Author's Notes:

(Squeak!) Firstly, I would like to thank those who have put this story in their communities, story alerts, and favourite story lists. Thank you also, especially, for those who have left me a review. (PureHFA, Novus Ars, and Vanime18431 (I wish you were logged in so I could reply…))You all warmed me inside out! I hope I can keep up with your expectations.

I forgot to say that this story will not be told from Harry's point of view only. I hope you don't mind. There are references to the Silmarillion, but I will try to make them kind of self-explanatory. I stick to the book version when it comes to the War of Rings… but it is still far away, anyway. Frodo is 33 and he sets out to Rivendell at 50, so there is about 20 years gap (Thanks to Walter Dash for informing me about this.). I intend to make use of that period, hense my warning of Harry's little to no involvement in the War of Rings. Perhaps that will change, but it is unthinkable as of now.

Enjoy the read!

- Rey

Chapter 1

It was very quiet and peaceful. The world had not woken up yet, since the sun had not hauled itself over the eastern horizon. The air was damp with undisturbed moisture – which would soon settle into bits of dew. It was cold, but not overly so.

Well, at least it was quiet and peaceful in the Shire, to the west of Middle-Earth. Just outside it, shadowy Rangers and their even-more-shadowy enemies lurked, watching for signs of weakness from each other to take advantage on and attack. It would seem like an absurd notion to the hobbits living in the lush, contented land, but in fact the whole continent was at war among its factions, reducing into a stalemate in some parts but still active in the others, and what happened on the borders of the Shire could be considered into the former category.

Bag End, a respectable home of two respectable – if rather mistrusted – bachelors, stood on the crest of a hill near the centre of the Shire. Despite what people said (and what the elder of the bachelors told them), they lived in tranquillity just like the others there. Today, though, there would be one event that rattled its occupants, ruining their peace.

Or, more precisely, a person.

And the said person was currently bundled up in a thick, warm light-blue blanket, laid motionless atop a plain, sturdy wooden trunk, positioned just by the round green door of the large aforementioned hobbit hole. There was no sign that the 'package' was actually a living being, save for the barely-imperceptible rise and fall roughly on the middle of it – which would tell an observer that the content of the bundle was breathing.

Thankfully, Frodo Baggins had a calm disposition; calm enough that he did not panic upon beholding the strange sight just outside the door of his home. He was garbed in travelling attire, as he had purposed to take a walk around Hobbiton, enjoying the not-night-not-morning air and the first rays of the yellow eye. Now it seemed like he had to postpone his jaunt and investigate the things left on his door before his uncle woke up.

No, not two things but one thing and… a baby? The bundle looked small enough to contain one. But then why did the child not move its limbs, even in sleep? Was it sick or exhausted?

More importantly, was it safe to approach the strange wooden box and the bundle? Must he wake his uncle and ask the older hobbit's opinion?

Ah, but Bilbo had had his fill of adventure. Now it was Frodo's time, although he did not leave the boundaries of the Shire; at least not yet. So, warily, the young hobbit padded to the box and the bundle, and peered closer at the latter, scrutinising the plain but undeniably good and warm material. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and caressing the fabric, marvelling at its texture and contour – which suggested that inside was indeed a baby. If only the weather was less cold, all the same, he would have thought to peek inside the bundle to confirm his suspicion.

Indeed, who would have left the baby on Bag End's door? Hobbits loved their many children, and anyway Frodo had never heard any story about abandoned children from Gandalf's assortment of wild, weird tales; fostered children, yes, but not abandoned ones.

Hmm. Should he foster this child? It would be a bit complicated, since he was barely out of his *(1)tweenhood, and Bilbo would be leaving the Shire for good on their birthday this year, but he could not in any way leave the baby to the mercy of nature or another, less responsible and friendly hobbit family. He also had enough fortune still to secure a good life for the child. It was his time to repay Bilbo: by fostering another needing soul.

With that decision in mind, he scooped the bundle into his arms and returned to the safety and comfort of Bag End. Inwardly, he thanked the long experience he had had while living in Brandy Hall taking care of his numerous younger cousins. He knew how to properly handle hobbit babies in the least.

Was it really a hobbit baby, though? It felt too light and too skinny for one… and too quiet, too. Was a baby of the Big Folk this small and fragile? But then, how and why had anyone of the Big Folk gone into the Shire? Except for Gandalf, of course. (Yet if the Wizard had indeed deposited the bundle before his door…)

Following an engrained habit, he set his precious burden down in his fluffy armchair in his bedroom, then made a beeline to the kitchen to warm his last stock of goat milk – which was only a little – and pour it into a small cup for the child, with a tiny bit of butter and honey added for more enticing taste. He could not do anything to the heavy-looking box, after all. He would need the help of his cousins to remove it into Bag End proper without too much noise, and they – or at least Merry and Fatty – would only be arriving later in the morning. But he could do something to discover who the baby was, and he would do so now. If the baby protested from being disturbed, he would already have the appropriate thing to bribe it from waking up anyone within hearing range. (He did not want to share this child with his uncle yet, and was not ready either for the old hobbit's usual questioning and gentle pestering.)

He put the cup and small spoon on his desk, then looked down on the unmoving bundle in the armchair behind it. An odd determination flooded his being, but also an ever-growing puzzlement. Little children should be waking up now, demanding food and small comforts before going back to their slumber. Should he wait for this baby to wake up and cry for attention? But how long would it be?

Biting his lower lip, he took the bundle and cradled it close to his chest so that he could sit in the armchair. He could just unwrap the blanket and slowly wake the baby up for its meal, he supposed, just like his first plan. And by the way, he had to know its gender before anything.

He pealed away the top of the cover carefully with one hand, and gasped.

An angelic face, beautiful and innocent but somehow unearthly, greeted his view. A pair of startling emerald eyes stared unseeingly up at him, just below a fringe of glossy raven hair – as smooth as the best silk when he caressed it. The baby's miniscule nostrils flared ever so slightly in a regular pattern, accompanying the sound of breathing barely audible in Frodo's keen ears, and it was the hobbit's only confirmation that the child in his arms was not worse than soundly asleep.

But the face…

It was certainly not a hobbit baby, and Frodo doubted that any child of the Big Folk could look so eerily beautiful. It left only one option, and Frodo cowered from the possibility.

How if word of this reached the wrong ears? What would the Elves say about this? Would they accuse him of child-kidnapping? Would there be someone who intended to harm the little one, or gain a dirty fortune from the baby?

Would the Elfling be taken from him?

His face scrunched up with consternation, Frodo hugged the little one tighter to his chest. He would welcome a constant companion very much, especially after Bilbo's inevitable departure in the autumn. He adored the Elven-kind, just like Bilbo did, and would be quite honoured to have one under his care.

Was he thinking selfishly? Was there an Elven family somewhere in the vast expanse of Middle-Earth who was mourning over the loss of their much-cherished offspring even now? Could he raise this little Elf as a proper Elf, and not a hobbit?

In the end, his concern over the family and well-being of the Elfling won over his selfishness, at least for a while. He sighed deeply and looked down again to the cherubic complexion of the slumbering baby, and smiled in a manner torn between sadness and happiness. "You are my family no matter what is going to happen, little one, but you are free to choose everything for yourself," he murmured.

And then, just as he spoke, the mesmerising emerald orbs came into focus, and the baby's eyelids blinked owlishly in incomprehention. The peace had instantly transformed into confusion and a bit of curiosity, but when the little one took stock of its surroundings, its eyes widened in fright and it squirmed, trying to break free both from the blanket and Frodo's arms. Its mouth opened in the tell-tale beginning of a loud squalling. Subsequently, that made the poor hobbit panic too, although for a slightly-different reason.

"Calm down, child. Calm down," he begged, almost whimpering in his own fear of the child's reaction to him; the milk was forgotten, sitting untouched in front of him on the desk. The child must have only seen his Elven kin, so seeing a hobbit right after it had woken up must scare the little one much. But how to soothe it in its current state? He had not expected such a quick – and negative – reaction from the baby, and he did not know enough Elvish to speak to an Elfling as young as this one also. But how if…

"The sun is hiding, the stars are blooming
The creek flows gently, the wind sings softly
You are home, child, you are safe and sound
Kisses around and comforts abound

"The moon is rising, the stars are singing
Fluffy is the pillow, and warm is the blanket
They welcome you abed, child, they welcome you to rest
Soft be your dreams and wide the moon beams…"

It worked.

The child was lulled back to a trance-like sleep in the end of the second verse, and Frodo began to rock the bundle back and forth slowly. He continued singing until the baby's breathing evened out, then he tiptoed to his bed and laid the precious burden on the middle of it, flanking the small cocoon with his pillows and boulsters for safety. (Hopefully, he thought, the Elfling would view it that way when it woke up. Oh how he would like to learn about its gender…)

An hour passed, and the vivid-green eyes blinked into focus again. This time, the owner of the deep, intense orbs did not react violently; but then again, he – for it was indeed a he – did not have a reason to, since there was no one in sight. For a long moment, he just lay wrapped in the thick blanket, examining the dirt ceiling with much bewilderment. A hand snaked out from the cocoon, and he suckled on his miniscule index and middle fingers distractedly.

Harry James Potter was confused. Where was he? Why was he bundled like a baby? Had he tangled on his blanket overnight in a particular manner so that now he was neatly wrapped in it? Perfect. And when had he started sucking his digits?

Why did he see like a baby, feel like a baby, and behave like a baby?

Why was the ceiling dirt? Where was Ron and his customary snoring? Where was Mrs. Weasley and her excellent cooking? Had Kreatcher kidnapped him? But why and where? And where was the house-elf now?

It had felt like a nightmare, when he had woken up for the first time in wherever this was. But now he was not so sure about it anymore. (And perhaps, it also had something to do with the strange sensations he got even while sleeping, that he was so attune with nature that he could hear the trees and brooks and creeks whispering and the wind singing. And *(2)someone full of light was always far, far above, somehow moving slowly across the sky…)

The fingers were drawn back and wiped on the blanket. "Kreatcher," Harry whispered; or rather, peeped. He was surprised on how small his voice had become, and how melodious it was. But more than anything, he was shocked that the house-elf did not answer him. Kreatcher was still his, so the house-elf must obey his direct order in the least. (The poor creature had done it to Sirius, although he had hated the latter. So why not now?) Was Kreatcher unable to obey his call? But then the house-elf must have died! But… But…

But what now?

Whimpering softly, he drew his knees up and curled around himself as much as he could within the bundle. – And only then he realised he was naked underneath the thick but soft wrapping.

Where was he? What had happened? What was happening now? This was not at all what he had imagined about departing the lifetime he knew! (He would rather have his original guess come true: death. This was too… bizarre, and frightening in its own right.)

He remembered reading an advanced divinition book once, just for fun and curiosity (since it was written by Sybill Trelawney's famous-seer great-grandmother Kasandra), and there found about alternate timelines and timetravel. – But all the same, there was no single theory in the book, from what he still remembered, which explained why he was now barely a toddler, and why his voice was rather girly and sing-song, and why he was completely starkers. Kasandra should have included that observation in her book. – Those select hapless individuals (like himself, if his suspicion struck true) should have been warned about some morphing done to their physical or mental properties! His voice could not be categorised in human nature now, and Merlin knew what else had been changed. Children had good voices, yes, but not something… other-wordly – for lack of a better word.

Had he somehow been put into the shell of another species, humanoid in shape but alien in nature?

His brain could not take more. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and stuffed his fist into his mouth to avoid crying out loud. His subsequent sleep felt more tiring than his awareness.

And when he opened his eyes again, the same childlike being from earlier greeted him with an uncertain smile. The being was accompanied by another, older one – apparently from the same race. They looked human, yet nonetheless Harry could sense something different from them. For one, even the older being looked just as small and round as a merry child. The twinkles in his eyes and the way he channelled his curious gaze gave the best impression of Professor Dumbledore! But without the half-moon glasses…

Speaking of glasses, Harry realised with a jolt in his stomach, why could he see perfectly – even more than normally, he supposed – without his glasses? Where were his glasses? He saw it nowhere.

The older being asked something, yet Harry could only guess from the tone of it, as the language was different from his. Old English? But only Hermione knew about it.

Hermione…

He recoiled back into himself and shivvered. What would his closest souls say about his odd, abrupt departure? How would their reaction be? They had had such a fun…

How many days had lapsed? Would Ron and Hermione hate him for leaving without notice? Ginny?

The last thought stung him like nothing else could. His Ginny… What would she think? They had just renewed their relationship, and it had been a promising look for a bright future so far. Now he abandoned her, regardless of his willingness. How would she react to this? Would she curse him and move on, or search for him tirelessly, or… or end her life? Somehow he found the first option much more palatable than the other two.

Now, what would his own reaction be to the disaster falling on top of him? Would he wallow in it and curse everything? Would he move on and forget his past? Would he Try to reconcile with everything, both the past and present, bit by bit?

Would people here understand his plight? He could not even speak their tongue! How to communicate with them? And now that his stomach exacerbate his misery by growling with hunger…

The sound of his body protesting the lack of nutrition seemed to be loud, because a split second later the older being reached out a hand, palm up, while the younger one scurried away, returning in a while with a cup of what smelled like warm buttered milk.

Harry, uncertainly, climbed out of his cocoon and sat up, bringing the cloth with him to conceal his nakedness. The motion elicited gasps from his hosts, and it made him rather confused and intrigued.

He gazed into their eyes, trying to gauge their intentions. To his surprise, he could read their surface emotions and thoughts, undisguised, just by looking into their eyes and examining what those orbs radiated. – Had he become a Legilimence somehow… overnight?

Finding his hosts to be kind and harmless, he reached out his own hand and took the larger one of the older being. He intended to shake the other's hand, but apparently his old host interpreted it as something different. He was lifted up, as his blanket fell down and pooled on the bed, and held in the old one's arms – like a baby!

Oh wait. He was in the form of a baby, was he not? Crap.

Hmm. But the embrace was surprisingly warm and sincere, and snuggling in the old one's embrace felt very cosy and… natural. It was so nice to for once enjoy small comforts without the embarrassment and pride of teenhood coming in the way. After all, he was now barely a year old, if the size of the childlike beings compared to his own was of any indication. The fragrant smell of some sort of tobacco leaf permiating the old one's clothes enticed him too, somehow.

And now he got the notion that he should not bother going around naked, since it was what little children liked to do… no?

He fought from gagging when the younger being spoonfed him the buttered milk. He could taste a little amount of butter and honey in it, but the milk was decidedly of a strange origin. What kind of animal produced it? He had better not think about it.

The younger one of his hosts asked him something, and yet again, he could not understand it. His host must have perceived his frustration, though. The mahogany-haired and chocolate-eyed being patted the top of his head warmly, and smiled without a trace of condemnation. It was that of unconditional love, if he dared say. (But unfortunately he dared not.)

Trying to be polite in turn, Harry pointed at himself and said slowly, "Harry." He then pointed at the younger being and threw the other a questioning stare. Thankfully, the gesture was interpreted as it should (although the addressee looked rather surprised and not a little unnerved). "Frodo," the person said, beaming. He then proceeded to point to behind Harry, to the person holding the child, and pronounced, "Bilbo."

Frodo and Bilbo; odd names, Harry thought. Could he be in an entirely-new community?

Or an entirely-new world?

He became upset again. And just as quickly as his mood darkened, Frodo snatched him from Bilbo and rocked him in his arms, crooning the lullaby he had heard before. Harry struggled at first, uncomfortable and insecure, but then the soft, peaceful song worked its 'magic' on him. He fell gently into a state of trance-like slumber he had experienced twice earlier, still aware of his surroundings but somehow detached from them. He knew that Frodo rewrapped him in his blanket and carried him out of the room, to the kitchen, and that Frodo made a sandwich with only a hand, eating it in like manner. But he was content not doing anything about it, thankful of being ignored for a time.

And after some time, he decided he liked his caretaker.

Footnotes

*(1) "Tweenhood" means "in the twenties." Hobbits consider themselves mature at age 33, not 18 or 21 like we do. (Well, and they do live longer than we do.) From what I glimpsed from reading the early chapters of The Fellowship of the Rings, I got the notion that "tweens" is like "teens" in our culture, customs and development. I do not know if the word "tweenhood" is canon or fanon, but I have a strong suspicion that it is the former. (Someone wants to search in the early chapters of Book 1? :))

*(2) Elves can sense the positions of the stars and Moon and Sun on the sky, and their respective progressions. I might attempt to explore this metaphysical territory later. But it is a canon fact, yes, and you can glimpse it in The Fellowship of the Ring when Legolas is sent to "fetch the Sun." More, though, is in an earlier work that I forget what the title is. (:sheepish:)