North of Bywater, the Green Dragon Inn.
Hobbits were small, most of them barely over a meter tall, so their inns felt equally petite and charming—you had to duck your head slightly to get through the door. But the place was so cozy it was almost unfair. The tables and chairs were stout and dependable, like chubby potatoes. Round windows dotted the walls. A soot-darkened stone hearth crackled warmly. Behind the counter, the wall was lined with barrels, and the tabletops were crowded with roasted bread, sausages, smoked bacon, green apples, red apples, and carrots.
Grey-robed Gandalf brought the travelers from afar here to sit for a while. Everyone had plenty to say.
First came the issue of language. This time, there was no need to fuss: Skyl had studied Tolkien's Elvish—back in the summer before he entered Hogwarts. That language existed in Middle-earth as well; aside from the natural drift of history and usage, it hadn't diverged too far from its original form.
Since Skyl knew it, members of the Tower of Tomes could also learn it through the divine miracle [Comprehend Languages]. So communication wouldn't be a problem.
Gandalf drew out a long pipe, took a deep pull of fragrant smoke, and then began.
"Travelers," he said, "the moment you arrived in Eä—this universe of Middle-earth—the One, Eru, already knew. He rejoiced at your coming, and so he sent word to me, commanding that I invite you swiftly to an appointment. I am granted this honor only because I happened to be close to the place where you descended."
Hearing that the Creator intended to invite him for tea and conversation, Skyl was delighted. He had no intention of refusing—if anything, he wanted to set out as soon as possible, to finally see Valinor, the dwelling of the Powers from the old tales.
Gandalf looked a little embarrassed. "I will serve as your guide, leading you out to sea, across the vast western waters of Belegaer, and onward to the fair and deathless Aman. But there is one great concern: I bear a heavy responsibility, and for the moment, I cannot readily free myself."
Skyl understood Gandalf's worry. If nothing unexpected had changed, Gandalf was in the middle of preparing to help a band of Dwarves reclaim their homeland beneath the Lonely Mountain. The expedition was about to set out—only for a sudden message from the highest authority to arrive, ordering him to receive foreign guests. It put him in a bind.
An order from above had to be obeyed, of course. This wasn't some ordinary superior—if it had been Saruman the White telling him to run errands, Gandalf would have ignored him completely. But Ilúvatar was no mere "boss." There was nothing in heaven or earth more exalted than the One. For a seasoned Maia, being chosen for such a task was something Gandalf would accept a thousand times over.
And yet, precisely because he was a seasoned Maia, he couldn't stop thinking of the safety of Middle-earth's peoples—and that made him even more reluctant to set his duties aside.
Helping the Dwarves reclaim the Lonely Mountain was like driving a nail into the North—something that could restrain the spread of darkness. It was a legendary adventure that would shape the future. Gandalf had spent a hundred years working to bring it about. To abandon everything at the critical moment and turn around to run errands for the highest authority—no matter how it ended—would still risk leaving a poor impression in the eyes of those who oversaw the struggle against the Shadow.
Skyl looked at Gandalf, then at Dumbledore sitting beside him with that familiar, gentle smile, and an idea clicked into place.
"Gandalf," Skyl said, "if you're willing to trust the character of us outsiders, then why not entrust this urgent matter of yours to this dependable old man?"
Dumbledore blinked. "Hmm?"
Gandalf's eyes lit up. "Oh?"
Moonshadow covered her mouth, laughing softly.
Skyl's suggestion didn't sound very reliable on the surface—but sometimes, when things were urgent, you really did have no choice but to treat a dead horse like a living one.
Gandalf's beard-stroking looked exactly like Dumbledore's, as if the two were staring into a mirror—only one held a pipe, and the other held a wand.
"I think it's perfect," Moonshadow said, and even reached over to straighten Dumbledore's robes. "Child, I can feel it. A great adventure is waiting for you ahead."
At that table, if you ranked ages, Skyl was the youngest. Then came Dumbledore, more or less. Aranea was also over one hundred and fifty. After that was Gandalf—one of the Maiar, born before the shaping of the world. As for Moonshadow's age… it was recommended you not ask.
Dumbledore always accepted the word child with good humor—after all, for a man past a century, being called "child" was an achievement. He looked at Gandalf and joked, "Do you happen to have a spare grey cloak? If I borrowed one, no one would guess the person in front of them isn't Gandalf."
"Ilúvatar said you would be guests full of surprises," Gandalf replied. "I am willing to believe in your virtue."
He immediately took Dumbledore by the arm and began explaining his plans in a low voice, talking and talking. The sun slid from high noon to a drowsy dip at the horizon, and candles were lit inside the Green Dragon Inn.
Local Hobbit patrons came and went, clinking mugs and calling for rounds. The moment the sun went down, they began to dance. These small folk were nimble, their steps bright and joyful. A ring of onlookers crowded around the tables, palms tapping the tabletop to keep time, while the dancers hopped up onto the tables themselves, using the little open spaces between food and drink to spin and leap.
They sang and played, talked and laughed—one dancer finished, two more took their place, arms slung around each other's shoulders as they whirled in circles. Someone misstepped and stomped a serving plate, launching a tray of peppered shortbread like a catapult straight at the ceiling.
Before the cookies could come raining down onto everyone's heads, the visiting wizards cast a quick little spell, and every biscuit drifted gently back into its tray.
Aranea said to Moonshadow, "What a happy little people."
Moonshadow watched, utterly enchanted. Everything in this world made her curious, everything felt interesting—like breathing fresh air for the first time, like a freedom that came from the heart.
She accepted an invitation to join the Hobbit feast, and danced with Aranea—whose cheeks were already flushed red.
The next morning, at daybreak, Gandalf led the offworld travelers on their journey toward Aman—leaving Dumbledore behind.
Before parting, the two old men said a solemn farewell. Gandalf and Dumbledore exchanged their wizard hats, and Gandalf even placed his beloved pipe into Dumbledore's hands as a token.
As they separated, Skyl lifted a hand near his ear in a phone gesture, reminding Dumbledore to stay in contact.
And just like that, the headmaster of Hogwarts went one way, while his student and his staff went another.
From here, Skyl and the others would travel west.
Dumbledore's destination lay east—crossing the north-south spine of the Misty Mountains, and onward to the Lonely Mountain.
Before that, he would need to follow Gandalf's arrangements: make contact with the members of the Dwarven expedition—and recruit a Hobbit "burglar" named Bilbo Baggins.
At this very moment, Mr. Bilbo still lived comfortably in Bag End, entirely unaware that a wizard from another world was about to come knocking.
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