Bilbo Baggins, the first hobbit protagonist of Middle-earth, truly lived a legendary life.
From a clueless youth who stepped out of the Shire with trembling feet, he grew into someone who could face Smaug the Terrible, all on his own. He even wore the One Ring on multiple occasions without losing his mind.
If Middle-earth ever had to choose a true protagonist, it wouldn't be Frodo. It would be Bilbo Baggins, without question.
His journey, in hindsight, was almost suspiciously smooth. Yes, there were perils and monsters and dark places, but Bilbo came through it all without so much as a scratch. He returned home with fame, treasure, and decades of peaceful retirement. In contrast, poor Frodo's path was a parade of misery.
On his way to Mordor, Frodo was stabbed by a cursed blade, skewered by a troll's spear, paralyzed by a monstrous spider, and gift-wrapped in webbing. Comparing the two of them, it felt as if Bilbo was the golden child of fate, while Frodo had been handed a script full of suffering meant for someone else entirely.
—
In the Valley...
Ino arrived at Bilbo's cottage, a cozy home designed to mimic Bag End down to the last doorknob.
"I even brought the finest pipe-weed from the Shire, but those two rascals next door never showed up," Bilbo grumbled, lighting his pipe with a wistful puff.
"Maybe they got tied up with something else. We can't keep everyone tethered to us forever," Ino said, settling into an armchair with a casual shrug.
Bilbo sighed deeply. "No, we can't." His face, more weathered now than it had been in years past, still held a pair of eyes that sparkled with stubborn life.
Ino knew what this was about. He gave a quiet chuckle. "Frodo's off again, isn't he?"
"Gone! Ever since that boy got patched up, he's taken to wandering. Honestly, I blame you and that blasted magical painting device… what do you call it… a camera?"
Bilbo's tone was part scold, part sorrowful mumble. His complaints carried the warmth of an old man who missed the noise of a younger generation.
Ino didn't interrupt. Instead, he lit a pipe of his own and listened. He knew too well, Bilbo wasn't just aging. He was lonely.
Not like Nicolas, who had a wife, an owl, and all sorts of magical knickknacks to keep him company.
Bilbo had none of that.
—
After a while, the long conversation began to drain Bilbo's energy. His shoulders sagged slightly.
"Here, have a drink, old friend."
Ino tapped the table with a fingertip, and a shimmering red beverage floated gently into being.
"There's no such thing as farewell, not really. Just longing that gets louder in silence. Don't worry about Frodo. When the Greenhill twins get here, we'll have a proper drink."
"I don't miss him," Bilbo insisted with a huff. But he clutched the glass and drank as if trying to swallow down the ache in his chest.
"Of course, you don't," Ino said, grinning. "Now, do you want to play chess? If not, I'm off to bed. Might be a busy day tomorrow."
Bilbo shook his head. "You go on. I'll be busy myself. I'm thinking of planting some good old Shire crops behind the cottage."
Ino was just about to rise when something flickered behind his eyes.
—
Meanwhile, in the Great Hall...
Things had reached a very interesting point.
Three first-year Gryffindors, barely taller than the house tables - stood before the enchanted fire goblet, their bravery clearly exceeding their height.
"Are we really doing this?" asked the redhead with a face full of freckles, eyeing the Goblet of Fire nervously.
"What, and leave while everyone's watching?" one of his friends shot back. "I'd rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt."
The third boy puffed out his chest and nodded. The Goblet shimmered, almost as if daring them to try.
The rest of the hall, meanwhile, was watching with barely contained laughter. They knew the tales about Professor Swinburne, rumors about candy rain and snowstorms conjured from thin air. But no one had actually seen him do real magic.
If not for the wizarding-world version of cinema, most people would've written him off as some eccentric with a flair for dramatics.
But now, here were three brave or foolish - students giving everyone a front-row seat to something new.
Even a few of the older students, including some seventh-years who were considering entering the Triwizard Tournament, paused their applications to enjoy the show. The whole room buzzed with anticipation.
And somehow, just maybe, the idea of trying it themselves didn't seem so bad anymore.
—
Back in the valley...
Ino let out a low chuckle and shook his head.
He'd just felt it. Someone had tried crossing the age line he'd put around the Goblet of Fire.
Honestly, he hadn't expected anyone to challenge it. The spellwork had been mostly for show - a swirl of color, a little flair. Nothing too serious.
He hadn't even planned a punishment. Not really.
But now? Now that someone had dared to try, he couldn't just let it slide.
He briefly considered turning them into animals. Seemed like a classic punishment. But then he remembered something: that very trick had already been done by Mad-Eye Moody in the past. And it didn't work.
Worse, it backfired. The Weasley twins had used aging potion to cross Dumbledore's line and got stuck with massive beards. Their reaction? Compete over who looked more distinguished.
That's how Gryffindor brains worked. Not punishment, trendsetting.
If he turned the current trio into animals, tomorrow might bring an entire castle full of clucking, barking, and meowing students. And with visiting schools here for the tournament, Professor McGonagall would probably hex him into next year.
He shivered at the thought.
—
A moment later, Ino looked to his companion.
"Bilbo, what would you say is the right way to punish a mischievous child? Something that doesn't hurt, but makes them think twice next time?"
The question sparked something in the old hobbit. Sleepy moments ago, he suddenly lit up with the mischievous gleam of someone who had handed out more than a few lessons in his day.
"Punishment? In the Shire, when the little ones act up, we have one tried-and-true method…"
—
Back in the Great Hall...
Music.
A gentle, upbeat melody drifted through the air as the enchanted lights shifted hue.
The three daring Gryffindors found themselves frozen in place. Then a stage rose from beneath them, surrounded by glowing bonfires.