A Magical Adventure (HP/GOT/MCU)

Bag End was even more delightful on the inside than it had looked from the garden. Rounded walls, well-polished wooden beams, and an unending collection of shelves laden with books, maps, and trinkets. The air smelled of parchment, pipeweed, and a hint of rosemary from the kitchen.

As Bilbo guided me through each cozy corridor and warmly decorated room, I couldn't help but smile. This was the kind of house you'd want to raise a family in, to watch your children grow up frolicking under the trees and over the grass, and at night, to sleep beside your loved one listening to the sounds of the wind and the rain passing overhead.

We passed through a hallway lined with portraits of Bagginses long gone and came to the back garden. Lush rows of vegetables and bright flowers basked under the afternoon sun. Bees hummed lazily around the clover, and the soil looked so fertile I was tempted to test it by trying to grow some magical herbs right there.

"It's beautiful," I told my host honestly as we walked past a small patch of carrots and an herb bed. "You really live in a paradise, Mr Baggins."

"Please, call me Bilbo," he chuckled modestly. "Well, the garden keeps me busy and out of trouble. And it gives me a good excuse to turn away visitors who don't bring anything to the table."

I raised an eyebrow. "Am I off the hook, then?"

"I would say so," Bilbo said, grinning. "Although, I certainly wouldn't be averse to some more delicious treats from your world."

"Understood," I accepted graciously. "Prepare to be dazzled, then."

—

At one o'clock sharp, I laid out our meal at the dining table. From my satchel, I pulled out a simple picnic set: two steaming cheeseburgers with lightly toasted buns, a stack of pepperoni pizza slices with stringy mozzarella, golden fries seasoned with rosemary salt, and two frosty bottles of Butterbeer. Bilbo stared at the food like it had descended from the heavens.

"Good gracious," he breathed, poking a fry curiously before popping it into his mouth. His eyes lit up. "Oh… this is dangerous."

He tried the cheeseburger next and nearly moaned. "By Elbereth—what is this delight? It's like a meat pie, but… not."

"It's called a cheeseburger," I said with a smile. "It's made from ground beef, cheese, a bun, condiments like ketchup and mustard, as well as lettuce, onion and tomato."

"And this?" he asked, pointing to the pizza slice he'd already half-devoured.

"Pizza. It's a cultural delicacy."

"Your world has taste, Ben, I'll give it that."

He took a swig of Butterbeer next and sighed in contentment, patting his belly.

"You, my friend, may stay in the guest room for as long as you like—provided, of course, that you promise to introduce me to more of these culinary wonders."

I gave a mock bow. "You have my word, Master Baggins."

—

The golden afternoon melted gently into evening as Bilbo led me along the worn paths and winding lanes of Hobbiton. The hills rolled out before us like green waves frozen in time, dotted with neat hobbit-holes, cheerful gardens, and low stone fences. Every so often, a hobbit would tip their hat or offer a curious glance at me, the unusually tall stranger walking beside their most eligible bachelor.

"That's The Water down there," Bilbo said, pointing towards the gently flowing river that shimmered in the afternoon light. "You'll find young hobbits splashing about in the summers. Not far from it is the Mill—though old Ted Sandyman hasn't the same care for it as his father did."

The river sang quietly in the distance, accompanied by birdsong and the creak of cart wheels on gravel. A few children waved to Bilbo as we passed, and he returned the greeting with a smile and a theatrical tip of his walking stick.

"Now over there," he continued, gesturing toward a small rise with a gathering of long tables and benches, "is the Party Field. It hasn't seen much excitement since my last birthday bash, but I expect it'll liven up again once someone else has cause to throw a proper celebration."

"Do all hobbits celebrate their birthdays there?" I asked curiously.

"Only those who can afford to wine and dine the rest of the Shire, I'm afraid," Bilbo winked.

We passed the Ivy Bush Inn, where smoke curled lazily from the chimney and laughter floated out the windows. Bilbo waved at a few familiar faces seated on a bench outside.

As we climbed the last hill toward Bag End, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the Shire in a dreamy amber light. Shadows grew long and soft, and the air smelled faintly of cut grass, pipe smoke, and honeysuckle.

We paused for a moment just before the gate, turning to look back.

The whole valley stretched out below us, bathed in gold. The chimneys of Hobbiton puffed gently into the sky, the round doors glowed with lanternlight, and the leaves of the tall trees swayed like contented cats brushing against the wind.

Bilbo leaned on his stick and took a deep breath. "I know it's not a sprawling city with enormous castles or tall towers, but it's home, you know."

I smiled, quiet for a moment. "I have been to those cities. Cities that house millions of people. Cities with palaces that have stood for hundreds of years. Cities with towers so high that their tips pierced the clouds above. This... this is perfect."

We walked up the path to Bag End just as the last light dipped below the hills. The round door closed behind us with a soft click, and the cozy warmth of the hobbit-hole welcomed us back like an old friend.

Bilbo sighed with satisfaction, lighting a lantern and stoking the hearth. "Well, Master Wizard, how's that for a tour?"

I set my cloak back on its peg and turned to him with a grin. "Honestly? I think you hobbits have your own slice of paradise here, my friend."

"I agree," he chuckled. "Now then. What do you say to supper?"

—

After a wonderful supper where Bilbo was introduced to the delights of good old Fish and Chips, I decided to put on a movie to end the day on a perfect note.

The round green door of Bag End stood closed against the evening chill, but inside, the warm yellow glow of lanterns bathed the hobbit hole in a comfortable amber light. A fire crackled cheerily in the hearth. On a low table near the sofa, rested two cups of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and an open box of Turkish delight—courtesy of yours truly.

Bilbo sat comfortably in his favourite armchair, looking absolutely content yet with a skeptical brow raised as he stared at a strange glowing metallic box floating in front of him.

"This," I said, sitting down on the sofa on Bilbo's right, "is called a projector. And what you're about to see is a tale from another world, much like your own—but with evil queens, talking animals, and brave children who travel across worlds in magic wardrobes."

I snapped my fingers and the lanterns dimmed. The projector fired a beam of light that formed a silver curtain. Music swelled and the screen flared to life.

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

As the film unfolded, Bilbo watched with growing wonder.

"What are those?" he asked, pointing to the german bombers.

"Airplanes. Think of them as ships that sail the skies instead of the seas."

The german planes rained death on the city. People had no choice but to send their children far away.

"Poor little dears," Bilbo frowned, watching the children being sent away from home. "Sent off without so much as a decent cloak."

"That's war for you," I shrugged.

The strict housekeeper brought the children to the Professor's house. As the Pevensies explored the countryside mansion, Bilbo piped up.

"Ah, now that's more like it! Look at the beams on that ceiling—solid oak," he nodded. "That chap's got taste. Bit gloomy, though. Needs more rugs."

The children's plans to explore the grounds are put on hold due to the stormy weather. While playing hide and seek with her siblings, Lucy discovered the Wardrobe.

"Oh-ho! A hidden door!" Bilbo exclaimed, watching with wide eyes as Lucy entered snowy Narnia. "Always check the back of your cupboards, that's what I say. You never know what might be behind it. Elves, secret tunnels... or an entire world, apparently!"

"It's not just a hidden door. Narnia reveals itself to those who believe. That's why Lucy was able to enter," I explained. "She's still got wonder in her heart."

"Hmph. That's the problem with growing up—you forget how to look," Bilbo complained.

Under a lamp post, Lucy met the nervous Mr Tumnus, who invited her to his home.

"Now that is proper hospitality!" Bilbo chuckled softly. "I don't care if he's got goat legs—he's offering tea, a warm fire, and a tune. That's a host with heart."

When Lucy returned to England, none of her elder siblings believed her about Narnia, and hence couldn't find it. In the middle of the night, Lucy sneaked out to visit Mr Tumnus. Edmund followed her, only he met someone far more unpleasant.

"Never trust anyone who shows up in a sleigh uninvited and offers sweets without a name," Bilbo grimaced, watching Edmund eat the enchanted Turkish Delight and betray his family. His hands reached for his own box of the sweet. "That boy's a fool if he thinks she's just a kindly queen. Look at those eyes—cold as Witherwind Valley in midwinter."

Soon, the Pevensies all entered Narnia and made a beeline for Mr Tumnus' place, but alas the poor faun had already been captured by the Evil Queen. The siblings met a pair of beavers who told them about Aslan and explained the prophecy.

"Talking beavers! Now I've seen it all," Bilbo cried out, delighted. "And they've got good sense too—listen to Mrs. Beaver, she knows how to prepare for a journey."

To save their wayward brother, the Pevensies decided to seek Aslan's aid. After a rather eventful crossing of the river, they arrived in his war camp and laid eyes on Aslan.

Bilbo sat up straighter. The golden lion strode onto the screen, regal and serene.

"There's something… majestic about him," Bilbo said quietly. "He's more than just a lion. You can feel it. It's like... the whole world is tied to him, and he, its center."

I smiled softly. "You could say that. He's a guide. A king. A symbol of hope."

Aslan cleverly arranged Edmund's rescue. But the ancient laws of Narnia dictated the treatment of traitors to be under the witch's purview. Bilbo watched with narrowed eyes as Aslan negotiated with the witch in tense silence. The price for Edmund's life was apparently Aslan's own.

Bilbo clenched his cup, watching Aslan quietly endure the humiliation and sacrifice himself for Edmund's sake.

"That's not fair," he muttered. "That poor lion..."

With Aslan seemingly dead, the Evil Queen led the final attack on the Narnian Resistance. Despite fighting valiantly, Peter and the others were forced to fall back against the Queen's greater numbers, much to Bilbo's dismay.

But as Lucy and Susan were about to leave, something miraculous happened. With the first light of dawn, the Stone Table cracked.

"I knew it," Bilbo exhaled shakily, then grinned watching Aslan's return.

Edmund redeemed himself by breaking the witch's staff. With the reinforcements and Aslan's help, the battle was won and Narnia was saved.

"Look at them," Bilbo smiled fondly, watching the children being crowned Kings and Queens of Narnia. "From refugees to royalty. Every inch deserved."

"You never know how far life will take you," I nodded. "All it takes is a little courage and a lot of heart."

Bilbo looked on reflectively as the Pevensies travelled back through the wardrobe and returned as children once again.

"Isn't it strange?" he mused. "You go through something so big… and return to a world that hasn't changed at all."

"Perhaps," I agreed. "But even if the world hasn't changed, they surely have - on the inside. Narnia showed them what they needed to learn most - the importance of family."

"Right you are," smiled Bilbo.

The screen dimmed. The firelight returned as the spell of the movie released us.

"Thank you, Ben," Bilbo said quietly.

"For what?" I asked.

"For showing me a world where a simple act of kindness or courage can save the day. Where a lion can be more than a lion." He glanced down at the empty box of Turkish delight. "And where sweets can damn you or save you."

He raised his cup in salute. "To Aslan."

I raised my own. "To stories that change us."

And somewhere, far off in a world beyond wardrobes, a lion might have smiled.

[SCENE END]

The golden light of a late afternoon poured across the fields like honey, settling on every blade of grass and round door like a blessing. I sat cross-legged on a hill just above Bywater, my camera hovering beside me, steadily capturing a sweeping panorama of the Shire—fields of barley and pipeweed, clusters of hobbit-holes nestled under trees, and the lazy winding of the Water below. It was the kind of view that didn't need editing or enhancement. It was magic.

It has been five days since I'd tumbled out unceremoniously into a bed of tulips in front of one Bilbo Baggins. In that time, I have walked nearly every lane of Hobbiton, ventured west through the green roads of Michel Delving, shared ale with chatty millers in Tuckborough, and even tiptoed quietly through the sleepy hamlets of Westfarthing. Yesterday, I crossed the Brandywine into Buckland and spent a night at Crickhollow under a sky so clear you could see the bones of the universe if you looked hard enough.

And this morning… the Old Forest.

I'd wandered its edges for hours, drawn by its peculiar air—heavy and thick, like a dream trying to stay remembered. The trees were watchful there. Not malevolent, not exactly, but aware. I didn't stray too deep. Just enough to feel the pulse of ancient things breathing beneath the moss and soil. I took a few photos—though the forest didn't much care for them, my camera lens fogged up mysteriously until I apologized aloud.

Magic here was different.

Stronger. Wilder. Older.

Back home, in the world of circuits and satellites, magic had to squeeze itself between signal towers and skepticism. You had to fight to believe in it. Here? It hummed in the air, seeped from the ground, shimmered in the morning dew. It was believed in, and that belief gave it roots.

Maybe it was the elves in the West, or the dwarves who still sang to the stone, or the Wizards who walked like myths made flesh. Maybe it was the lack of glowing screens and industrial noise. Or maybe it was just this place—Middle-earth—a world where wonder has not yet been forgotten.

And yet, for all the magic and joy I'd found in every hillside and hobbit smile… I couldn't help but feel it—the quiet tug of the story waiting to begin.

Bilbo hasn't mentioned any dwarves or mysterious maps. No secret meetings have happened by firelight. But I could feel it in the wind. Something was approaching.

Gandalf.

That name drifted through the Shire now and then—spoken with fondness, irritation, or a little of both. The old wizard hasn't shown up yet, but I knew he would. I could feel it in my bones, that ancient rhythm of narrative clicking into place. The world was inhaling.

And I was ready.

My camera whirred softly beside me, capturing one last shot of the sun dipping below the green ridges. I held out my hand, and it floated gently down into my palm.

Back at Bag End, I knew Bilbo would be finishing his pipe by the garden, perhaps humming an old walking tune. Supper would be warm, probably with fresh mushroom stew and seedcake for dessert, supplemented with a few delicacies of my own. Another quiet night in a land of god's own making.

But soon—very soon—the road would call.

And when it did, I would answer.