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Chapter 127: The Headmaster’s Hand
🕑 Added 2026-01-08 16:00:15 +0000 UTCThorin Oakenshield was a crafty one when he drafted the contract. What he wrote was: a success fee payable upon completion, in an amount not exceeding one fourteenth of the total proceeds from this journey (excluding the Arkenstone).
He only gave an upper limit, but set no lower limit. Which meant that after the job was done, paying a single gold coin would still count as “not exceeding one fourteenth.”
Dumbledore looked over Thorin’s shoulder at what he was writing. At that moment, the old educator suddenly seemed to catch a chill, and he began coughing uncontrollably.
Cough, cough.
Thorin, meanwhile, abruptly developed an ear problem—his hearing completely blocked by thick earwax—so he noticed nothing at all and continued drafting the contract as if nothing had happened.
“Prince Thorin.”
A pair of powerful hands settled on Thorin’s shoulders, quiet as falling snow. They were warm, brimming with strength, and for some reason they sent a chill crawling up the spine.
“Hm? Wizard, is there something you’d like to say?” Thorin wore an innocent expression. What bad intentions could a dwarf possibly have?
“About the wording of this contract,” Dumbledore said gravely, “perhaps we ought to discuss it a bit more. I think we should be more careful with our phrasing.”
Thorin spoke with breezy confidence. “I don’t think there’s anything to change. You should trust the character of dwarves.”
The headmaster’s large hand grew even stronger. Thorin sucked in a breath of cold air, but with a will as unyielding as rock and shoulder blades like iron, he still managed to put on a bright, sunny smile.
Dumbledore smiled serenely. “How about this, then? For all the payment from this adventure, I’ll take only a pouchful.”
“Oh?” Thorin raised his brows. “How big a pouch?”
Dumbledore produced a small leather coin pouch—no larger than the palm of his hand.
Thorin laughed generously. “A pouch like that? You can have a hundred of them.”
“No need,” Dumbledore said. “One pouch is enough.”
Bilbo hurried about preparing his luggage. Tall and kindly, Dumbledore said, “I can help you carry some supplies. Bring as much as you like—take whatever you think you’ll need.”
Bilbo startled, then quickly thanked him again and again.
So Bilbo walked ahead, grabbing whatever he felt might be useful from around the house and handing it back to Dumbledore. It looked like a silver-maned lion following a tiny flying squirrel: the little flying squirrel was moving house, while the old lion calmly stuffed everything into a single small pouch.
The dwarves stared, eyes bulging, because Dumbledore simply kept shoving things into it—handkerchiefs, towels, clothes, a toothbrush, cookware, hats, a walking stick, a broom, tents, bedding, and more. An absurd amount of things, all swallowed by that little pouch as though it were bottomless. Bag End visibly grew emptier by the minute.
“Balin, I want a pouch like that too.”
“Thorin, do you think… hey, Thorin, are you all right? Why is your face so green?”
Thorin let out a hearty laugh—proof of robust health—and, without drawing attention, he casually scratched out and amended a few lines on the contract.
Bilbo signed along with the others. He’d read the contents carefully; it was short, and everyone’s terms were nearly identical. Besides splitting the gains, there was one additional clause for Dumbledore and Bilbo—the two non-dwarf “helpers”: the company would cover their travel expenses, and their funeral costs as well.
The adventure began on a late-April night. Under the company’s astonished, envious gazes, Dumbledore traveled astride a broomstick.
All day long the old wizard flew here and there, perched on his broom high above the road, able to see every landscape and every custom ahead with perfect clarity. The first half of the journey was genuinely pleasant—beautiful scenery, frequent settlements. Dumbledore often held up his phone, chatting with Skyl and the others, sharing updates and everything he saw.
“Professor, I’ve shared the document for The Hobbit with you,” Skyl said, looking relaxed as he rode his horse. “You can use it as a reference.”
“The Hobbit?” Dumbledore skimmed it and felt a jolt of surprise. “Is this world… a story?”
“Every world is a story, Professor.” Skyl shrugged with easy nonchalance. “Maybe you can speed things up a little. That way, when we reach Aman, you can come with us and listen to the teachings of the great Ilúvatar.”
“An adventure is meant to be enjoyed,” Dumbledore chuckled. “Skyl, why rush to the ending?” He deleted the document Skyl had shared. “Now that I’m the one telling this story, there’s no need to read ahead.”
The company kept a light pace eastward. Once they left the Shire, they entered the lands of strangers—people speaking different tongues, folk songs no one had ever heard before. Farther east still, they reached the wilderness.
There were no roads anymore—only grasslands, peaks, marshes, and forests. Their footsteps left faint impressions that the land soon swallowed, as if they’d never been there at all.
Bilbo looked back. He could no longer see any trace of where they’d come from.
For a time, a fine, persistent rain fell from the sky. The plants along the journey were soaked through, and everyone’s mood grew heavy—like clothes drenched with water. Still, they ate and drank well every day, and Dumbledore, that reliable wizard, could always use a bit of magic to smooth over whatever troubles arose.
Everyone envied magic to an absurd degree. It could build a fire even in wet woodland, make the food in their packs cook itself, clean off water stains and mud splatters—and every so often, it could lift spirits and bolster morale with fireworks, music, and even circus-like performances. The shorter folk swore they couldn’t live without Dumbledore anymore, to the point they practically wanted to cling to the headmaster at night and sleep hugging him.
Dumbledore was always in high spirits, riding his broom like a man who had never heard the words “caution” or “restraint.” One moment he’d vanish when you turned your head, and then, just when everyone started hoping, he’d appear again out of nowhere.
That day, as usual, it was raining. The company entered a dense forest. Though it lay in the wilds, travelers had long recorded it in their guides: the Trollshaws, named for the local monsters. Even so, the expedition didn’t seem to have any awareness that they were stepping into danger.
Dumbledore rose into the air and scouted beyond the forest. He’d heard long ago from Gandalf that there was an Elven refuge nearby called Rivendell, lying along their route. If they wanted to rest there and receive the Elves’ help, it would be best to pay a visit in advance.
Dumbledore’s absence was brief—only a single night. They’d already experienced many such nights on the road without incident. Yet this time, ill luck struck: the dwarves and Bilbo followed a glow in the forest after dark and stumbled into three trolls in the middle of a roaring barbecue feast.
Big and brutish, the trolls had tremendous strength. Every last one of the little folk—without exception—was caught.
By the time Dumbledore returned, the lads were already tied up on a roasting rack, about to be served as dwarf barbecue.
The old wizard didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He stepped out of the trees to face the three trolls.
The trolls guffawed. “Ahh, extra food!” “Old man’ll taste awful.” “Quit whining, you idiot. If we don’t roast him, we can always boil him—soup’s good too!”
Dumbledore was like a beam of hope in the eyes of people in trouble. The moment he appeared, the dwarves who’d been complaining nonstop on the rack immediately shut their mouths.
The old educator drew his wand and pointed at the bonfire. With a soft pop, the flames turned a ghostly blue. Not only did they stop burning, they even felt pleasantly cool against the skin.
Then he pointed at the ground. Dead branches and fallen leaves gathered together, transforming into a pride of magnificent lions. In a few swift motions they pounced on the towering trolls, clawing and battering them until they were dizzy and wailing in misery.
Bilbo, clever little creature that he was, had hidden himself and avoided being put on the rack. In the chaos he slipped out, cut everyone’s bonds, and the dwarves escaped. Still furious, they grabbed whatever weapons they could and proceeded to beat the trolls in a merciless group assault, hacking their ugly big heads clean off at the end.
Inside the trolls’ cave were the gold coins and weapons they’d plundered—now the expedition’s first haul.
Everyone happily split the treasure. In the pile they found three swords, which were given to Thorin, Dumbledore, and Bilbo.
When the sun rose, the company left the trolls’ cave—only to hear a rapid, urgent commotion in the dense forest, as though something large was rushing toward them.
Between ancient trees, twisting vines, and thorny undergrowth, a wooden sledge drawn by a swarm of rabbits came flying over the ground. Sitting on it was one of Gandalf’s colleagues: Radagast the Brown. He was putting on the most thrilling “medieval drift racing” performance imaginable, skidding in a smooth, flawless turn before braking hard right in front of the expedition.
Panting, the brown-robed wizard leapt off the sledge and grabbed Dumbledore’s hand. “Gandalf! This is bad—listen to me! The darkness is returning! I’ve found traces of Sauron!”
“Hold on,” Dumbledore said. “I’m Albus.”
“Albus?” Radagast blinked. “Albus Gandalf? When did you change your name? That’s a mouthful. Honestly, it’d be easier to just call you Adolf.”
The old educator’s sturdy, powerful hand pressed down hard on the brown-robed wizard’s shoulder.
