As the old saying went, a craftsman must first sharpen his tools if he wished to do his work well.
Robert took that advice to heart.
Early in the morning, he made a special trip to the blacksmith's shop in Buckland Town. The Hobbit craftsman there looked more than a little surprised when Robert unfolded several sheets of carefully drawn blueprints. The designs were precise, marked with measurements and notes—far more detailed than anything a Hobbit usually brought to a forge.
"These are… tools?" the blacksmith asked, scratching his head.
"Tools for carving wands," Robert replied calmly. "They need to be thin, balanced, and sharp enough for delicate work."
Though confused, the blacksmith was intrigued. After some discussion and a fair amount of haggling, he agreed to forge a specialized set of knives, chisels, and shaping tools according to Robert's designs.
By the afternoon, Robert returned home with his new equipment. Without delay, he began working on the willow wood he had retrieved from the Old Forest.
He started carefully, using a small blade to strip away the bark bit by bit. The pale wood beneath was smooth and faintly warm to the touch, as if it still carried a trace of life. Slowly, Robert cut, measured, and carved, shaping the wood according to the proportions he remembered from his studies at Hogwarts.
However, theory and practice were two very different things.
Robert soon realized that although his mind understood the process, his hands had yet to catch up. Wand carving was an extraordinarily delicate art. Every cut needed perfect precision. Even the slightest deviation could disrupt the wand's balance, weaken its magical conduction, or ruin its responsiveness entirely.
Unsurprisingly, his first attempt failed.
A deep groove cut too far. A taper that leaned just slightly off-center.
When Robert finally set the piece down and examined it, he knew there was no saving it. The willow wood had lost its integrity. With a quiet sigh, he tossed the half-carved wand into the fireplace, where it crackled and burned like ordinary firewood.
He stared at the two remaining willow logs on the table for a long time.
In the end, he didn't dare touch them.
If he ruined those as well, he would be forced to return to the Old Forest—and to Old Man Willow. Robert was not confident he could safely retrieve branches from that ancient and hostile tree a second time.
Instead, he turned his attention to the pile of other wood he had brought back: ash, birch, oak, and hazel. These would serve as practice materials.
For the next two days, Robert devoted himself entirely to carving.
None of the practice wands were successful, but each failure taught him something new. His hands grew steadier. His cuts became cleaner. The shapes he produced were no longer crude sticks but something closer to true wands.
By the third night after his return from the Old Forest, exhaustion finally drove him to bed.
That night, a loud, piercing bell shattered the silence of Buckland.
The alarm echoed through the town, sharp and urgent. Robert jolted awake, his heart pounding. Almost immediately, there was frantic knocking at his door.
"Robert! Wake up! Quickly!"
He opened the door to find Drogo Baggins standing there, pale and panicked.
"What happened?" Robert asked.
Drogo spoke rapidly. "That bell—it's Buckland's alarm bell! It only rings when the town is in danger! The last time was fifteen years ago, when the Brandywine River flooded. I don't know what's happening now, but it must be serious!"
Robert's expression hardened.
They dressed quickly and hurried toward Brandybuck Square. Along the way, they were joined by streams of Hobbits emerging from their homes, all moving in the same direction with anxious faces and hurried steps.
The square was already packed when they arrived. Hundreds of Hobbits filled the space, murmuring nervously. Among them, Robert stood out conspicuously, towering over the crowd.
At the front stood a line of armed militiamen from the ruling Brandybuck family. Their leader, Rory Brandybuck, stood elevated above the crowd, his face grim.
"Silence!" Rory roared.
The square gradually quieted.
"Everyone," he announced, his voice heavy, "Buckland is in grave danger. The trees of the Old Forest have risen up. They are moving toward the High Hedge and attempting to break through into our land."
A wave of fear swept through the crowd.
"For generations, the High Hedge has kept us safe," Rory continued. "But tonight, the forest itself is attacking. We cannot allow those trees to invade our homes!"
He raised his fist. "All able-bodied Hobbits, excluding the elderly and children, will follow me to repel the attack!"
The crowd erupted into nervous commotion. Despite their fear, Hobbits began grabbing whatever weapons they could find—axes, sickles, hoes, and farming tools of every kind.
Robert felt a sinking sensation in his chest.
The Old Forest and Buckland had been separated for centuries. There had been no conflict in living memory. He could not help but wonder if this sudden riot had something to do with him—and with the willow branches he had taken.
As they marched toward the High Hedge, Drogo walked beside Robert, gripping an axe with trembling hands.
"Robert," Drogo whispered, "this is our fight. You're not a Hobbit—you don't have to risk yourself for Buckland."
Robert shook his head. "One more person means one more chance to hold the line. And don't forget—I'm a wizard. I may be able to help."
Drogo said nothing more.
When they reached the High Hedge, the scene was already chaotic.
Massive Huorn treants had emerged from the Old Forest. They tore their roots free from the earth and surrounded the hedge, hammering it with thick branches and slamming their enormous bodies against it. The living wall trembled under the assault, gaps already forming in several places.
Hobbit militiamen fired flaming arrows into the mass of wood and leaves. Rory Brandybuck directed the defense from a nearby hillside, overseeing the deployment of crude but effective catapults.
Barrels of oil and wine were launched high into the air, shattering among the treants. Flaming projectiles followed, igniting the soaked wood in roaring fire. Several treants became living infernos, emitting deep, agonized groans.
Robert felt a surge of admiration. Rory's tactics were swift and decisive—better than anything Robert himself might have devised under pressure.
But the horror was far from over.
Even as treants burned and collapsed, more surged forward relentlessly. They rammed the hedge again and again, stabbing roots deep into the soil to tear it apart from below.
With a deafening crack, a massive breach opened in the High Hedge.
A towering Huorn treant stepped through, swinging its roots toward a cluster of stunned Hobbit militiamen.
They didn't even have time to scream.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A brilliant beam of light cut through the darkness, striking the treant squarely. Its movement halted instantly, frozen mid-swing like a statue of twisted wood.
The Hobbits stared in disbelief.
Robert stepped forward. "Get back! Leave this to me!"
Without waiting for an answer, he advanced toward the breach.
"Petrificus Totalus! Flipendo! Tarantallegra! Expelliarmus!"
Spells flew from him in rapid succession. Light flashed through the night as treants were frozen, blasted backward, or locked in place by unseen forces.
For the first time that night, the advance of the Old Forest slowed.
And at the center of it all stood Robert—alone, resolute, and determined to face the consequences of his actions
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