Chapter 6: "The Red Book"
Frodo slept fitfully that night, troubled by dreams that he could not recall. He awoke early and headed downstairs to the Gryffindor common room, where he found Hermione sitting by the fire, her schoolbooks laid out in front of her, her quill scratching away at an essay.
"Good morning, Frodo," she said, looking up from her work.
He sat down next to her. "Hermione, I must ask you something. When we first met, night before last, you mentioned that you had once read about Hobbits, and that you were acquainted with my name. You spoke of a 'Red Book.'"
Hermione looked down. She had been expecting this question. She knew what the Red Book was, and felt that it wouldn't be a good idea for Frodo to see it. She had planned to dissemble, to tell Frodo the Red Book wasn't at Hogwarts, that it didn't contain any useful information, that it actually had nothing to do with him.
"Would it be possible for me to see it?" Frodo asked. Hermione started to speak--but then she found his gaze utterly disarming. His eyes seemed to look through her; and at the same time, laid his own soul bare. She could neither lie to him, nor deny him.
"It's in the library," she said.
In the Ancient Manuscripts section, she led him to a glass case. In it was a very old book. The cover had gone brown with age, but hints of red could still be seen. It was too fragile to handle, so the book had been enchanted; the folio pages flipped magically at the reader's thought. Frodo looked at it and trembled slightly. "My Uncle Bilbo wrote this, didn't he?"
"Part of it," answered Hermione.
"Who wrote the rest?"
"You did, Frodo. And Sam, a little bit."
Frodo opened the front cover and gazed at the title page:
AND THE RETURN OF THE KING
It was written in a strong, flowing script. He saw that other titles, obviously in his Uncle Bilbo's spidery hand, had been crossed out. He sat down and began to read. Hermione watched him for a little while, and then couldn't bear it anymore. She left him alone in the library, and sadly made her way back to Gryffindor.
Hermione spent the day alone in the Gryffindor common room, staring at her books. Somehow the fine autumn day did not hold quite the allure for her that it had for the other Gryffindors. She also had no desire to return to the library.
"Hermione," said a light voice.
She jumped. "Frodo! I didn't hear you come in." She looked into his troubled eyes, and her heart sank. "Poor, poor Frodo," she thought. "I left you alone in there, reading about the horrors you'll face if we send you back."
"I think there's been some mistake," said Frodo. "Perhaps there was another book you were thinking of."
"What?" said Hermione.
"The book you showed me was indeed started by my Uncle Bilbo; but neither Sam nor I finished it. It was completed by my kinsman Meriadoc Brandybuck. It detailed our journey up until Sam and I crossed the Anduin alone. It says that neither of us were ever heard from again; but as Mordor collapsed shortly thereafter, it was assumed that we had been successful in our Quest."
"What about the War of the Ring?" asked Hermione.
"War of the Ring?" asked Frodo.
"The great battles," said Hermione. "What about Helm's Deep? The Battle of Pelennor Fields? The Battle at the Gate?"
"There was no mention of such battles."
Hermione stared at Frodo for a moment. "Frodo," she said, slowly. "Do you realize what this means?" He shook his head. "The past is changed. By coming here and bringing the ring to the future—you saved Middle Earth. Sauron fell. Your Quest was completed, though not in the way you had intended."
"But the Ring still exists!" cried Frodo.
"You took it upon yourself to save Middle Earth. You did! This world, the world of the future, is neither your concern nor your responsibility. Let others figure out how to deal with the Ring. Stay here with us if you like. Or, if we figure out how to send you, go back and leave the Ring behind." She knelt before him and folded him in her arms.
Frodo closed his eyes and rested his head against the neck of this young woman, this magical Elf-child. He felt warm and secure in her embrace. How desperately he wanted to believe her.
