was one Miss Belladonna Took. And Tooks, despite their wealth - even greater than that of the Bagginses! - was not considered to be as respectable or as proper, because it was rumored that every once in a while, members of that family went missing - and the family would hush it up. Of course, everyone still knew that they were going on adventures, just like their great-grandmother, Amarylla Took, who penned a novel of all her many adventures that was read by young'uns and adults alike even today. Folk said that long, long ago, a fairy had married into the Took clan, and that was how their mischievous streak began.

Not only did Bilbo have Tookish blood, it was by some miraculous coincidence (almost as if it had been engineered by somebody else) that Belladonna had inherited the Took family's ancestral weapon - the 1873 Winchester, supposedly a gift from an ancient sorcerer. An item that was kept a great secret from other families, even from sub-branches of the Took clan, it was as valuable as it was rare and it was kept stowed away in a chest lined with silk to keep it safe. Bilbo has only once seen it in action, when he was a mere child still, during the Fell Winter of 2912, when Bungo was out with the rest of the male adults hunting starving wolves that a stray pair of mutts had threatened Bag-End and his dear mother Belladonna (bless her soul) had protected her child with the ferocity of a mother bear, which was how Bilbo knew that his antique weapon still worked and how.

Bilbo did not particularly like weapons and they made him uncomfortable; yet he was greatly interested in old things, things from the far past and rare things, things from sorcerers certainly among the rare - and so, when he was certain he'd not be receiving visitors that evening, he might occasionally take out the weapon from inside the velvet and silk-lined chest from behind his mother's portrait in the sitting room and polish the walnut-wood or brass components and inspect the scratches and worn grip while wondering who had held it before, where, and when. All this time, it acted as a reminder of his adventurous heritage, not that he knew.

Regardless, Mister Baggins was of the respectable sort and would not dream of having adventurous thoughts unless his life depended on it, and being a bachelor he had no children to protect with the old weapon like some sort of berserker from fairy-tales. The kind of thoughts that he instead had revolved around what he might eat that evening - perhaps fish? Maybe he could go fishing later - or whether that damnable old Proudfoot - Proudfeet? He could never recall - was going to pay off his loans.

This one particular morning, after a pleasant stroll down to Bywater - as always, he glanced into the Big House, the only residence in the area that was built aboveground, strange - and returning to Bag-End by walking alongside the river, he had plonked his behind on his lawn chair and kicked up his hairy feet onto a small stool and begun putting on some of the finest pipeweed in the Shire. This was perhaps his favorite time of day, besides supper. He closed his eyes and only opened them to inspect the smoke-rings he blew, but he saw a rather tall and older gentleman coming his way - Bilbo heard his heavy black boots on the cobblestone, his white beard swish-swishing over his silver scarf, his grey cloak flapping about with each step he took, and of course, he had a rather pointy blue hat that was hard to miss.

"Good morning!" Bilbo called, and he meant it. Bright blue, cloudless sky, windless and warm.

The gentleman stopped, leaned on his staff and stuck out his bushy eyebrows from under the brim of his pointy hat. "What do you mean?" asked he. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

"All of them at once, I suppose," Bilbo said with nary a pause, "and a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco outdoors! If you have a pipe, do sit down; have a fill of mine. We have all the day ahead of us!" To demonstrate, Bilbo sat back down and blew an impressive smoke-ring that lazily floated up towards the skies.

"Very pretty," he said, "but I'm afraid I have no time for leisure. You see, I am looking for someone to join an adventure, and finding someone is proving rather difficult."

"I should think so!" Bilbo said. "We are all very quiet folk with no need for excitement. Nasty things, these adventures - makes you late for supper!" And then he took out his letters and pretended to go through them, thinking that the elderly gentleman that he might not be quite the kind of folk he was used to, but the man simply leaned on his walking-stick and stared rather intensely with his sharp blue eyes.

Bilbo squirmed under his gaze.

"Good morning!" He cried finally. "No adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water."

"Good gracious, plenty things you use 'good morning' for," he laughed. "Now you're saying that it shan't be a good morning till I scuttle off!"

"Not at all my dear sir," Bilbo backtracked. "Hm, let me see - would I know your name?"

"I certainly hope you would," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!"

"My goodness," Bilbo said, "you mean to say you are the Gandalf who gave Old Took those diamond studs that fastened themselves? Or the Gandalf that brings such delightful fireworks! Or the Gandalf who is responsible for so many little lads and lasses going on adventures every time you visit - from climbing trees or visiting elves or… life used to be rather int- I mean, you used to upset many around these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I hadn't any idea you were still in business."

"Where else should I be?" Gandalf chuckled. "All the same I am pleased you remember something about me - and I see you look upon my fireworks kindly, and that is not without hope. For your grandfather the Took's and your dearest mother Belladonna's sake, I shall give you what you asked for."

"I beg your pardon, but I have asked for nothing!"

"You have - twice now! My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very healthy for you - and very profitable too, if you ever get over it."

"Sorry!" Bilbo interrupted. "But I do not want any adventures. Good morning! But might you come to tea? Any time you like. Why not tomorrow? Excellent, see you tomorrow. Goodbye! Good morning!"

Then he scurried back inside his home and quickly closed his circular door, just slow enough that it wouldn't be seen as rude. Bilbo sucked in a breath and determinedly stride back further into his home, pushing aside thoughts of the pushy visitor. A cup of tea. Yes, that would help him calm down - and so he went to the kitchen and filled his kettle and hung it over the fire, and went to fetch some tea-leaves from one of many pantries in this hole.

As the kettle boiled, without his knowledge, the old man known as Gandalf was quietly chuckling to himself before he reached out with his walking stick and scratched a single dwarf-rune beside the polished brass doorknob on the fresh-painted green door. Yes, this little hobbit would be absolutely perfect for the adventure to come! Once his little act of vandalism was done, he stepped back away from the door and strode away whistling to himself the tune of a song he'd learned from his friends called 'Hey Jude'.

Mister Baggins soon forgot about the older gentleman as he read through his letters; not just pretending this time, and also the fact that Proudfoot - Proudfeet? The handwriting was indecipherable - had failed to deliver on his loans once more after sinking his money into dice and cards had him muttering angrily for a whole hour such that the thought of the wizard was put away from his mind. As he drank his tea, he ended up reading the Eriador Chronicle, a newspaper published and printed in the foothills of the Blue Mountains and delivered fortnightly to the richer folk.

A wonderful idea, this - he remembered when newspapers had first been introduced to the Shire, when he was but a child, and the hobbits (at least those that could afford the cost of paper) had immediately taken a love to it. The Chronicle had been delivering to other settlements but had taken some time to get to the point it could distribute far and wide across Eriador. Bilbo himself loved it so much that he took to re-reading the whole thing every day so that he could entertain himself till the next edition came out and, when it did, carefully wrapped the old edition in waxed paper and stowed it away on his bookshelf.

There were reports on politics, though that didn't particularly interest him, with his being so far away from any of the kingdoms of Men or elves. He enjoyed reading the commerce section, in which dedicated mathematicians and traders commented on the price of wheat or Shire-produced tobacco (which the Baggins estate supplied part of) or whether the vineyards further south were having a good year or bad. The most interesting page though, in his humble opinion, was the 'Take a Trip Round Middle-Earth' which would produce a precise black-and-white likenesses (once he had wondered what kind of artist could produce such accuracy, but had been told it was not even a painting!) of beautiful sights around the World, explain their histories and appeals. Again, he did not know that his spirit of adventure was being subtly stirred as he collected pictures of Amon Sul or Rivendell or the old forest of Fangorn.

He especially liked the writer called 'Fleur Delacour', who always wrote the most beautiful sentences befitting the most gorgeous of scenery and ended every article with 'In Loving Memory.' In loving memory of whom he did not know but it always warmed his heart to read it.

All in all, he had a rather pleasant day, finishing off his afternoon with tea-time with many copper-colored, perfectly-baked scones and fluffy cakes, and any thought of grey-hamed wizards or notions of adventure were thrown right out the window until the evening of the next day when there came a magnificent ring at the doorbell and the poor hobbit was startled out of his supper.

"I'm coming!" He called. That must be Gandalf! Though he was loathe to admit, Bilbo could be rather forgetful if he did not write reminders in his little log-book. "Just a moment!"

He opened the door and came face-to-face with not a wizard, but a dwarf! A dwarf with a blue beard tucked neatly into his gold helmet and with bright eyes underneath his dark green hood. "Dwalin, at your service!" He said, bowing.

"And Bilbo Baggins at yours!" Bilbo did not even manage to finish speaking before the dwarf named Dwalin had hung up his cloak on a peg and strode inside and busily began to finish off Bilbo's supper. Bilbo would've kindly asked him what he was doing in his home but that train of thought was cut off, for almost as soon as the door swung shut yet another tremendous ring came from the doorbell.

Bilbo opened it, finding another dwarf, this time white-bearded and wearing a deep red cloak. "Balin, at your service!" He peered over a flabbergasted Bilbo's shoulder and saw the blue-bearded dwarf. "I see the feast has begun already!"

"Feast!" Bilbo exclaimed to himself even as he felt a little faint. What feast had he organized? "Won't you come in for a little tea?" He found himself asking.

"A little beer would suit me better, if it's all the same to you, my good lad," the dwarf said with a weathered smile. "And perhaps could you fetch me a cake? Do you have seed-cake, perhaps?"

"Lots," Bilbo answered, and it was to even his own surprise that he found himself scuttling off to the pantries in search of beer and seed-cakes; upon his return Dwalin and Balin were speaking like old friends (in fact they were brothers) and it was not long till someone else came to the door with a shorter, less loud ring at the doorbell.

"On my way!" Bilbo called and opened the door, this time finding himself face-to-face (or rather, face-to-rather-magnificent-bust, though he dare not admit it) with two Big Folk, one a giant, raven-haired man nearly seven feet tall and another a beautiful blonde woman, and they were respectably dressed in a red shirt with a black dinner jacket and a deep red dress made of some material that mildly reflected the light of the oil lamp outside Bilbo's door.

"Cozy, if a little small," the woman commented.

"Looks like we're already late," the man grunted sourly. "The food will run out."

"Any chef's specials tonight?" The woman asked, and Bilbo felt a little ill.

"Chef's - chef's specials?"

"I believe I'll take the tenderloin chateaubriand steak," the man said. "With a red wine of your recommendation."

"And I think I'd like to do some grilled trout," the woman continued. "With grilled zucchini and rice."

At this point Mister Baggins was getting rather cross; these visitors were so rudely barging into his home and these two had the audacity to treat him like a chef! But, his more sensible side thought, judging by the visitors it was more than likely that someone - the Sackville Bagginses, perhaps - had spread a false rumor that his home was a restaurant and these people were simply mistaken rather than malicious, and so he remained too meek to correct any of them as they hung up their jackets on the pegs and went into his home and sat down on the biggest chairs he possessed, a little ways away from the dwarves.

Besides, he didn't have time to tell the Big People a piece of his mind for the doorbell rang once again and as soon as the door was open in hopped two more dwarves, with blue hoods, silver belts and yellow beards.

"Kili at your service!" Said one, "and Fili!" Added the other. "Dwalin and Balin here already, I see," Kili said. "Let us join the throng!"

The poor hobbit rushed about, forced to put a skillet on the stove to cook the steak when the black-haired man politely but visibly irritably asked when their orders were coming, and he had barely had a sip of his strongest brandy before the doorbell rang yet again - more dwarves. He was unsurprised as Nori, Dori, Ori, Oin and Gloin came in, hung up their cloaks, and settled on the long-table with the other dwarves which had, during Bilbo's absence, been piled with food from his pantry.

Finally, after serving two plates in front of the Big People with a steak and fish (he had hardly any idea what cheteaubriand was nor any idea if the fish in his pantry was trout; at this point he was beyond caring) he was dragged to the door by, this time, not a ring of the doorbell but a rapping noise. Someone was using a stick to rap on his freshly painted door! Bilbo was, it was fair to say, rather upset by now and deliberately took his time getting to the door, then yanked it open.

And in fell four more dwarves, piling atop each other, and in the background was a laughing Gandalf. He had made quite the mess of the beautiful door, too - but in the process had also mangled the rune he'd writ upon it yesterday until it looked like just another series of scratches.

"Carefully!" He chuckled. "It is not like you, my dear Bilbo, to keep friends waiting beyond the door and then open the door like a pop-gun! Allow me to introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin."

"At your service!" The three dwarves cried, while Thorin himself glared sullenly at Bilbo for being squashed under the rather fat and heavy Bombur.

"Who are these folk, Gandalf?" Bilbo hissed as soon as he apologized to Thorin to the point he muttered 'pray don't mention it' and stopped frowning. "Why are they all here, and why do they all think my home is a restaurant?"

Gandalf blinked, then laughed. "My boy, I would have no idea! Though dwarves are not unlike you hobbits in the sense that they have mighty appetites."

"And them?" Bilbo gestured as subtly as he could at the two big people in the corner having their own little romantic candlelit dinner, though Bilbo had no idea where they'd gotten that candelabra or the scented candles atop them or the sparkling wine or the Man-sized table or the gold cutlery - but that was beside the point.

"Hm!" Gandalf beamed. "Those two, I truly did not expect - but I can tell you who they are! Those are my dear friends, Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour."

"Fleur Delacour!" Bilbo exclaimed. "The one who writes the most delightful articles for the Chronicle, perhaps?"

"Indeed she does write for the Chronicle," Gandalf confirmed, even as he approached them. Bilbo snuck towards the two - well, three of them, now - curious of what they might discuss. Fleur stood up to give Gandalf a warm embrace while the man - Harry, he had been called - lazily saluted at the old wizard.

Strangely, though, as close as he might approach, he simply could not pick up a single word that they spoke. He could hear them, certainly, but the words sounded like gibberish; not like any language he'd ever heard used in Middle-Earth, and he could only conclude that perhaps it was some sorcery of Gandalf's to prevent eavesdropping. From eavesdroppers like himself. Bilbo remembered his manners and bustled off instead, hoping he wasn't noticed.

The dwarves finished their feast - emptying Bilbo's pantries entirely, a travesty that made the owner of the home faint enough that he required half an hour just lying on his side on his best with a his untouched mug of brandy at his side - and began discussing their trade, speaking of mines and goblins and dragons and all that rot, far too adventurous for poor Bilbo's taste. Meanwhile, Master Gandalf continued to chat with the two Big Folk and they began discussing business of their own, not that Bilbo knew what it might be.

"He… is really rather tubby, isn't he?" Harry commented warily.

"I have the utmost faith in him," Gandalf replied.

Fleur glanced at Bilbo, who was bustling about panicking as the dwarves tossed his plates and cutlery back into the kitchen, and looked at him. He was bright, certainly, almost blindingly so, as bright in the Void as even Gandalf himself or Harry. He would determine the fate of this world, no doubt about it. Fleur hoped that their interference wouldn't change the game too badly. As far as she could see in the Void, it was fairly loyal to if they hadn't come, for their influence was greatest in the North; however, events that involved large concentrations of magic - Bilbo picking up the Ring, for example - caused her future sight to blur and become murky.

Fleur and Harry had already agreed to assist the company, if indirectly to minimize their direct impact on the Company's courses of action. However, it would be highly devastating to their own well-being, as well as that of most living things in Middle-Earth, were Bilbo to find the Ring, but then he killed, letting it fall into the hands of any of the dwarves or, worse, one of the goblins. Harry himself vehemently refused to approach the Ring anymore, not since that encounter some five hundred years ago - Fleur was certain Harry exaggerated the effects of the Ring on his mental health, but then again, the experience must have been a shock to someone who was so powerful that almost nothing had been able to hurt him for thousands of years.

"At least help him get some exercise on your journey," Harry said. "Make him do push-ups, or something. Look at those scrawny arms."

"Not all of us survive the destruction of our bodies to temporarily become bodiless feä until we receive vastly upgraded bodies, dear Harry," Gandalf said.

Harry and Fleur both snorted.

"What?" Asked a mystified Gandalf. He was promptly ignored.

"How strong is Mithril?" Harry asked suddenly, curious. "I've heard great things about it, but it's rare enough that I haven't seen it in person. Since nobody ventures into Moria anymore…"

"Very strong indeed," Gandalf confirmed. "Light as cotton and strong as a dragon's scales."

"How strong compared to, say, steel?" Harry continued.

Gandalf frowned. "I don't rightly know," he said. "Mithril is so valuable that performing experiments on it must not have crossed anybody's mind. However, I can tell you that lightly woven Mithril chainmail will protect you from strikes that would split apart steel plates in two."

"Apart from the blunt trauma."

"Apart from that," Gandalf agreed.

"And its magical properties? Do you know anything about it?"

"No idea, I'm afraid," Gandalf confessed. "The only remotely magical object I know of crafted from Mithril is the great Lady Galadriel's Ring, Nenya. It might be wise to ask her."

"Final question," Harry said. "How much Mithril is in circulation?"

"Close to none," Gandalf replied promptly. "Mithril is hoarded jealously by everyone who has it. It is worth ten times its weight in gold - but the status it brings to the owner will likely keep them from parting with these items regardless."

"Hm," Harry grunted. "Unfortunate. Seems like it could be very useful."

"Substitutes exist," Gandalf offered. "Certain dwarven artisans reside in the Iron Hills, and some more significantly further to the East, who have dedicated their entire lives to metalwork. The steel they forge from the highest quality iron in Middle-Earth is woven with so many spells during its months-long forging process that their durability, strength, and lightness are unmatched by anything except Mithril itself. The greatest craftsmen of the elves from the First and Second Ages have produced similar products."

"I can make spellforged steel myself," Harry shrugged. "And not to sound too pompous, but they're much higher quality than you expect. After all, I don't use an ordinary forge, I use Alduin's magical flames. Even if my technique is inferior to these dwarves or elves, my tools are significantly better, so I can assume the quality would be similar."

"Hm," Gandalf stroked his chin. "Once again, I recommend you inquire with Lady Galadriel. I have not had any interest in Mithril, neither academically nor had a desire to possess it."

"I shall do that later," Fleur said. "Do you believe they will be safe?"

"I do. The world is much safer than it used to be. The Snowfolk and the Mages of Gundabad are locked in conflict with the goblins, which would surely force the goblins to keep their heads down. Meanwhile the darkness of Mirkwood, upon the destruction of Dol Guldur, has been slowly but gradually pushed back by the forces of King Thranduil. Their greatest threat will remain Smaug." Gandalf paused. "Is there any reason neither of you have eliminated Smaug?"

"Let the midgets do it themselves, it builds character," Harry snarked, but Gandalf frowned.

"We don't want to interfere in the events of Middle-Earth," Fleur replied. "We are not born here. We are not of this world. We fear that should our influence unnecessarily leak, evil might try to take advantage of it."

"You have defeated evil before."

"If you're referring to the incident I had with He Who Shall Not Be Named, then I didn't even win. Not really." Harry looked at Gandalf, green eyes seemingly glowing. "The two of us threw so much energy at each other that we were both physically obliterated. If it weren't for my soul-bond with Fleur, or my Animapyxis, then I would have died there. I've already told Fleur but, I have a sneaky suspicion that both myself and Sauron would have been able to do more damage if we hadn't shanked each other. If anything, we could've both fought harder within the Void - but disturbances there will attract rather unsavory and rather ancient guests."

"You were not fighting at your full strength?" Gandalf breathed.

"You should know well enough that magic isn't as simple as going from zero percent to one hundred percent. There's also the magical richness of the environment, your emotions and intent, your channeling equipment - so on, so forth. But yes, I suspect I could've been a lot more destructive if I wanted. In the Void, where my magic isn't limited my silly things like bodies, this is especially true."

"How did you become so powerful?" Gandalf asked, genuinely curious.

"Master of Death. Spooky, huh?" Harry waggled his fingers and Fleur rolled her eyes. "Four thousand years of yoga also helps."

"Don't listen to him," Fleur said. Harry smirked. "Harry was a child of prophecy. Then he successfully fulfilled his prophecy, and later became what was known as the Master of Death. An old folk tale, which I didn't really believe, and frankly I still don't - but we have no other reasonable hypothesis to why Harry might be so ridiculously magically powerful."

"I still like the theory that a long time ago, one of my ancestors was brave or stupid enough to stick his cock inside a dragon," Harry commented. Rather unnecessarily.

"Shut up," Fleur said. "It's not a bad theory at all. I have Veela blood, and I was already significantly stronger than Ron or Katie. My magical heritage makes me better able to channel magic, to control it, and contain it within my body. If Harry were a mixed offspring of a different, significantly more magically powerful species, then it's possible to have come where he is now."

"I must say I find this Master of Death concept intriguing," Gandalf mused. "I have always… smelled, perhaps, is the best word to use, the scent of death on you, Harry. Not in a negative way, but the warm inevitability of Mandos' embrace is what you remind me of."

"You're saying there's credit to that theory?" Fleur frowned.

"I am. And mayhaps others will agree. Lady Galadriel, Saruman. Perhaps you could even pay a visit to old Tom Bombadil."

"Tom Bombadil," Harry murmured, staring at Gandalf as if he'd just had a revelation.

"Indeed. Of all the beings on Middle-Earth he is the oldest and will likely have much experience in the magical. Also, his wife bakes the most delightful cakes, I tell you."

"Hm," Harry said. He shared a look with Fleur, and they nodded to each other. "Great. Thanks for your help, Old Man."

"Youngsters these days," Gandalf grumbled.

"I suppose you'll be taking the Fellowship to Rivendell, then?" Fleur asked.

"How did you know?"

"It's on the way to Erebor. Besides, it's always better to have Lord Elrond's advice than not," Fleur shrugged. "It was a logical guess."

"Well then, yes. Why do you ask? Will you be there?"

"One of us, assuredly," Fleur said. "So… we'll see you there, I suppose. Give our thanks to Mister Baggins for the good food, even if I'm fairly certain that wasn't trout."

Gandalf chuckled as Harry and Fleur left the hobbit-hole, but not before Fleur pulled out a book from nowhere and placed it upon the table beside the empty plates and dishes. Gandalf watched them disappear, and then turned his attention to the book. He flipped through the 'Lonely World Guide to Middle-Earth'. Many of them were featured in the Chronicle, but some were unique to this book, it seemed. He chuckled softly to himself; Bilbo would certainly appreciate this. And it was also signed by the author Fleur Delacour herself! He put the book back down and listened in to the dwarves begin to discuss their mission over some wine and pipe-weed.

T.A. 2941, May

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief.

The Last Homely Home in the east. The Company had made it safely to Rivendell, even after that terrifying encounter with trolls. Which he was already starting to feel like it was an exciting memory rather than a terrible nightmare. Material for a book. Perhaps he could pen a novel, like his distant ancestor, Amarylla Took. To think she had been wandering her entire life - Bilbo was exhausted from just two weeks of travel!

The elves had welcomed the dwarves and hobbit, despite the bubbling resentment of elves that the dwarves harbored deep in their gut and assumed nobody else could notice. Lord Elrond had been a most wonderful guest, wise and kind, while his lady wife was on some sort of journey at the moment. Lady Arwen, Lords Elladan and Elrohir all spoke highly of their mother and Bilbo was curious to meet her.

Bilbo spent much time in the library of Rivendell, fascinated by the great collections of scrolls, tablets and tomes, and it was there that he met the giant, black-haired and green-eyed man that had asked for a steak in Bilbo's home. Bilbo had not been quiet enough in sneaking out of the library at that point because piercing green eyes pinned him on the spot.

"If it isn't Mister Bilbo Baggins," the man smirked in a rather unpleasant manner. "How do you do?"

Bound by the conventions of etiquette, Bilbo had no other choice but to reply, "excellent, thank you, and yourself?"

"Just fine," he replied. "Do you know who I am?"

"You are the gentleman who mistook my home for a restaurant and demanded service," Bilbo said before he could stop himself.

Thankfully, Harry was not offended and simply laughed. "I did compensate you for your services."

"You did? Apart from the book—"

"I think you should check on your bed when you get home. You might find it useful," Harry shrugged.

Bilbo could only nod in confusion as the man stood (he was so tall) and patted his shoulder. "Good man," he said. "How are you feeling about your travels?"

"Oh, just fine," Bilbo said. "We're walking all day after our ponies bolted, and my poor feet are aching and we're only having two meals a day and each of these meals are terribly poor in nutrition and quantity, and of course there's the matter of sleeping on a reed mattress on the cold, hard and bumpy ground!"

Harry smirked. "I suppose it is like that," he agreed. "We'll see if you change your mind once after your journey is finished and you return to the Shire."

"I daresay I'd collapse of exhaustion long before my journey's end," Bilbo said mournfully.

"In my experience, I think your aching, bleeding feet and wheezing lungs is what makes the journey all the more worthwhile," he said with a wistful smile. "To be at the peak of a mountain or standing before an emerald-green oasis in a sea of sand, or to watch the storm roll through the green valley - and to be able to say, you conquered your journey with your own two feet."

"Have you traveled much, then?"

Harry looked mock-offended. "Of course I have! I accompany my wife everywhere she goes when she needs to take pictures for her Chronicle articles."

Bilbo's eyes widened. He had forgotten about the Chronicle editions, tucked safely in his bookshelf at home (he had debated whether or not to take it with him, but decided he'd rather not have them ruined by rain or mud) and the pages written by Fleur Delacour, apparently Harry's wife. "Do you think I could meet her?" He asked.

"Alas, no. She's in Lothlorien right now," Harry shrugged. "And I know you're single. Do keep your hands to yourself."

Bilbo sputtered at the indignity of such an accusation while Harry laughed at his expense and left after thumping his large, heavy hand on his shoulder a couple of times. Eventually Bilbo gathered his wits about him and determinedly strode out of the library, not noticing that Harry had seemed to disappear from the straight, long corridor at a speed far faster than even a Man could run. His attention was directed anyway at Gandalf, who stood looking out into the valley, puffing on his pipe.

"Gandalf," Bilbo greeted.

"Bilbo," Gandalf replied pleasantly.

"How long will this journey be?" Bilbo asked abruptly.

Gandalf paused. "I do not know," he replied finally. "I suspect it will take some months, even without the various setbacks you may face. But do not lose courage, my little friend, for I do sincerely believe it will be worth it in the end."

"Master Harry said something similar," Bilbo groused. "But I do not think I will survive a journey like this. I told him so as well."

Gandalf puffed on his pipe for a little longer. "Well, friend," Gandalf said, "surely you have read the biographies of your ancestors. Two of them, to be specific."

"As every other Hobbit child has," Bilbo said. "The Adventures of Amarylla Took and The Diary of Dazzling Daisy's Daring Deeds. But it does not feel real, reading them. There is a reason why only children read those books and not sensible adult hobbits."

"But they are quite real," Gandalf commented. "I assure you. But both of them, I think, were rather out of their depth during the beginning of their adventure. Both were lucky, in that they had mentors to guide them, and you - well, you have no clear mentor, which might make it difficult. But you do have mighty fine companions - thirteen of them, in fact! - that you could learn plenty from. And myself, of course," Gandalf added at the end.

"On occasion," Bilbo snarked, and Gandalf chuckled.

"On occasion, indeed." Then he clapped his weathered hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "My dear boy, you should know that, should you ever need someone to speak to, of your troubles or of mundane things - I shall be here for you. I am busy at times, but I do care for your wellbeing."

"I - thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo replied, feeling oddly flustered. "I shall keep it in mind."

"On an unrelated topic, Bilbo," Gandalf said, changing course, "I met with the lovely Lady Fleur the other week and I heard this most delightful riddle. I know that you enjoy riddles, so I thought you might wish to hear it." Gandalf smiled under his bushy beard and his thick eyebrows wagged as he pulled a piece of parchment from his robes. "There is a Man, an elf, a dwarf, a hobbit and an orc. Each lives in a house with different colored doors, each smoke a different type of pipe-weed, each drinks a different beverage and each has a different animal as a pet…"

A/N:

Hey folks. Sorry for the slow update, and for the relatively short chapter. I have a long flight coming up and after that, school starts again for me... I'll be a bit busy, so I wanted to get something out before then.

Anyway, welcome to The Hobbit, plus two meddling old warlocks.