There and Back Again: A Potter's Tale

Harry opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back in soft grass, staring up at the darkening sky, his glasses still on. He sat up quickly and looked around. Ron, Hermione, and Neva were lying in various positions around him, with all their packs thrown out next to them. His own backpack was just a foot away from his left hand. His right hand dove into his pants pocket to be greeted by the smooth wood of his wand, unbroken and undamaged. Comforted, he gazed at his surroundings, trying to make heads or tails out of their location.

They were on a rolling hillock in the middle of a picturesque countryside. The green grass bent gently in the breeze, and trees were scattered everywhere he could see. The sun was dipping beneath the tree-lined horizon; Harry guessed that they had an hour before sunset. To his right, there was a dirt-paved road that stretched onwards until it was blocked by a metal gate not twenty yards away. Just behind the gate was a small lodge in the style of Neva's house, its chimney sending white smoke into the sky. The road probably led into a town or a village, one that they should take refuge in before the sun went down.

Slowly, the other three next to him began to stir. First Ron, then Hermione, and finally Neva sat up to gape at their surroundings. Neva immediately lay back down after one look and closed her eyes.

"Where in Merlin's name are we?" Ron asked after some moments of silence.

"Exactly what I was trying to figure out," was Harry's glum response. "This place is completely unfamiliar to me. I don't even know if we're in England anymore. . ."

"The better question would be, 'When,' Mr. Weasley," said Neva, still lying down with her eyes closed.

"What?"

"We're still in England, I think," Neva continued, "but we are most certainly in a different time. The villagers in the place over there--" she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the looming gate down the road, "--are all farming with oxen and plows, or milling about in the town market. It looks like something from the medieval era of Britain. Or, perhaps, the Roman era would be a better description."

She opened her eyes and sat up abruptly. "I'd recommend changing, if you have wizarding robes with you," she said, looking into each of their stunned faces. "I don't know how kindly the villagers will take to modern dress--they look rather sheltered, if you ask me."

Hermione gulped. "But, if they're medieval. . . wouldn't they try to burn us? If they found out we were--wizards and witches?"

Neva shook her head. "They seem to know of magic, if the runes I saw on the walls and doorways are of any evidence," she said. "And besides, Ms. Granger, I should think that adult witches and wizards should have little problem keeping away fire with a simple Fire-Repelling Spell."

"Unless the fire is coming from an angry mage," Harry muttered, remembering Bellatrix's memorable death. In a louder voice, he added, "Let's try to take shelter in that town, then. I think we all should have our robes in our bags. We'll figure out what's next when we get there. And Neva. . . if we're going to be together for a while, would you mind calling us by our first names? I don't want to feel like I'm traveling with a Hogwarts professor."

Ron and Hermione laughed. Neva smiled in acquiescence. "Of course," she said. "Then, I shall wait here while you get changed, Harry, Ron, and Hermione."

TABA TABA TABA TABA TABA

The sunlight was almost completely gone once the three teens had changed into wizarding robes and cloaks behind one of the many trees on the hill. They quickly joined Neva (who had pulled her hood far over her head) and walked up the hillock and onto the main road, heading toward the spot Neva had pointed out where the village would be. As they approached the metal gate that blocked their path, they saw a grizzled old man sitting on a chair in the doorway of the small lodge behind the gate. He was puffing on a wooden pipe, sending smoke rings into the deepening twilight. When he saw them coming to the gate, he tucked his pipe into his overcoat and scrambled to his feet before coming over to them, snatching up a lantern on the way.

At the gate, the old man raised his lantern and surveyed the four travelers, with not an altogether friendly gaze. "What do you want, and where do you come from?" he asked gruffly. His accent seemed to be a mix of country English and Irish. When Harry hesitated, he exclaimed, "Go on, go on, I don't have all night, you know! Old Harry of the West-gate has a right to know the answers--can't just let in every silent stranger that passes!"

"We are travelers from a distant land." Neva stepped forward and threw back her hood. "This territory is unfamiliar to us, and we are looking for a place to stay for the night. Is there an inn in the village yonder?"

Old Harry gaped at her. "A woman--traveling?" he muttered. Then, catching sight of Hermione behind her, "And two of them! Well, stranger things have happened before--but I never thought that menfolk from the South were keen on letting their womenfolk travel like this. Yes, indeed, mistress, there is an inn--The Prancing Pony, owned by one Mr. Barliman Butterbur. Best in the area. Would you like directions?"

When Neva nodded, Old Harry unlocked the metal gate, pulled the creaking doors open, and stepped back to let them enter. "Welcome to the village of Bree!" he said, bowing as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and finally Neva passed through the gateway. He pointed down the road towards town. "Keep going straight, and you can't miss it! Just tell Barliman that Harry of the West-gate sent you, and you'll find as warm a welcome as you could wish for. Good evening to you!" And with a wave of his hand, he settled back on the stool in the doorway of his lodge and pulled out his pipe again. As the foursome walked farther on the road, he puffed on it and stared meditatively at their retreating backs.

The four travelers walked on in silence at first, before Hermione opined, "These people really are old-fashioned. Imagine, someone being surprised that women are traveling! I'd place us at least several hundred years back in time, if not more."

"By the way," Harry turned to Neva walking next to him, "what was that song you sang? The one you used to get us here. Do you think we can use it to get back to our time?"

Neva looked over at Harry regretfully. "I'm not quite sure," she said. "My grandmother taught me the song and the rune when I was a little girl, warning me that they were only to be used in times of dire need. My intuition told me that our need was dire enough when Voldemort had us surrounded like that. But I don't know if it would take us back to our original time, even if it should work at all in this world."

Harry was disappointed, to say the least. To be stuck in a strange world, perhaps with no escape! Neva must have seen his emotions in his face, as she hurriedly added, "But don't worry. I'm sure there will be some wise mage in this land who can help us. After all, in these early times, there were many more wizarding peoples familiar with this type of magic, even more powerful than those in our generation."

The four of them continued walking. Houses were beginning to loom up on either side of them in the darkening gloom. Some had cheerily-lit windows, some had open doorways with warm firelight streaming out--and one three-story building in the distance had both. Loud male voices singing and the clinking of mugs could be heard, even from their distance; and as they hurried to the entryway, a swinging wooden sign of a fat pony rearing up on its hind legs materialized from the darkness over their heads.

"The Prancing Pony," muttered Ron as they filed inside.

TABA TABA TABA TABA TABA

The inn was bustling with life when Neva, Harry, Hermione, and Ron entered, filled with fireplace smoke, pipe smoke, and much loud noise. The common room was alive with activity, and almost all the tables were filled with guffawing farmers and their mugs of ale or beer. There was a bar, too, where more men were toasting each other, singing merrily, and always calling for more to drink. The innkeeper, the short fat man in a white apron who walked between tables to chat with the other customers, saw them enter and hurried over to meet them.

"Good evening, masters!" he said, with a slight bow. "What may you be wanting?"

"Beds for four weary travelers," Neva replied, removing her hood. Harry decided that it was wise enough not to answer, as Neva seemed to know how to talk to these people better than he did. "Harry of the West-gate recommended us here, Mr. Butterbur, I presume?"

Like the gatekeeper before him, Butterbur gaped at Neva; but he had the good business sense to catch himself before saying anything untoward. "Well, then, mistress, of course!" he said, fumbling with his apron. "We have just enough rooms for you tonight--you'll be wanting two, I'm expecting?"

"No, indeed," Neva cast a bemused look in Harry and Ron's direction. "One room will be just fine, thank you very much." When Harry realized what the innkeeper was hinting at, he felt himself flush--thank goodness the hood hid his face from view.

"Hi! Nob!" The innkeeper's shout brought a funny-looking young boy running over. He had curly brown hair, a clean-shaven face, and cheery bright eyes; he only came up to Ron's midriff, meaning that he had to be at most three or four feet tall. Harry noted that the boy was barefoot, and was surprised to see that his feet were completely covered in thick, brown, curly hair. When the boy spied Neva, he stopped and gaped at her.

"No time for staring, you wooly-footed slowcoach!" Nob immediately started to attention at Butterbur's sharp tone. "Get these guests four beds in a room for tonight! Double quick! You wouldn't be having horses to stable, would you, mistress?" The innkeeper turned back to Neva, who shook her head. Nob ran off with a wink and a grin to carry out his orders.

"Make yourselves at home, masters and mistress!" Butterbur bowed, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione lowered their hoods in response. "My goodness, I meant, masters and mistresses! My, my, what are the times coming to these days? Might I ask for your names?"

"I am Neva Underhill," Neva said, then pointed out the others. "This is Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger."

"Indeed! Pleased to meet you all, and Barliman Butterbur at your service. Well, Miss Underhill, there are some other Underhills here tonight, but I assume you aren't related to them, as they're hobbits."

"Beg your pardon, they're what?" Ron spluttered.

"Hobbits. Never heard of hobbits before? Why, you folk must be from some faraway country, not to know of them!"

"You could say that again," Harry muttered, but Butterbur didn't hear him.

"Nob here is a hobbit. The Little Folk, we call them in Bree, as opposed to the Big Folk, or people. They're short, curly-haired, and uncommonly fond of good eating. Most of them live in holes in the hills and riverbanks of Bree-land and the Shire--this is in Bree-land, and the Shire's the land more out west; and some, they say, have the power to disappear at will, but I don't know about that. You'll meet some in the common room tonight, I'm sure. Would you be wanting your supper here, or in your room?"

"Here is fine," Neva said, and so Butterbur left them to give instructions to the kitchen.

Neva led them over to an empty table in the corner, where they all took a seat. "I think we have a problem," Hermione said quietly once they were ready.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"Money." The worry showed on Hermione's face. "I doubt we have enough for a night's stay here; and even if we did, we don't know what their currency is!"

"Merlin's beard, are you a witch or not?" Ron said, amused. "Just Transfigure what we've got, or conjure more if we don't have enough!"

"Ron! How many times do I have to tell you?" Hermione's voice rose. "You can't Transfigure anything into precious metals, and you most certainly can't create it out of thin air! It's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of--"

"Shut up!" Harry hissed. "The man next door is listening!"

Sure enough, a tall man in a soiled green cloak had sat down at the table next to theirs whilst they were deep in their conversation. His hood was still over his face, and a wooden pipe stuck out from the depths of it, as did the bright gleam of his eyes. He did indeed seem to be listening to their strange conversation, and both Ron and Hermione immediately quieted down. But the man's eyes continued to observe them silently, lingering especially on Hermione and Neva, both of whom had their backs to him.

"Do not--draw--attention to ourselves," Harry whispered urgently. "No one can know that we're magical--I'd prefer getting back home without getting burnt at the stake first. Remember, we're not at home anymore; and even if we were, watch what you say around here!"

The other three nodded, just as Nob brought over trays of their dinner. It was simple country fare, plain bread and meat with some cheese and fruit; but the meal was as good as ambrosia and nectar for their empty stomachs.

As they were finishing their meal, Harry noticed four short people in cloaks with the hoods down--hobbits, if their close resemblance to Nob said anything--enter the inn and hold a long conversation with Butterbur. Harry felt himself drawn to the apparent leader of the group, an older-looking hobbit with a grave demeanor; something, a certain something that Harry couldn't put his finger on, set him apart from the others. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man in green sit up a little taller (if that were possible) and focus his gaze on the newcomers, following their every move--especially those of the grave hobbit in front.

While Ron and Hermione were discussing the possible courses of action to be taken in their position, Harry followed the four hobbits with his eyes as they moved en bloc to a table near the middle of the room. Neva watched them as well.

"There is a strange aura about that little one," she murmured. Ron and Hermione stopped talking to stare at her. The man in green turned towards her as well--or perhaps he was just shifting in his seat. "He carries a dangerous burden with him, one that most others would shy away from; and yet, small as he is, he is the Chosen One, almost like a Harry Potter of his time, you might say."

"How do you know all of this?" Hermione asked.

Neva closed her eyes. "The Sight reveals many things, including the hearts of most men--and hobbits," she added, opening her eyes again. "But reading minds is not limited to the Sighted; there are quite a few witches and wizards who are gifted Legilimens--Voldemort is one, as were Dumbledore and Merlin before him."

Neva fell silent. After a pause, Hermione cleared her throat. "I still think we should try to find someone to get us back home," she began tentatively.

Ron snorted. "I already told you I agreed with you, but who in this Merlin-forsaken country would know of a powerful enough wizard who can help us?" he exclaimed. "Honestly, Hermione, how naïve can you get?"

Harry noticed one of the four hobbits who had just entered the inn turn around at the word 'wizard.' As one of his companions stood to go to the bar, this hobbit got up and made his way over to the four teenagers in the corner. Hermione was opening her mouth to make a retort when the hobbit arrived next to their table. He had the same curly brown hair as the rest of his kind, and his eyes were bright with hidden laughter.

"Begging your pardon," he chirruped, "but did I just hear you ask about a wizard?"

I knew we should've been more inconspicuous, Harry groaned to himself, but it was too late. Ron was staring at the hobbit with more than a little suspicion, but Hermione was clear-headed enough to answer. "Yes. . . why do you ask?"

"Just because I know of one, miss," the hobbit said cheerfully. "Mind, I only know of him--my friend Frodo back there--" he waved his hand back in the direction of his table, "--knows more of Gandalf than I do, but there you go. Gandalf is more famous in these parts for his fireworks than anything else; but they say he knows more mysterious things than the Elves, and that's saying a lot. We were supposed to meet him here, actually, but he hasn't turned up yet."

"Do you--do you think we could meet him?" Ron asked, his suspicion wearing down a bit.

"Of course! But, how stupid of me, I haven't introduced myself!" The hobbit bowed. "Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service, though most of my friends just call me Merry," he added with a grin.

"Neva Underhill, at yours and your family's," Neva replied easily, leaning forward to get a better look at the hobbit. "And who are the friends that are with you?"

"My cousins, Pippin Took and Frodo Ba--I mean, Underhill," Merry said with a slight flush as he pointed out his tablemates. Pippin was sitting at the bar, chatting enthusiastically with the other men and hobbits there; Frodo sat at the table, looking serious and talking in a low voice to another hobbit. "Not that you two are related or anything, miss. Oh, and Frodo's friend, Sam Gamgee, is with us as well. Like I said before, Gandalf was supposed to meet us here; if you want, I can introduce you all to him when he does come."

"That would be wonderful--" Harry started to say, but he was interrupted by a cry from the hobbits' table.

"Pippin, NO!"

The hobbit whom Merry had pointed out as Frodo, and the one that Neva had identified earlier, jumped up and ran over to where the said Pippin was sitting at the bar. He made to grab at Pippin's arm, but Pippin shook him off, asking drunkenly, "What's wrong with you, mate?"

At which point, Frodo lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. . . where he promptly vanished from sight!