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Chapter 125: Gandalf? Dumbledore!
🕑 Added 2026-01-06 16:00:13 +0000 UTCThe Baggins family of Bag End, up on The Hill in Hobbiton, always liked to declare—very smugly—that they were a respectable sort of people. Honestly. They lived comfortably, they were cautious,ets, they never went adventuring, and they kept well away from anything dangerous.
Bag End had been built many years ago by the devoted couple Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, who paid for it together. It was easily one of the most luxurious hobbit-holes anywhere nearby. They lived out their days there, leaving behind only one son.
The hobbit who now presided over Bag End was named Bilbo—Bungo Baggins’s only child. Like most hobbits, he was short and quick, and he wore no shoes. The soles of his feet were naturally thick and tough, and the tops were covered in long hair—a hallmark of the hairy-footed folk. He lived alone now, wanting for nothing. Nearly fifty years old—still quite young for a hobbit—he intended to spend his whole life quietly and peacefully in Bag End.
But they say fifty is a turning point in a hobbit’s life, and the unexpected arrived on an utterly ordinary morning.
An old man with a walking stick passed by Bilbo’s door. Bilbo was sitting outside, puffing on his pipe, and without thinking much of it, he greeted the old fellow in an easy, leisurely way.
“Good morning!”
The old man stopped, spoke with him, and introduced himself.
He was Gandalf.
Gandalf from the stories—truly and unmistakably. The same one who, wherever he went, left the whole world in a flurry, with danger and excitement close behind.
The moment Bilbo heard the name, two emotions surged up in him at once, as if the blood of his two families collided inside his veins. On one hand, he was terrified of adventure and wanted nothing to do with Gandalf at all. On the other… something in his mother’s side of the family urgently wanted to shake off this ordinary life.
Hobbit days were peaceful—often too peaceful. Aside from eating, smoking a pipe, doing the kind of work that made you tired, and then enjoying cheerful dancing and feasting, nothing ever happened. No ripples, no waves—just a smooth straight line, a dull melody repeating and repeating, as if coming into the world was merely sliding down a slope: whoosh, and you slip straight into death without even an echo.
And now Gandalf had come—bright-eyed and optimistic—offering him an opportunity for adventure.
Please. Mr. Bilbo of Bag End did not want anything to do with adventures.
So he flustered his way through an excuse and blurted out an invitation to tea—the kind that really means I don’t want to invite you, and I hope you’re too busy to come. He said goodbye to Gandalf, turned around, went back inside, and shut the door.
The old fellow didn’t linger outside. He drew a strange mark on Bilbo’s door, then seemed to remember something urgent, and hurried off.
After Gandalf left, Bilbo finally let out a long breath.
By the next day, he’d tossed the whole incident out of his mind. He never kept big things in his head, but he could remember tiny, pointless details with perfect clarity.
What Bilbo had forgotten was this: Gandalf had invited him into an adventure.
An adventure isn’t a stew—you can’t wait until all the ingredients are neatly prepared before you throw them in the pot. It arrives more suddenly than thunder on a summer night, more violently than you’d ever expect, and in an instant it can turn your old life completely upside down.
The next afternoon, a loud banging at the door nearly made Bilbo jump out of his skin.
Only then did he remember the “tea” appointment—and to his horror, Gandalf had apparently taken it seriously.
Bilbo opened the door. The figure outside was not Gandalf. Not the tall, imposing old wizard.
It was a short, stocky fellow—about hobbit height, but far sturdier—wearing a beard that hung down to his knees.
A dwarf.
“Dwalin, at your service,” the dwarf said, bowing. Then he shoved his way into the hole with long strides.
“B-Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” Bilbo stammered, stunned.
After that, the peaceful, quiet, lonely Bag End might as well have been cursed with dwarves. One after another they arrived at the door. They poured into the hole like a gusting storm, or like mushrooms sprouting from wood. In the blink of an eye, more than a dozen dwarves were bubbling into Bilbo’s home, claiming the long table in the sitting room.
A dwarf noble who called himself Thorin sat down at the head as if he owned the place, as if Bag End belonged to him and not Bilbo.
They loudly demanded food, ale, coffee—everything. Bilbo was a kind host by nature, so he went, aggrieved and flustered, to fetch meals from the pantry. The dwarves made themselves entirely at home. Seeing him scramble, they charged into his kitchen and began carrying out food and laying out utensils for him.
Bilbo watched these rough-handed people fling around his inherited fine dishes like they were flying discs, and he went so pale he practically turned transparent.
“Is everyone here?” Thorin the noble surveyed the room.
“No. One is missing,” one of his followers replied.
“Who’s missing?”
“Gandalf!”
Before the words had even finished, tap-tap—someone knocked again.
“That must be Gandalf,” Bilbo blurted, and he stumbled toward the door. Right now, he desperately wanted something—anything—to rely on, someone who could help him drive these inexplicable guests out.
At the door stood an old man: a blue pointed hat, a purple wizard’s robe, and a long beard reaching his waist.
Bilbo cried out in delighted relief, “Gandalf… oh! Wait. Something’s not right.”
The dwarves shouted over one another. “What’s not right? That is Gandalf!”
“B-but… his face…”
The old man bowed and smiled at him. “Albus Dumbledore, at your service.”
Professor Dumbledore walked over to the table.
He had the dwarves completely confused.
“Are you Gandalf’s brother?”
The old wizard didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he calmly confirmed each of these small folk’s identities one by one.
“You’re Bilbo, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are Thorin Oakenshield—descendant of Durin’s royal line?”
The dwarf noble nodded. “Indeed!” Then he demanded coldly, “And who are you?”
“A wizard—from Hogwarts. I’ve come in Gandalf’s place. He told me all of his plans to help you reclaim the Lonely Mountain.” Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled with warmth. “We’re going to have a very interesting adventure together.”
He slipped naturally into the feast. The dwarves kept questioning him about wizards and about Hogwarts. Nobody truly trusted this stranger who had appeared out of nowhere.
Least of all their leader, Thorin Oakenshield, who sat there with a stormy face the whole time.
The other dwarves—and even the hobbit—were steadily won over by the vivid, lifelike descriptions of Dumbledore’s otherworldly school of magic. In the middle of it all, he demonstrated a few little spells.
For ordinary folk, magic placed right in front of your eyes was always persuasive.
The feast grew louder and hotter. The dwarves began to sing, rapping on the table to keep the beat. The human wizard drew out a small wooden wand and gave it a gentle flick.
And then, to everyone’s astonishment and delight, the cakes and pies on the table sprouted little arms and legs and joined hands to dance. Teacups grew wheels; their handles stretched into diving boards; elegant little Miss Sugar Cube performed dive after dive with perfect grace. Cheese wheels stacked themselves into a parade float, carrying licorice clowns and an apple band, topped with a tiny castle where frosting people frolicked and played.
The dining table turned into a carnival circus. Beautiful hobbit dishes grinned with simple cheer as they paraded along the edge of the table.
The dwarves stared, dumbstruck. A few of them had jaws that practically hit the tabletop—and whenever a parade snack passed by, it giggled and hopped straight into their open mouths.
“Mmf—mmf! I’m stuffed!” a dwarf moaned through a mouthful, cheeks ballooned.
Everyone was thrilled.
Everyone except Thorin.
The suspicion on Thorin’s face only deepened. Suddenly he stood, slammed his palm onto the table, and barked, “Enough! Wizard—you must prove who you are. Don’t try to fool us with these little tricks. Where has Gandalf gone?”
In an instant, the joyous Bag End fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.
The little food-circus on the table looked terrified, huddling together and trembling.
Dumbledore, unhurried, took out his phone, started a video call—
And on the other end, Gandalf waved at them with a grin.
“Friends! Hello, everyone…”
