In LOTR with Harry Potter system

As soon as Bilbo finished speaking, it was as if all his courage had evaporated. His face flushed, and he quickly ducked behind Sylas once more, his bravery spent in one bold outburst.

Sylas blinked in surprise at Bilbo's swift decision. This wasn't how he remembered it.

Gandalf, however, looked delighted. Raising his goblet high, he declared with a hearty laugh, "Let us welcome Bilbo Baggins to the company!"

"To Bilbo Baggins, the Master Thief!" the Dwarves echoed, raising their cups and cheering boisterously.

Sylas's heart stirred with mixed emotions. In the stories he knew, Bilbo had only made up his mind the next morning, running after the company barefoot with no handkerchief. Clearly, his presence here had changed something.

Yet seeing the flicker of excitementa on Bilbo's face, Sylas smiled and accepted the new path their tale was taking.

With things moving quickly, Sylas gently reminded Thorin to draw up a formal contract for Bilbo. He wanted to make sure Bilbo would be properly rewarded for his part in reclaiming Erebor.

Thorin, surprisingly generous when driven by his goal, agreed without complaint. The contract stated that, upon successful reclamation of the Lonely Mountain and retrieval of the Arkenstone, one-fourteenth of the treasure hoard would belong to Bilbo Baggins.

Gandalf, as always, declined any reward.

Bilbo, clutching the signed parchment in his trembling hands, felt lightheaded. He stared at the elegantly written terms, his eyes widening.

One-fourteenth of the treasure? He would become the wealthiest Hobbit in the history of the Shire!

—

Later that night, the halls of Bag End echoed with thunderous snoring. The Dwarves lay sprawled across every available surface, chairs, couches, rugs—with empty mugs and scattered crumbs around them like battlefield remains.

In the master bedroom, Bilbo lay awake in bed, twisting his blanket into knots. The snores didn't help, but what truly kept him tossing and turning were the thoughts racing through his mind.

Meanwhile, atop the grassy slope of Bag End's rounded roof, Sylas sat beside Gandalf under the stars.

One gazed quietly at the sky, while the other puffed thoughtfully on his curved pipe, smoke curling upward like silver wisps chasing the moon.

After a long pause, Gandalf finally broke the silence.

"I ventured into the Wilds recently. Met with a few of my old Ranger companions. It seems the Orcs of the Misty Mountains are stirring again."

He exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting past his furrowed brow. 

"So I'll part ways with you at the foot of the Misty Mountains," Gandalf said at last, his voice thoughtful. "There are things I must look into, dark stirrings that need a closer eye. The rest of the journey will be in your hands."

Sylas had known this was coming. Gandalf had mentioned it before, and he'd prepared himself mentally.

He nodded, then turned to the old wizard with a touch of reluctance in his tone. "Is there anything you'd like me to help with?"

In truth, if given the choice, Sylas would have rather followed Gandalf. Compared to keeping Thorin's company in check, roaming the wilds with the Grey Pilgrim sounded almost... peaceful.

Gandalf chuckled and tapped the blade at Sylas's hip with the stem of his pipe. "I would very much like to have you as a companion. But haven't you already given your word to Thorin Oakenshield and his company?"

"Besides," he added with a wink, "that sword of yours, what do you call it again?"

"Brisingr," Sylas replied, drawing it with a flourish and handing it over. The blade gleamed with pride as he added coolly, "I promised to help them reclaim Erebor. I never said I'd play nursemaid. And frankly, I doubt Thorin would appreciate either of us outshining him too often."

Gandalf gave a dry laugh, but his eyes betrayed his agreement.

Indeed, Thorin's pride was already showing cracks.

Though the journey had barely begun, the dwarf prince was growing increasingly uncomfortable with Gandalf's quiet authority. Thorin, a man of strong will and iron control, wanted command of the company entirely, and while Gandalf had no desire to challenge him, his very presence cast a long shadow.

It didn't help that Gandalf bore Narya, the Ring of Fire—one of the Three crafted by Celebrimbor. The ring infused those around him with warmth, courage, and hope. Its bearer could inspire loyalty and passion just by existing nearby. Naturally, the Dwarves found themselves drawn to him.

Unless one of them gave way, it was only a matter of time before conflict would spark.

But Sylas had no intention of mediating between proud kings and secretive wizards. He'd do his part, nothing more.

As if setting aside the weight of politics, Gandalf turned his full attention to the blade now resting in his hands.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, admiring its golden sheen. "The Dwarves' craftsmanship never fails to impress."

As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a pulse of magic flowed through the blade. In the next breath, the sword erupted into brilliant, searing fire, not red like embers, but a blinding gold, like sunlight caught in steel.

The flames roared to life, and light spilled out across the hillside like a dawn breaking over darkness.

"Ahh... Brisingr," Gandalf said softly, awe in his voice. "A fitting name, indeed."

Sylas stared, wide-eyed, at the sword in Gandalf's hand.

Golden flames danced along the blade, searing, sacred, and far more intense than anything Sylas had ever summoned himself. The red magic fire he usually conjured was like a hearth's warmth compared to the blazing sun that now burned in Gandalf's grasp.

"Gandalf... what kind of flame is that?" he asked, his voice filled with awe.

"The Fire of Arnor," Gandalf answered, watching the blade with thoughtful eyes. "Or, as some call it... the Flame of the Sun."

The very same sword in his hands had only ever shimmered with red. Yet now, held by Gandalf, it blazed with divine fury. He suddenly felt as if he'd been carrying a sleeping dragon, unaware of its true nature.

And he, perhaps, was not its rightful wielder.

But then he remembered: Gandalf wasn't merely a wizard. He was a Maia, one of the divine spirits sent by the Valar. A being of light and fire, veiled in mortal form.

Of course the sword responded differently in his hands.

Sylas exhaled slowly and tried to soothe the sting of inadequacy. "He's practically a god," he muttered to himself. "I'm just... me."

The golden blaze died down at Gandalf's command, but now something else caught the wizard's attention.

Runes.

They shimmered along the blade's length, mystical, ancient, alive with power.

Gandalf's brow furrowed. "What language is this? It holds magic... and mystery."

Sylas hesitated. "It's... Magic Script," he offered. "You could think of it as the written language of Wizards."

"Magic Script?" Gandalf repeated, turning the term over thoughtfully. "I've never heard of such a thing. Wizards never had their own writing... unless—"

His eyes narrowed, and a slow realization crept across his face. "Did you create it?"

Sylas nearly choked. "What? No—of course not! You give me far too much credit."

He quickly shook his head, knowing he couldn't tell Gandalf the truth about the system that granted him this power. But lying outright to someone like Gandalf? That seemed unwise.

So he gave the most truthful lie he could manage.

"It wasn't created by me... You could say it was... heaven-bestowed."

Gandalf's eyes widened. The words struck him with weight and wonder.

"Heaven-bestowed..." he echoed, his voice hushed.

Then, slowly, Gandalf's expression turned to something between reverence and envy. "The favor of Eru Ilúvatar Himself... truly, I feel a flicker of jealousy."

Sylas blinked. 'Eru...? The Father of All...? Did Gandalf misunderstand something?'

Gandalf said nothing more, simply returned the sword with quiet respect and a smile that carried more than words.

Then, with the conversation ended and the stars still glinting overhead, he turned and descended back toward Bag End, disappearing into the hobbit-hole.

The next morning, sunlight streamed across the hills of Hobbiton.

After eating the last bit of stored food in Bag End, everyone was ready to go.

...

Stones PLZZzz