In LOTR with Harry Potter system

The wizard wore a travel-worn grey robe, a staff of twisted vinewood in one hand and a long-stemmed pipe in the other. With quiet, deliberate steps, he made his way down the familiar path into Hobbiton.

But rather than going straight to his destination, the old wizard turned off the lane and ducked beneath the eaves of the Green Dragon Inn.

The inn, built to Hobbit proportions, was not the most comfortable place for someone of his stature. He had to stoop low as he entered, his tall frame brushing against the wooden beams. Inside, he made his way to the bar and called out with a warm but gravelly voice, "A pint of ale, if you please!"

With a deep sigh, he settled himself carefully onto one of the Hobbit-sized stools, stretching his back with the air of a man who had walked many miles.

At once, the room fell silent.

Every Hobbit in the inn turned to look. Small eyes peered curiously at the tall figure with the pointed hat and weathered face. Then, a moment later, recognition dawned.

The innkeeper, a round-bellied fellow with rosy cheeks and cheerful eyes, blinked, then broke into a delighted grin. "Gandalf! Bless me, is it really you? When did you sneak into the Shire?"

Gandalf smiled beneath his beard. "Hello, Mister Boffin. I'm just passing through. Thought I might rest my feet and see how things fare in Hobbiton."

"Well, you're always welcome here!" Boffin beamed as he poured a pint. "On the house, of course. It's been what? More than a decade since your last visit?"

"Thank you kindly," Gandalf said, accepting the mug and taking a sip. "Yes, it's been some time. I've been wandering East these past few years."

The innkeeper leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, you're not the only wizard in these parts anymore."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Aye," Boffin said with a nod. "Another wizard arrived not long ago. Not like you, though, he's young, barely out of his robes, I'd wager. He's staying just down the road, with old Bilbo Baggins of Bag End."

"Really?" Gandalf's tone was light, but a spark of curiosity flickered in his eyes. "What can you tell me about him?"

At that, the innkeeper lit up like a lantern. "His name's Sylas. Comes from somewhere far off. He's been living here nearly a year now, and let me tell you, there's no end to the tales. Some say he's a healer, others say he's a hedge-wizard. But he once traveled to the borders of the Old Forest and helped fend off an invasion of cursed trees! Folks there call him the 'Tree-Feller' now, would you believe it?"

As Boffin chattered on, Gandalf listened with polite interest, his thoughts already drifting. Smoke curled from his pipe as he stared into the hearth, thoughtful. A young wizard… in the Shire? That was no small matter.

Meanwhile, at Bag End, Sylas had his hands full.

Over the past week, the Mandrakes had grown restless. One had even tried to make a break for it, wriggling out of its pot during the night and making a slow, determined crawl across the yard.

Fortunately, Sylas had caught it just in time.

He had rushed outside to see the Mandrake halfway out of its planter, its limbs writhing with stubborn defiance. With a swift flick of his wand, he cast Petrificus Totalus, freezing the rebellious herb in place.

Had it escaped and matured out in the wild, its cries could have proven deadly to an unsuspecting Hobbit.

To prevent the Mandrakes from pulling another escape attempt, Sylas conjured a small glass greenhouse just behind Bag End. It served a dual purpose, providing a warm, regulated environment for the magical plants and ensuring they didn't wriggle off into the countryside where their cries might pose a danger.

As the Mandrakes grew closer to full maturity, their wailing grew increasingly potent. Even an accidental tug on a leaf could result in a piercing shriek strong enough to knock a grown man unconscious.

So, Sylas layered protective enchantments over the greenhouse and added a series of soundproof glass domes around each pot, muffling the noise as much as magically possible.

And because an unseasonal cold snap had swept through the Shire that week, Sylas had gone one step further, he bundled the Mandrake pots in hand-knitted socks and snug little scarves, both crafted overnight by Bilbo, who had taken to treating the Mandrakes as wayward children.

That afternoon, as the sun filtered through the kitchen window, Sylas and Bilbo were enjoying a quiet moment of afternoon tea. Bilbo was halfway through a lemon biscuit, and Sylas was halfway through a particularly satisfying sip of spiced nettle tea, when a knock came at the round front door of Bag End.

They exchanged curious glances.

"Expecting anyone?" Sylas asked.

Bilbo shook his head, dusted the crumbs from his waistcoat, and made his way to the door.

The moment he opened it, he stopped short, blinking at the towering figure before him. The Hobbit had to step back and crane his neck upward to see the visitor's face.

Standing at the threshold was a tall figure in a weathered grey cloak, a long vinewood staff in one hand and a familiar twinkle in his eye.

"Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed in surprise. "What brings you back to Hobbiton?"

Leaning slightly on his staff, the wizard smiled beneath his beard. "Hello, Bilbo. I happened to be passing through and thought I might stop by for a rest. Am I intruding?"

"Not at all! You're always welcome at Bag End," Bilbo said warmly. "You've arrived at just the right time, we're in the middle of tea."

"Ah, how fortunate!" Gandalf chuckled.

He ducked through the rounded doorway with practiced ease, handing Bilbo his pointed hat and staff before stepping into the familiar, cozy warmth of Bag End.

Sylas had already risen from his seat in the sitting room, his eyes locking with Gandalf's the moment the wizard entered. There was a curious gleam in Gandalf's gaze, one part recognition, one part amusement.

"It seems I'm not the only guest today," Gandalf said, smiling as his eyes fell on Sylas.

Sylas stood and approached the visitor, offering a respectful bow. "It's an honor to meet you, Gandalf. I'm Sylas. I've heard many tales of your wisdom and travels."

Gandalf looked him over with a curious glint in his eye. The young wizard's dark hair and eyes gave him a mysterious air, but it was the robes he wore that truly caught the old wizard's attention. His gaze lingered on the finely woven garment, black as a raven's wing, with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the firelight.

"Ah…" Gandalf murmured, his expression brightening with mild surprise. "That robe. It bears the blessing of Goldberry, the River-daughter of the Old Forest. You've met her?"

Sylas smiled, understanding Gandalf's unspoken recognition. "Yes. I spent some time with Tom and Goldberry not long ago. They were gracious enough to host me. Very kind souls. I learned much while staying in their home."

Gandalf raised his brows slightly, his respect for the young man clearly deepening. Few were welcomed into the home of Tom Bombadil, and even fewer left bearing gifts such as a robe woven by Goldberry herself. That kind of hospitality was rare, and never given lightly.

"Well then," Bilbo chirped from beside the hearth, "let's not just stand around. Come, sit! We're just in time for tea."

The three of them settled around the low table near the fire. Steam rose from teacups, and the sweet scent of honey biscuits and berry tarts filled the cozy air.

Bilbo passed a tray around as he asked, "So, Gandalf, where have your travels taken you these past years? You haven't visited the Shire in quite some time."

Taking a sip of his tea, Gandalf leaned back with a thoughtful sigh. "Ah, I've been roaming the East. Spent time among the Elves of Rivendell, wandered the Northern Wastes for a spell, and more recently lingered in the Misty Mountains before finally making my way back through Eriador."

Bilbo's eyes lit up with wonder. "The Elves! Are they really as beautiful as the stories say?"

Gandalf chuckled, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Their beauty defies description, dear Bilbo. It's something you must see to truly understand."

Bilbo sighed wistfully, then shook his head. "I'm afraid adventuring isn't for me. Too many missed meals! Breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper? I'd starve before I even left the Shire."

Laughter echoed gently between them.

Then Gandalf turned his attention to Sylas. "And you, young wizard—where is it you hail from? Your features suggest the Far East, yet your presence feels… distant, even from the lands I know."

Sylas paused for a moment, then answered honestly. "Not from the East. The place I come from is very far from here. This is my first time in Middle-earth."

Gandalf's expression grew thoughtful, the pipe in his hand momentarily forgotten. His keen eyes studied Sylas more deeply now, not with suspicion, but with wonder. There was no deceit in the boy's voice. And yet, if Sylas had come from outside of Middle-earth, then...