A Magical Adventure (HP/GOT/MCU)

It began a week ago.

Gandalf the Grey had been sipping a quiet mug of ale when his beard twitched and a thoughtful frown appeared on his face. He had come to the Prancing Pony to drop off a message for a friend, or rather the messenger of a friend, since Gandalf had no idea where said friend actually was at that moment in time.

While wizards were said to be all-knowing, their all-knowing act usually was based on a lot of footwork, some knowledge of those parts of Middle Earth that most individuals could not see or sense, and a certain level of intelligence. In this case, while he had quite a bit of knowledge about the individual, none of it pertained to his physical location at that point in time.

Sipping thoughtfully at his ale, he had finished writing the message before sending a compliment to the owner of the Prancing Pony - a Dexter Butterbur, whose young grandson had just begun working with him, something the man was rightly proud of. He then retired to his room, with another even larger stein of ale for himself having had his fill of people, noise and chatter for a time.

What his senses as one of the Maiar had told him needed some thought. Despite the fact that he looked like a disreputable vagabond to some, and to others who could see past first impressions, a valuable and learned advisor, he was greater even than that. He was clothed in the form of a man true, but still had the senses that marked him as one of the Maiar, a being of power created by Illuvatar himself before the Music of the Ainur. And what they were telling him was… confusing.

There had been a change to the feeling of the magic of Middle Earth. At first it hadn't been very noticeable, like a gong in the distance, or a crashing wave hundreds of miles away, making a very profound sound but one you'd have to strain to hear from where you were. Since then, there had been a few more instances, each of which were far, far smaller, mere shimmering changes of color to the general magic, subtle but noticeable to any of his brethren who were nearby.

Not that Gandalf thought that he actually was very near at the time. From how faint it was, it could be anywhere in an area of seven or eight days journey in any direction, Gandalf couldn't localize any more than that, which was irritating.

I wonder if Radagast has gotten into the bad moss again…

Yet, as the night progressed and those shiverings of magic continued, Gandalf realized it could not be any of his brethren. Only himself or Saruman, the greatest of their Order could draw upon magic for that long. And someone definitely was, using and directing magic in a way that only the Maiar or Valar could do.

Elves of course had magic, and some of them could do things with it that even the Maiar would have trouble doing; but their ability to craft magic into spell form was somewhat limited, with only a very few being able to surpass those constraints. Gandalf knew all such intimately, would have known the touch of their minds, and indeed ridden to aid them immediately, if it had been any such.

It was like being a watcher on a tower with a spyglass trying to see over the horizon. The sunlight, or as in this case, the darkness worked against you, and you couldn't see details even if you could somehow figure out there was something out there.

What vexed him was that the spells being used were entirely foreign to him, ones he had never encountered before in his extraordinarily long time on Middle Earth. More than that, it was as if someone or something [to be explained later] was shielding the magic caster from his senses. That gave him pause. As one of the Maiar, Gandalf was intimately connected to the song of Arda. What could possibly occlude his senses so much that he would not even be able to fathom the direction of his quarry?

"Botheration," he muttered aloud, lighting his pipe with a finger and putting his feet up as he puffed thoughtfully.

Eventually the pulses of magic had ceased, not abruptly, simply petering out. That was good, that seemed to indicate at least that the magic caster in question hadn't died in combat, which may or may not be a good thing in the long run. It was not Saruman, the feel of the magic told Gandalf that, nor was it Elrond or Galadriel (though the idea of the Lady of the Woods leaving said woods was somewhat laughable) or any other elfin spellcrafter. Nor was there any kind of… taint to the magic, so it was not some unknown or hidden remnant of the Great Darkness.

That meant it was someone entirely new to Gandalf using magic. It was an astonishing and rather worrisome thought. But again from the feel of it, Gandalf couldn't tell if the being was good, evil, or simply something in between.

Gandalf frowned, putting down his pipe and staring off into the distance, his eyes glowing momentarily as he seemed to almost toss off the visage of the vagabond wanderer as that thought occurred to him. But he couldn't do so entirely, his purpose on Middle Earth did not allow for that, and his raiment was too permanent a fixture of him at present for Gandalf to cast off for over-long. After a moment the glow in his eyes faded back, the grey of his garb settling fully once more onto him, changing him again into the somewhat normal if eccentric grey-haired old man he always looked.

Odd, he thought. The impression he had gotten in that one brief moment was a 'Wait and See' feeling, sent to him from Irmo and Manwe himself. And after a moment's contemplation, Gandalf decided to do just that.

His decision was helped partly by the fact that he had a very important meeting with Thorin and his companions coming up soon. The matter of Erebor took priority over all else. Dark winds were stirring and the dragon Smaug could no longer be allowed to hold dominion over the Lonely Mountain.

That was a week ago. Presently, Gandalf the Grey was standing at the edge of the Shire, moving past the small post of Bounders after having had to apologize for not bringing any fireworks with him this time. He stopped momentarily, the corners of his mouth twitching when he felt the now familiar pulse of magic shining like a beacon just a little ways ahead of him.

Fate works in mysterious ways, thought Gandalf. He had not meant to seek out the magic user, and yet there they were, barely a day's journey away from him. Gandalf chose to find an inn for the evening, for tomorrow he would be approaching Bilbo Baggins, and perhaps meeting this new mysterious mage.

[SCENE END]

It was, once again, a beautiful day in the Shire. It was sunny, yet not too bright; warm, yet not too hot and the tulips were still (and quite impossibly) coming in nicely. Yet one Bilbo Baggins found to his frustration that he couldn't fully relax on his bench, pipe clenched between tightened jaws. He didn't quite trust his flowers anymore, shooting them suspicious glances as they kept flowering and growing far grander than they ever had before.

On the second morning of his arrival, Ben looked around Bag End and told Bilbo that he was going to give the garden a little head start. In front of Bilbo's suddenly worried gaze, he retrieved a pouch of Dragon dung fertilizer (Dragon dung, honestly?) from somewhere, and sprinkled some on the garden and on Bilbo's roof.

It has not even been a week and already he had tomatoes the size of cabbages and carrots as big as bottle gourds. Even the grass that covered the roof of Bag End had begun flowering to ludicrous amounts, to the point it looked more white-yellow than its proper vibrant green. The whole place looked like it had been kissed by Yavanna herself!

The neighbours had begun shooting him odd looks and stares.

Whenever the frustrated hobbit wasn't carefully observing the shrubberies, he kept shooting suspicious glances up at the clear sky overhead, wary of any more bright flashes and falling Travelers that were intent on crashing down in his life, or rather more specifically into his flowerbeds, only to move into his house as they overcharged his gardens.

The thing was… Bilbo wasn't quite sure what to think of Ben.

Oh, he liked him well enough—more than enough, really. The young man was polite, cheerful, tidy, and brought miraculous food to every meal. But he spoke of things that no sensible hobbit could quite believe.

Magic castles.

Children—children, mind you, not battle-hardened warriors—trained in secret halls to harness spells and incantations and elemental forces. Ben claimed to be studying at one such place called Hogwarts, which, Bilbo had to admit, sounded like something you'd find stuck in a hairy toe rather than the name of a school.

As fantastical as it all seemed, there was no denying that Ben could do magic. Magic! Only the most powerful and ancient Elven Lords of old were capable of true Magic, and the Wizards of course, though their numbers were very few indeed. Supposedly, there was still some Magic left in the old Kings of Men, though Bilbo wasn't sure about that. The hobbits certainly had no tales about Kings summoning great images of pure light and shaping objects to their whim and will with a simple gesture.

He could even fly, like a bird! Better than a bird even, since he didn't have to flap about so much [Gravity Magic - Flight]. Ben had offered to take Bilbo along once, and while the hobbit had been tempted, he had ultimately declined. If hobbits were meant to fly, they'd have wings of their own. Judging by their signature large feet, clearly a proper hobbit was meant to stay secure on the safe ground, even underneath it (so long as the place had been properly swept and dusted, of course).

Bilbo wouldn't deny that his stomach had gotten the better of him when he impulsively offered lodgings to Ben for as long as he needed. Once he had come down from the food high, Bilbo had been worried that Bag End would be turned into a wizard's playground (imagine what the neighbours would say!). Fortunately, that had not turned out to be the case.

Ben wasn't often actually inside Bag End once he had explored every (properly cleaned, of course) nook and cranny of the prestigious smial, as these larger hobbit-holes were called. He was much more interested in exploring all of the Shire, starting outwards from Hobbiton to all of Westfarthing (to which Ben had, somewhat incredulously, asked of a blushing Bilbo if Hobbits were always so succinct with their naming sense) and then saying he wanted to explore outside of the Shire as well, passing through Buckland all the way up and even into the Old Forest.

At first, the two of them had gone on long walks throughout Westfarthing as Bilbo steadily got more and more enthusiastic, proudly showing off his home to the young wizard. Despite growing up in a big city and going to school in a magic castle, Ben still seemed utterly fascinated with every mundane field and little stream that Bilbo pointed out to him, responding with genuine glee and appreciation as they explored Bywater and Waymoot as they travelled up the Great East Road.

Eventually Bilbo couldn't contain his curiosity any longer and had asked the boy why he was so excited all the time about things that were quite normal to the hobbit. Yes, he was quite proud of the Shire and how his people had kept the place, but still, even Bilbo would admit it hardly compared to Cities filled with towers of steel and glass that reached the skies or Banks made of white marble that were apparently guarded by dragons.

"I have only ever imagined this place!" had been Ben's maddening response. "Sure you could go to New Zealand and take the Set tour in Matamata, but it doesn't even compare to the real thing, you know."

Unable to make heads or tails of what he was talking about, Bilbo had merely pointed out the distant Tookborough with a brittle chuckle as they kept travelling westward.

They even spent the night in an inn in Michel Delving as Bilbo had become too tired to make the trip back to Hobbiton again, though the two of them had had plenty of energy to sing and dance along with the other Hobbits in the Bird and Baby Inn. As it turned out, Ben wasn't just a powerful sorcerer, but also a talented singer. Bilbo learnt this when his companion pulled out a strange viol-like instrument from somewhere, jumped on the small stage with the band playing there, and introduced them to several of his people's folk tunes.

Apparently, the songs he taught them that night were called 'shanties' back from where he came from and they proved popular with the merry hobbits indeed, who easily picked up the catchy tunes before quickly adding their own variations to them, much to Ben's delight.

Still, after exploring most of Westfarthing, Bilbo had gently declined anymore offers for exploration, figuring that the young wizard was perfectly capable of touring the other Farthings on his own. The tales that Michael brought back were interesting though, as gossiping is a natural state of being for many hobbits, and Bilbo was no exception, unable to resist the tantalizing view into his fellow hobbits' lives as Ben moved through their homesteads on his seemingly endless quest to learn more about the world he had (literally) fallen into.

The story of Ben going into the Old Forest was certainly chilling however, as the young wizard described encountering large beasts as well as trees that seemed to be awake. The large wolf-pelt Ben had brought back and which he had thrown at his unassuming housemate as a practical joke had caused more than a few grey hairs to spontaneously appear on the hobbit's head, of that Bilbo was certain.

Though it did end up making quite an impressive throw rug, he had to admit.

All in all though, Ben had settled in nicely at Bag End, despite making Bilbo's life a little more chaotic. It helped that somehow his room always remained kept and cleaned and that every time Bilbo glanced in his pantry, the room had seemingly filled itself bursting to the brim once again, despite the Hobbit not having gone out for groceries in days. But most of all, what made the hobbit overlook his impromptu roommate's shenanigans was his food and the movies.

Ever since he consumed the delicious morsels that came out of Ben's enchanted satchel, Bilbo could no longer find joy in the simple fare of the Shire. The hobbit would have despaired at the thought of his saviour leaving someday if Ben hadn't assured him of providing him with the recipes before he left.

And then of course, were the movies. Before Ben's arrival, Bilbo's evenings were spent in the quiet company of his books, imagining the stories in them etched in ink. Which simply could not be compared to watching a tale play out in front of you from beginning to the end. Ever since Ben arrived, the wizard and the hobbit had spent their evenings watching one delightful tale after the next. So engrossed watching the story of that wonderful talking bear Paddington was he, that Bilbo hadn't even noticed when the time for dinner had slipped by. A hobbit forgetting his dinner! Imagine that.

So, despite having known Ben for only a week, Bilbo had come to see the young wizard as a friend, if only a mischievous one. Still, wonderful food, delightful stories and fully stocked pantries or not, Bilbo much preferred not to have any more visitors of great magical powers and destinies come knocking at his door, thank you very much.

Which is, of course, exactly when one did.