(Lord of The Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring, pg. 297)
The council of Elrond mulled in deep silence.
At last Elrond spoke again.
"This is a grievous news concerning Saruman," he began, "for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before."
Gandalf studied his face with a frown.
"Of the tales that we have heard this day the tale of Frodo was most strange to me. I have known few hobbits, save Bilbo here; and it seems to me that he is perhaps not so alone and singular as I had thought him. The world has changed much since I last was on the westward roads."
"The Barrow-wights we know by many names; and of Old Forest many tales have been told: all that now remains is but an outlier of its northern march. Time was when a squirrel could go from tree to tree from what is now the Shire to Dunland west of Isengard. In those lands I journeyed once, and many things wild and strange I knew. But I had forgotten Bombadil," And then, with a steady pause. "If that is indeed what he still goes by, and is indeed still the same that walked the woods and hills long ago, and even then was older than old."
The council wavered, as if Elrond's words had chilled them.
Gandalf stood to his full height then, towering dangerously over the rest of the council gathered. "Elrond—" Began the wizard, looking quite surprised. "You can't possible be thinking of…"
"That was not then his name." Elrond cut him off. "But many another name has has since been given by other folk: Forn by the Dwarves, Orald by Northern Men, and other names beside. He is a strange creature, but maybe I should have summoned him to our Council."
"He would not have come." Interjected Gandalf.
Erestor stood. "Could we not still send messages to him and obtain his help? It seems that he has a power even over the Ring."
"No, I should not put it so," Gandalf sighed, looking weary. "Say rather that the Ring has no power over him. He is his own master. But he can't alter the Ring itself, nor break its power over others. And now he is withdrawn into a little land, last I heard, within bounds that he has set. Though none can see them, waiting perhaps for a change of days."
The old man seemed older then his years, staring perilously into the after glow of the Rivendell sun. Suddenly, Frodo was struck with a sudden clarification of how old the Isatri really was. How many journeys and countless adventures the man had been to already.
"I doubt he will change his ways now." Finished the wizened man, sitting back into his chair.
"But within those bound nothing seems to dismay him," Erestor inputted. "Would he not take the Ring and keep it there, for ever harmless?"
"No," Gandalf shook his head. "Not willingly. He may do so, if all the free folk of the world begged him, but he would not understand the need. And if he were given the Ring, he would soon forget it, or most likely throw it away. Such things have no hold on his mind. He would be a most unsafe guarding, and that alone is answer enough."
"But in any case," Supposed Glorfindel aloud, "To send the Ring to him would only postpone the day of evil. He is far away. We could not now take it back to him, unguessed, unmarked by any spy. And even if we could, soon or late the Lord of the Rings would learn of its hiding place and would bend all his power towards it. Could that power be defied by Bombadil alone? I think not." He ended with a snort, before beginning anew. "I think that in the end, if all else is conquered, Bombadil will fall. Last as he was First, and then Night will come."
Frodo thought the name Bombadil very familiar, yet he couldn't place the tongue of it thoroughly.
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Tom Bombadil, or Harry Potter as he was once known, was a man of fine stature. Like most men, he stood taller then the Halflings, but smaller then typical Big Folk and hadn't aged in millennia to pass (most of which he could no longer recall)
He spent most of his days lounging with his "wife", as the inhabitants of Middle Earth he came across likened to call her, in their home West of the Shire, reading his magnitude of books—a collection worthy of Middle Earth and abounds. His days weaned and waxed depending on the depth and curriculum of his reading, and at times, when the lighting was dark or his curiosity piqued, he brought out the old, worn glasses of his past, which continued to find its way onto his face in times of deep nostalgia.
"I'd think you'll want some food," Called Luna, from the kitchen. "It tastes quite lovely."
Harry, or Bombadil as he had been called for some time now, lowered his glasses, and got up from the soft armchair by the window. The Shire hardly grew cold, even with the darkening of winter, and even if it did, the cold would certainly never stop him from having such a luxurious view.
In the kitchen, Goldberry, the daughter of the river, or Luna as she was known to Harry, was watching him with her head tilted from the table.
"Did you make this?" He asked with surprise, taking a bit with a wooden spoon straight out of the pot.
"Of course not." She said conversationally. On her face were wide, owl spectacles, which glittered pink and purple, with kaleidoscopes covering her eyes. "Kreacher did. However, he seems particularly enamored with that portrait of his, and won't be joining us."
Long before Middle Earth even came to be inhabited by the children of lluvatar, a house had landed itself in the lush rolling meadows of what would one day become the Shire, and would one day be dwelled by small, Halfling like peoples. This house, 12 Grimmauld Place, had been from another land. It had been taken by accident, as Luna, an Unspeakable at the time, had been practicing her magic creation and hoisted herself, the resident house elf, and Harry Potter the current heir of the Black family, along with the giant, crooked mansion into Middle Earth.
Harry was immensely pleased by this, as almost all of his belongings resided in the dirty, dim house. However, so did the portrait of Walburga Black, who's muffled shrieks continued from beyond her curtain.
The two ate in silence, as there wasn't much else they would have to talk about.
The Shire was peaceful, as if sleeping in an eternal splendor, undisturbed and undisrupted by the turmoil's of Middle Earth which plagued the skies around it.
However, as a few young adventuring Hobbits had resided in his house some mere months ago, Harry knew that the time of slumber was over. Middle Earth, like the Wizarding World, had its own share of troubles, of dark times, and of heroes which would forever take its toll. None of which Harry had any desire to dive into. He had played his part in history, and no badgering by Gandalf, a wizard he had become fond of, or of anyone else, would ever change that.
Yet still, even when there was an Ancient Rune tome that he had yet to digest waiting impatiently by the windowsill—a book which would require all and every immediate attention of Harry's for days to come—he found his thoughts drifting to the young hobbit which reminded him so much of himself.
Frodo was on his very own heroic adventure, whether he knew it or not.
Harry had seen many a Horcrux in his day, and the Ring's power drew him no further then any of the other's did. It called with the will of Sauron, the deep voice of the Maiar a timber which Harry had once been fond of—before the Aule had been corrupted by Melkor. Frodo seemed to have the same, but lessened, working ability, as he had yet to succumb to its drainage as many lesser Men had before him.
Now Harry disliked meddling in the dark affairs of Lord Sauron, Saruman, or Curumo as he had been called before taking to Middle Earth, and the shadowed regions of Mordor, but he was wise enough to be pretentious of what plots the evil was erupting from the depths of Mount Doom.
He was sure, however, that with the trusted Gandalf in the lead, young Frodo and his company would achieve what the set out to do.
And with that thought, he was able to read, eat, and sleep peacefully for many more nights.
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It wasn't until a lunch in the late afternoon did this routine change.
Luna sat beside him on the porch, which had once been part of the roof, but had been blown up by one of the blonde's many dangerous experiments, and was now fixed into a balcony off of the master bedroom.
Kreacher had laid out a spread of assorted jams and home cooked bread which the two were idly picking upon.
Harry had yet another unread book (the amassed library he had created after the war would take a millennia and many hundred men to read it all) and Luna was staring peacefully into the crystal-like stratosphere.
"Harry?" She asked him suddenly, turning to study him closely.
He paused in flipping a page, looking up. Her hair, as usual, was a perpetual mess, yet seemed to retain its artless quality. There were streaks of pale blue cresting from the top of her head to the bottoms of her ears, and her owlish spectacles refracted light straight into his eyes.
"What is it?" He replied, curious as to what would have her so musing.
"Would you do me a grand favor?"
"Sure." He answered absentmindedly, returning to the pages of his book. "Whatever you like."
She brightened. "Oh, wondrous." And tiptoed back into the house, leaving him alone on the cool morning.
When she returned, she had a breadbasket in one hand. "Would you mind taking this for me?"
"Of course not." He stood then. "But if I may ask… what for?"
"I've seen something, I think." Luna began. "Or perhaps it was just a daydream. At any rate, these are quite warm, as you can see, and I'd like you to take them to a few acquaintances of mine. I'd think they were in need of them much more then I."
Luna, and, for that matter, Harry as well, hardly ever made many acquaintances. If they did, they were few and far between, or long deceased. And under even less circumstances did they have friends they knew mutually, as even though Harry had traveled the plains of Middle Earth many a year ago, Luna had never done so.
Harry knew, the moment the barest of his fingers touched the breadbasket, what it was.
"Good luck!" She called cheerfully, watching with faint amusement as he disappeared.
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Years and years did nothing for his stomach as he tumbled into the world once more.
He must have gone quite far, as his insides felt rather rearranged, and even though the bread seemed to be relatively unscathed, the rest of him certainly wasn't. He took a moment to compose himself, brushing the hair out of his eyes, and looking around. He was met with the familiar, distinct trees of Lórein, reaching their nimble hands into the frozen, icy sky.
He turned back around, met with a stone carved mountain looming into the gray distance.
And there, stumbling out of the cave, looked to be a familiar set of faces, worn and perhaps a bit singed, certainly not pleased by the look of their expressions.
"Frodo." He breathed to himself, catching the mop of brown curls on one of the small child-sized Halflings.
Frodo seemed to catch sight of him, too, looking up with wide, insurmountably surprised eyes.
"I suppose you must be the travelers, then?" Harry tilted his head to the battered fellowship cheerfully. "Anyone care for some bread?"
I found this on my computer a long, long time ago, and it had really nowhere else to go. The poor thing.