"Fireworks, Gandalf, fireworks!"
Gandalf had to smile at the exuberance of the Hobbit children. Here in the Shire, he was known primarily for his fireworks, and he was sure that reputation would be upheld after his display for Bilbo's birthday.
When the night of the Birthday came, all was ready. He launched the rockets one after another, watching the delight of the crowd. And as it always did, the show led his mind back in time, to a place of innocence and happiness.
Gandalf could remember when he watched with just as much awed delight as the Hobbits, as his little brother's skilled hands showed him all the colors the elements would turn when heated, the different ways they could be combined. They had experimented together, laughing and forgetting all the troubles that lay outside their small corner of the universe; troubles that had been far greater than Olórin had known at the time.
And here, in the Shire, the Maia-turned-Wizard could reclaim that innocence, just a bit. Here, he could forget that he was on these shores to see the utter defeat of his little brother who was trying to cover the world in a second darkness. Here, family, good food, and delight were the order of the day, and he could let himself remember when it had been the same for Mairon and him. Only here could he bring himself to launch his fireworks, which truly belonged to them both.