Dumbledore lay back on the squishy feather bed in his tower, panting; a sheen of sweat covered his body from head to toe.
"That was... magical." He told Gandalf, who fell onto the pillow beside him.
"I agree, we should do this more often." Gandalf said wisely. "But don't tell Frodo, he'll want to join in and he's far too kinky, even for me."
Dumbledore smiled. "Does he still hang around with that biker gang- what were they called? The Gaping Bears?"
"No, he was thrown out." Dumbledore frowned. "He wouldn't tell me why, something to do with 'disrespecting the handlebars and putting them to improper use', I think he said."
Dumbledore laughed. "Goodness, he is a saucy little fellow! If it's not nailed down, he'll shove it up his-"
Just then Tom Bombadil popped up from beneath the sheets, wiping his chin.
"Hey doll, merry doll, gargle well, my hearty!" He cried, falling onto the pillow besides Dumbledore and swallowing. "Was that Frodo old Tom heard you talking about? Poor lamb."
Dumbledore seemed surprised. "I would have thought you had more reason than most to dislike the young rascal?" He looked at Bombadil questioningly.
Bombadil shrugged easily. "Frodo's never done Tom no harm, not that he knows of and he knows quite a lot!" He breezed in his sing-song manner.
It was now Gandalf's turn to seem perplexed. "But you were- you were absolutely livid when they cut you from the Fellowship of the Ring! You said you were going to take an Uber down to Hobbiton and 'skin the little bastard alive'."
Bombadil just laughed. "Well he did, old Tom did just what you said, only things weren't quite what they seemed; no indeed my merry doll!" He chuckled at the memory. "I banged on that door in Bag End till my hand was numb, screaming obscenities until the air turned blue, did I! And when Frodo finally answered - and invited me in - I pulled my shiv out of my pocket and aimed it right at his eyes, ready to shank him good! Oh ho ho." Bombadil shook his head fondly at the happy memory. "But it turned out he'd been conned out of the rights to his book by Peter Jackson- it wasn't his fault at all my hearties! Indeed, old Tom could see that he was quite despondent about the whole affair, but there was nothing he could do. Apparently Jackson had some hidden camera footage of Frodo forcing old Sam Gamgee onto some motorbike handlebars, as he wept and begged to be let go, then ripping down his trousers and-" The merry bearded man broke off to laugh; a deep, hearty sound. "And that's not the half of what he did to little Sammy, if the elves' tales are true!"
"I always wondered why he allowed Jackson to turn him into a little, whining prick!" Gandalf exclaimed in astonishment. "I mean, talk about a character assassination..." He shook his head in wonder.
"It's old Glorfindel I feel sorry for." Bombadil said merrily. "The way they turned him into a woman, and had him marrying Aragorn and all. His elf mates ripped the piss out of him for months after that! I heard he had to go into therapy to get over the trauma."
"Those elves can be a nasty bunch." Gandalf shook his head angrily.
"Is that why you and Frodo left the West to come back to the land of the living?" Dumbledore asked. "I always wondered why you'd give up paradise to slum it with us mere mortals."
"No, I just got sick of Bilbo's bawdy poetry." Gandalf sighed. "There was a young man from Staddle..." He mocked, bitterly. "If you consider it a paradise to sit around all day, listening to shit poetry, then I'm sure you'd love it; but for those of us with a modicum of taste, it was utter hell." Gandalf shrugged.
"It must have been a shock for Frodo." Dumbledore said. "When he found out Sam was doing four years for embezzlement."
"It was indeed." Gandalf agreed, sadly. "You should have seen him ironing his lucky trousers as we approached the Grey Havens!"
Dumbledore paused. "I was never quite sure on the details..."
Gandalf looked accusingly at Bombadil, who shrugged.
"Yes, yes!" Bombadil cried. "T'was my evidence that sent old Sammy down, but old Tom wasn't going to perjure himself in court for anyone!" He chuckled merrily. "I supposed you want to know the details?"
Dumbledore licked his lips and nodded his head eagerly.
Tom went into a long a complex story about how Sam - who had been the mayor of Hobbiton at this time - had ended up embezzling the money which got him arrested and sent down for a four-year stretch with no chance of parole. It all began when Rosie Cotton- now Gamgee, had fallen and badly injured herself working as a supervisor on Bombadil's fracking operation in the Westfarthing. In truth, Tom admitted, the accident had been entirely the fault of the company's lax health-and-safety procedures; but lacking the requisite insurance, they had refused to offer her any sick pay, going so far as to sack her a few days later for 'breaking her back on the job,' which they said constituted 'gross misconduct'.
Rosie - being in a torment of agony day and night - due to The Shire lacking any sort of formal health care, or doctors and the like; had begged Sam to help her end it all, so she did not have to suffer the utter misery her life had become any longer. After three days of psyching himself up, Sam had tried placing a pillow over her face, but her thrashing arms and muffled cries were too much for his soft hobbit heart to bear and he hadn't gone through with the euthanization; despite his wife's bitter aspersions relating to his manhood as he wept on the floor, defeated.
Being a trusting sort, but not altogether bright; he had turned to Bombadil for help; who, never being one to miss an opportunity to profit, had furnished Sam with a small, beige powder in a foil wrap and given him instructions how to inject it into Rosie's veins. It would give her sweet release from the misery of her anguished days and nights, Bombadil said, with an odd gleam in his eye, and an excited, nervous chuckle.
That was how Sam had gotten the love of his life hooked on heroin, and in all the long bitter years that followed, he never forgave himself. At first their savings had covered the enormous cost of the powder they brought once every few days from Bombadil, but after a while, and as Rosie's habit grew, they were selling everything and anything they could lay their hands on to keep Rosie from the indescribable horror of withdrawal; made all the worse by her smashed and ruined spine.
With the furniture gone, and the children all pimped out - and little Elanor still missing, presumed dead at the hands of a wayward trick - Sam had finally come up with the plan that had gotten him into so much trouble. He had started a collection around The Shire, 'to provide a long-needed upgrade to the mathom house at Michel Delving; and turn it in a fully-interactive, audio-visual consumer experience which would be the wonder of the lands, from Gondor to the Grey Havens.' So the spiel went.
It turned out that Sam had quite the talent for parting unsuspecting rubes of their hard-earned coin, and had begun operating a boiler-room type scheme, selling worthless shares in the project and promising impossible returns to the excited investors. Indeed before long the fund had grown so large that people were beginning to become impatient to see the wonder that he was creating in the boarded-up and scaffolded mathom house.
"The irony is," Tom laughed, "that if he had managed his finances a little more cleverly; he could have siphoned off the money into a few shell companies - set up just for the occasion - and declared bankruptcy without suffering any ill consequences at all! I've done it myself a hundred times, and so have all my capitalist friends, oh ho ho! He could even have taken out a massive bank loan that he would never have had to repay!" Tom wiped away a tear of mirth. "But prison's for the little people who only go half-way, like old Sammy I suppose. Them that know enough to cheat folk, but not enough to game the system. There's no moral difference o'course, but that don't make the judge's gavel slam down any softer; no, no no, my derry doll!"
They all laughed at the thought of the rigged system which allowed already wealthy people to cheat, lie and steal billions upon billions of pounds with impunity; going so far as to make up flimsy excuses for illegal wars on fake pretexts in order to get their hands on trillions worth of natural resources - and the inevitable rebuilding contracts - whilst the poor folk went to prison for crimes such as not being able to afford a television license; the money from which which would go towards funding twenty-four-hour propaganda - read out by a millionaire - straight into their cold, damp, rented hovels.
"My favourite part," chuckled Dumbledore, "is how rich 'liberals' are more interested in policing language than doing anything to stop the modern-day imperialism being carried out around the world, in their name. They even vote in droves for the people who carry it out! Just look at wassisname; he bombed seven predominately Muslim countries in his last year of office- that's twenty-six-thousand-one-hundred-and-seventy-one bombs in twenty-sixteen alone! But it's all apparently OK because he dropped them with love and understanding." He winked.
"Yes indeed," Gandalf smiled. "The masses make it all possible, with their contradictory morals and willingness to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others, just so long as they're comfortable and their leaders don't offend them with naughty words; bless their little cotton socks!"
"There's always the argument it was done to keep his citizens safe." Said Tom, reasonably.
"Oh I don't doubt that many of those bombs found a less than savoury target and rid the world of some utter scumbags." Dumbledore mused. "And good riddance to bad rubbish, I say! But how many innocent civilians, how many wedding parties, hospitals and schools are too many? At what point does 'self-defence' cross the line into 'aggression'?
"How many died as a result of Iraq alone, again?" Asked Tom.
Dumbledore frowned. "The estimates vary, but something like two-hundred-thousand innocent souls, give or take."
"Pah!" Gandalf snorted. "What's roughly the entire population of Des Moines, between friends?"
They all laughed merrily.
Tom stroked his beard, pondering something. "The new one's not shaping up to be any better, for all his mighty talk." He observed at last.
"Well no." Dumbledore admitted easily. "But I think that just goes to highlight how it's the entire system which is rigged; that is to say, special interests dictate policy, backed up by the deep state; not governments, and certainly not the people-"
Tom bellowed sudden laughter. "And thank goodness that they do!" He roared, regaling them fondly of his fracking operation and all the politicians and mainstream media journalists he had wined, dined, bribed and blackmailed to make it happen. His masterstroke however, had been to donate a scant twenty-thousand to a well-known feminist campaigner - whom he referred to as 'Annie' - and have her present fracking as a feminist cause. 'We need more women in fracking' had been the tagline, and once that had been established no one had dared speak out against it for fear of being labelled a misogynist and losing their jobs.
"What did she do with the money?" Asked Dumbledore.
Tom smiled to himself. "Spent it all on a five minute video - recorded on a smartphone - apparently," he stage-winked.
"Ah," smiled Gandalf. "It's true what they say; every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket."
Dumbledore stroked his plaited beard, looking thoughtful. "And how many women have actually died on site?"
"Eighteen! Officially..." Tom tittered, "not counting the life-changing injuries, like Rosie's of course. "We just present them as pioneers, give the family a little plaque commemorating their contribution to equality- that sort of thing; and if anyone ever questions what we're about, I just scream at them 'WHAT IS IT YOU HATE ABOUT EQUALITY?' And that usually does the trick." Tom smiled wistfully. "Of course, if they still cause trouble even after all that, I just accuse them of 'mansplaining'- or 'internalising their misogyny,' if they're a woman; ha ha they don't stand a chance! I owe people like Annie so much." He grew a bit misty eyed.
"Brilliant!" Exclaimed Gandalf and Dumbledore together.
"JINX!" They squealed - again in unison - before falling about laughing and tickling each other.
"You never finished the story, Tom." Dumbledore chided. "How did Gamgee get found out in the end?"
"Well it was obvious!" Laughed Bombadil. "When the mathom house reopened, after its 'extensive refurbishment', the only difference was that Sam had chained an old, first-generation ipat to one of the displays. That was his idea of an 'audio-visual, fully-interactive consumer experience,' oh ho ho! Seven hundred thousand in small donations, all for an old tablet running a corrupted operating system... in Mandarin!"
Gandalf and Dumbledore wiped tears of laughter away from their creased eyes.
"Ipat?" Dumbledore asked, doubtfully. "Surely you mean ipad, Tom?"
"I say what I mean, and I mean what I say!" Bombadil exclaimed, waving a finger. "It was a Chinese knock-off, with a cracked screen! Turns out he bought it from Ted Sandyman, for five times its actual value..." He trailed off, shaking his head fondly at the memory. "I'll say one thing for old Sammy though," Bombadil continued. "No one's had sight nor sound o'that money since it went missing, that's one thing at least he got right!"
Gandalf coughed guiltily at this, and both men looked at him suspiciously.
"Ah-" The old wizard from Middle Earth began. "Well, actually... I was supposed to be 'holding' it for him, in a safe location until he got out."
"Supposed?" Dumbledore echoed.
Gandalf winced. "Truth is, I spent it on an antique tablet of Persian knitting patterns from the Fifth-century BCE." He looked at his companions appealingly. "It was a rare and unique archaeological find, in the original cuneiform! I had to pay ISIS Eight-Hundred-Thousand pounds for it in the end, after they'd looted it from a private collector's museum In Raqua."
Tom gasped. "Dumbledore!" He cried. "It's not like you to go around funding terrorists, and looting important historical artefacts! That's more my line of work." He grinned.
Dumbledore looked sheepish. "I do love knitting patterns..." He shrugged. "In fact I've been known to break into muggle homes whilst they're on holiday and steal them, if you want to know the whole truth; just ask Slughorn, he sometimes joins me and steals their underwear."
The men fell about laughing in a seemingly inseparable tangle of limbs, beards and sticky, withered genitalia.
Dany straddled Jacob, grinding her hips in time with his own and gasping with delight at the steady waves of pleasure radiating out from her loins. Her milk-white breasts sprung up and down in a tight, elastic motion, as her head tilted backward, spine arched in delayed ecstasy. Jacob let out a low moan and dug his thumbs into her thighs, thrusting powerfully as he did so. The sudden feeling of spreading warmth was too much for Dany, triggering the climax that she had been delaying for the last nine-and-a-quarter hours and enveloping her body in its white-hot immediacy.
They both relaxed at the same time and remained in the same position like a pair of statues, panting. Their pale skin took on a seedy, blue hue from the blinking neon sign outside the dirty window of the roadside motel. Dany had insisted they come here for privacy, rather than 'rutting publicly like wild beasts' in the shared dormitory of Gryffindor tower; but Jacob suspected that she just liked the thrill of slumming it every now and again.
"This was just a one-off, you know?" Dany spoke first, extricating herself from the tangle of flesh that only moments earlier had felt like one person, with one heart and soul.
Jacob flashed a smile which didn't reach his eyes. "I know." He answered. "You didn't need to say it."
Dany stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Jacob shrugged. "Well, you just couldn't wait could you?"
"So it would have been better if I'd led you on?" Dany's voice was rising. "Strung you along so that you thought you had a chance with me-"
"Please!" Jacob laughed, a little cruelly. "You're starting to believe your own hype; Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Bedsprings and Khaleesi of the eight-inch-"
"That's all I am to you isn't it?" Dany rounded on Jacob angrily. "A pretty little joke! Good enough to stick your precious member in, but ultimately just another one of your conquests-"
Jacob pulled a non-committal face. "If that's what you want to believe-"
"It's the truth!" Spat Dany. "I conquered half of Essos-"
"By spreading your legs." Jacob interjected.
Dany looked like she wanted to slap him, but she took a deep breath and continued. "I conquered half of Essos with nothing but a famous name, and you - who have never done anything worthwhile, I might add - you never give me the least bit of credit for my achievements-"
"It's why you like me." Jacob shrugged. "You're surrounded twenty-four seven by people who kiss your arse and tell you what a marvel of the modern world, you are; and if I did the same you wouldn't even look at me twice, I can assure you!"
Dany shook her head disgustedly. "You think so little of me..."
"Tell me I'm wrong!"
"You're wrong." Dany took the bait. "And what's more, you're an insecure, nasty little-"
"Little!" Jacob let out a mirthless bark of laughter.
"You are little-" Dany continued. "Compared to Drogon..."
"So the rumours are true?" Jacob began. "Actually, no- Don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."
"Yes they're true!" Dany said hotly. "I'm not ashamed, we Targaryens have a long and proud history of-"
"Diddling your own family." Jacob pulled an exaggerated face of disgust. "But a dragon is low, even for you."
"Low!" Dany sounded incredulous. "Low? Low is gallivanting around with that old AIDS-riddled bimbo of yours." The Dragon Queen reproached. "You only do it because you think it makes you seem edgy; you're so insecure Jacob, it's a wonder you can get it up at all!"
"If you want to talk about insecurity," Jacob's eyes flashed angrily. "We could start by looking at your overwhelming desire to conquer everything in your path, only to lose interest once you have it."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Said Dany, a little unconvincingly.
"All these conquests," Jacob expanded on the theme. "All the cities, all the countries, all the men in your life- it's all just you trying to win the approval of your brother, Viserys; the only father figure that you ever knew!"
"Thanks for the psyche 101." Dany scoffed. "Don't give up the day job, will you?"
Jacob waved a hand. "Whatever... But that's why you always come back to me, even if you don't admit it to yourself. I'm the one thing that you can't conquer, and it drives you mad!"
"Don't flatter yourself." Dany retorted, bitterly.
"Say I loved you." Jacob changed tack. "Say I loved you with all my heart and wanted to be with you forever-"
Dany laughed scornfully.
"I'd still have to treat you this way," Jacob continued. "Because if I let my guard down for one second, if I let you think you'd won me over completely..." He looked at her desperately for a moment, trying to convey with his eyes what his tongue refused to speak; but Dany was gazing away, embittered disgust trying, but not quite succeeding to sully her beautiful features.
"That's a fantasy Jacob, an insecure fantasy cooked up by an emotional coward." She finally looked up; too late. You're trying to blame your own callous actions on me; that's abuse! It's gaslighting! It's-"
"Ah, forget it!" Jacob gave up. "You're right, I'm nasty and insecure. I'm gaslighting you because I hate you, all that stuff."
"Why do you always have to make it so difficult?" Dany self-consciously wiped a tear away from one eye. "Every time, you have to spoil things-"
"Yep- sorry; don't know what came over me." Jacob said easily. "Something about wild sex with the Dragon Queen brings out the animal side of me."
Dany regarded him from the corner of her eye to see if this was meant as an insult, but Jacob seemed perfectly sincere. Letting down her guard a little she wondered why the words had seemed so familiar.
"You sounded like Ser Barristan when you said that."
"Ser whoistan?" Jacob asked.
"Oh, just some old nudist who used to work for my father. I left him in Meereen when I came to find you." She reddened. "I mean- you know, on a recce because of the Night King."
If Jacob had noted this slip-up, he didn't let on. "Nudist eh?" He said brightly. "And I remind you of him?" He looked down at his naked body. "I can see that."
"No!" Dany laughed. "It's just something he used to say about being nude allowing you to 'commune with your animalistic nature'. He had no shame, even less than you!" She gave Jacob a playful slap. "If I wore a particularly revelaing dress, he'd walk around all day with a stiffy like it was the most natural thing in the world-" She caught herself. "Well... normal, I should say."
"Sounds like a bit of a legend." Jacob observed. "Shame you didn't bring him over with you instead of Mormont. God; he's dark Dany-"
"I didn't bring him, he crash landed not far from here by pure coincidence!" Dany flashed.
"Yeah, I'm sure it was just a big coincidence..." Jacob's tone dripped sarcasm. "I'm sure that engine just happened to explode right when he was-"
"Ser Jorah wouldn't do that!" Dany shouted. "He's got his problems, I'll admit; but he's working through them and he'd never do anything so reckless!"
"Well I certainly hope you're right." Jacob mused. "Because if he did, he's got blood on his hands."
Dany frowned. "What do you mean, I rescued everyone... didn't I?"
Jacob studied her face a moment. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but when you 'saved' everyone, what did you do afterwards?"
Dany's posture stiffened. "Ser Jorah and I went back to Gryffindor tower and watched the Golden Child with a mug of hot cocoa."
"Yes, I remember," said Jacob. "It was the night Hermione got engaged to Voldemort."
"So what's your point?" Dany asked.
"I don't suppose you read about the young girl - twelve years old - they found frozen to death on the mountainside a few days ago?"
Dany just stared at Jacob, afraid to ask, but needing to know. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Well for a start," Jacob began. "And bear in mind this isn't a proper criticism, you saved everyone on that plane and you should be proud of that-"
"But..." Dany saved him the effort.
"But, whilst you and Ser Jorah were sipping hot cocoa and watching Eddie Murphy threaten to row Victor Wong's ass until it bled, that young girl was starving and freezing to death in the hills nearby."
"You're saying I should have done more?"
"That's entirely your choice." Jacob shrugged. "Some people might say it's your MO, to swoop in an act like the all-conquering hero, and leave a big mess behind you when you move on-"
"That's not fair! If it wasn't for me those people would have all died!"
"Like I said, it's not a proper criticism; you did more than I could have done, perhaps more than anyone..." Jacob made a philosophical indication with his head, "but you still walked away to watch the Golden Child with the job half-finished- only that's not why I brought this up."
Dany stared at her estranged husband in utter contempt.
"You didn't hear about her mother, I suppose?" Jacob continued, studiously avoiding Dany's eyes. "Hit by a car in Odessa, three months ago; died instantly. The girl disappeared soon after, in the company of her 'uncle', a nameless man who fits the description of someone we both know."
Dany bit her bottom lip nervously. "What- what did they say?"
"Well according to family friends, he'd been sniffing around the mother for some time, they were in an on-again-off-again kind of relationship; but the relatives were more concerned about the interest he was showing in Olechka - that was the dead girl's name - and when the post-mortem came through..." Jacob shuddered. "I was forcibly reminded of what the Maester said about-"
"Missandei..." Dany finished for him.
"Her skin was covered in teeth marks, Dany." Jacob said. "Whoever it was bit her right through to the bone, they were all over her body; she had a GPS tracking device sewn into her abdomen, the wound had gone rotten and festered..."
Dany shuddered and felt like she wanted to wretch. "There was a girl..." She began doubtfully.
"It was Mormont." Said Jacob. "I know it."
"You don't know it." Dany countered, without much conviction. "It's alright for you, you never liked him anyway. When you're a queen, it's different. You have to be fair; and just."
"And was it 'fair and just' that a twelve-year old Ukrainian girl was snatched from her home, raped, tortured and left on a hillside to die, by an unspeakable monster?" Jacob turned the explanation around, against Daenerys.
"That's not what I said!" Dany said angrily. "When you hold the power of life and death in your hands, you need to be absolutely sure before you send someone to the headsman; oh, you wouldn't understand!"
"Perhaps not." Jacob responded as reasonably as he could. "But ask yourself this; if it were proven to you that Mormont did those things, could you bring yourself to do it, even then?"
"Yes- yes of course!" Dany began, before faltering. "I mean... it would have to be beyond all doubt-"
Jacob cut her off with a harsh laugh. "That's what I thought." He said scathingly.
They turned their backs on one another and stared at opposite walls in bitter silence; the blinking neon street sign periodically filled the room with its violet glow, keeping perfect time with their rapidly pounding hearts.
Back in Dumbledore's tower, Gandalf was lighting up a fatty with some really powerful weed he had purchased from Professor Sprout earlier that day. He lay back and exhaled a huge cloud of thick, white smoke, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as the tetrahydrocannabinol did it's job, coursing through his bloodstream.
"Golly gosh, my derry doll!" Bombadil cried, laughing. "Why that smells even stronger than the stuff I get off Farmer Maggot, he's got a hydroponics lab down in a secret basement under his farm - claims it's for growing mushrooms, but old Tom knows better - ring-ding-a-dillo!"
Dumbledore seemed interested at this. "Can you hook me up, do you think Tom?" He asked, slightly too eagerly.
Gandalf flashed Tom a quick, warning look, which Dumbledore missed.
Bombadil winced and made a troubled face. "He er- only likes to sell to friends," he explained apologetically. "Had some trouble with the shirriffs a few years back, scaled down his operation. I wouldn't like to risk it I'm afraid."
Dumbledore sighed. "Figures." He said, sadly.
In truth, Dumbledore had a bit of a reputation for blabbing and had gotten more than one dealer into hot water by boasting to everyone and anyone about his 'connections', which were really other people's connections. He liked to act like he was in-the-know, but the truth was that he was a bit of a faker, and liked the thought of himself having 'a reputation' more than the drugs themselves. He generally only had to look at a spliff out of the corner of one eye before he was on his knees hugging the toilet bowl, having a massive whitey. This was usually accompanied by his crying like a baby and shouting "KILL ME!" at random intervals to whoever would listen.
"What did that remind me of?" Gandalf mused, deftly changing the subject. "When you said Tom..."
Bombadil laughed merrily, "I wondered that too, my hearty!"
Gandalf snapped his fingers excitedly, as it came to him. "I know what it was, the fifth Harry Potter film, when you're talking to Voldemort!"
"It was foolish to come here tonight, Tom." Dumbledore said, smiling indulgently. "Although I'm pretty sure I didn't write myself asking the Dark Lord to hook me up with some dope shit."
Being perilously close to the original subject again, Gandalf changed tack. "There's something I wanted to ask you about those films Dumbledore- about one in particular, actually."
Dumbledore nodded that he should continue; he loved to talk about himself; and as a consequence, people rarely asked him to.
"That scene in Half Blood Prince when you go to visit Riddle in the orphanage-"
"I remember the one." Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Well it's always reminded me of something." Gandalf frowned. "Although I've never been able to place what it was." He shook his head sadly, "I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs, that was ever used for such a purpose. I still do, in fact, but this chronic is battering my head like Grond on the gates of Minas Tirith. I doubt I could tell you my own name if you put a gun to my head right now." He broke off to laugh in an odd high-pitched keen, which was very unlike his normal voice.
"Oliver Twist?" Dumbledore offered.
"Stop fucking with me, you lightweight." Gandalf chided. "I'm Gadnalf the Gay, or whatever." He burst out laughing again, drooling spit on his bare white chest.
Dumbledore looked slightly offended at being called a lightweight - most probably because it was absolutely true - but he ignored the insult and tried again. "Oliver Twist, that scene- I stole it straight from Oliver Twist."
Gandalf's face was a picture of revelation. "So you did!" He slapped his knee in delight. "And-"
"That's not all I stole!" Dumbledore laughed, finding the confession quite hilarious.
"No indeed!" Said Gandalf, eyes wide as if he had just discovered the meaning of life. "I mean the whole set up- Lord! It's so obvious now!"
Dumbledore chuckled pleasantly. "Imagine," he said, "being paid millions of pounds to lazily plagiarise better writers' original work! And my goodness, don't even get me started on the plotholes!"
"Oh Dumbledore, don't be so hard on yourself." Tom wagged a reproachful finger. "You sold millions of books, had one of the most successful movie franchises of all time-"
"Ah, but what did I really do?" Countered Dumbledore, shrugging. "I mean, take Dickens for example; in Oliver Twist he wrote a withering critique - absolutely dripping with sarcasm - about the social issues of the day, and the people who allowed them to happen. It's indisputable that he did so in the hopes of engendering some sympathy - and as a consequence, change - in the hardened hearts and minds of the good, but errant people who read his work. And what did I do, exactly? I put my young protagonist through a uniquely individual hell - relevant to no one but himself - mostly in order that my magical boarding school seem particularly pleasant in juxtaposition. A cheap and nasty device, and one I'm not altogether proud of."
Gandalf frowned through bloodshoot eyes, his voice was hoarse. "You're being far too hard on yourself er- Doubledoor? You just wanted to save your protagonist from the protracted misery he was undergoing; and by extension, all the readers who may have been suffering similar fates. It was an act of kindness, not cynicism!"
"Kindness was it?" Laughed Dumbledore. "Was it kind that I made him into a child solider? Is Joseph Kony 'kind' to his child soldiers, do you think? Was it kind to put his life in constant danger? Murder not just his entire family, but every father figure he ever knew; including myself, I might add?"
"But surely Dumbledore-" Began Tom.
"Dibbeldour! That was it!" Gandalf interrupted Bombadil, snapping his fingers.
"Surely Dumbledore," Tom resumed, "you were just trying to teach your readers about adversity and how to triumph over it."
Dumbledore considered this a moment. "So you'd say the best way to triumph over adversity is to take revenge against one's enemies; using violent means?" He asked.
"Well, yes, I would, my derry doll; most heartily!" Laughed Bombadil. "But I suppose I get your point."
"I'm not sure you do." Mused Dumbledore. "Lets put it this way, my lead character doesn't have the ghost of a character arc over the entire seven novels-"
"Oh, but he makes friends, falls in love-" Gandalf began.
"Those are events, not arcs." Dumbledore interrupted. "He's the exact same person at the end of the novels as he was at the beginning. He went from a brave, determined boy intent on fighting the Dark Lord, to a brave and determind young man, intent on fighting the Dark Lord. I mean, by killing his parents I wrote myself into a bit of a corner from the start. There was just no room for ambiguity, no room for doubt. I took the easy option and rather than have my lead character entertaining doubts, or having to think up more challenging, complex motives for his actions; I just killed his parents and bada-bing-bada-boom!" He dusted his hands with a loud clapping motion. "Instant revenge fantasy, no tough questions asked."
"Look; I don't care what you say, you miserable old sod." Gandalf tried to sit up, but his elbows had seemingly turned to jelly. "That whole series is pure quality- it's wonderful, it just has this indefinable... magic about it; it's bloody phenomenal, is what it is!"
Dumbledore seemed touched by this and grew a bit misty-eyed, wiping his tears on a crumpled fifty pound note, before throwing it casually into the fire. "You're too kind, my friend." He said at last.
Bombadil grinned. "Well I'm with old Gladelf over there, I absolutely loved it. Such wonderful escapism from a dreary and depressing modern world- I especially love how you killed off Snape!" He laughed. "In the last film too, I bet he thought he was going to make it, didn't he?"
"Haha, yes!" Dumbledore laughed. "He cried for weeks afterwards. I wanted to do it all for real, of course. Have him butchered on set and all that, but David Yates insisted we use special effects instead; what an old stick in the mud!"
They all laughed at the thought of Snape being brutally chopped up for the purposes of light entertainment, as a faint wail of artistic frustration could just be made out from the direction of the hospital wing.
"How does he do that?" Bombadil mused rather quietly, to himself.
Gandalf lay back, sucking on his twenty-five skin masterpiece, contentedly. Suddenly he frowned. "Damn," he said, "this spliff's gone out! Dumbledore, tell me you've got a lighter somewhere among all this rubbish?" He motioned around at all the wondrous magical contraptions which Dumbledore had on display in the tower. "Just look at all that bonkers shit..." He marvelled, then burst out into a high-pitched giggle.
"Why don't you just use your staff to light it?" Tom asked.
Gandalf flashed. "Because I don't want to advertise my whereabouts to all and sundry!" He barked. "Especially not Saruman-" He broke off.
"Why would Saruman be jealous if you were in my tower, late at night?" Dumbledore asked, suspiciously.
"I didn't say jealous- who said jealous? Did you say jealous?" Gandalf spoke rapidly. He turned to Tom. "There's nothing going on with me and Saruman... or Treebeard for that matter!" He added, coughing guiltily. "I got those splinters when I fell on a log; the branch just happened to go right up my ars-"
"No one is accusing you of anything Gandalf." Dumbledore smiled kindly, whist making a note that Treebeard was almost certainly active, and another note to take precaution for splinters. "You just wanted a light for you spliff, it's gone out, remember?"
"Of course I remember!" Barked Gandalf. "I'm not a dotard, not yet; whatever Saruman says! Stupid, sexy, idiot..." He broke off and had the good grace to blush. Gathering himself, he turned to Dumbledore. "So, er- do you have a lighter amongst all this lot?"
Dumbledore gathered himself up in a dignified manner. "I've always prided myself on my ability to turn a phrase," he began, pausing for effect before saying; "it's over there, on the table."
"Nice, er- turn of phrase." Gandalf said, reaching for the small, silver lighter. "You work long on that one?"
Dumbledore blushed. "Six weeks in fact, I've been waiting for years to use it in natural conversation."
Gandalf and Tom flashed each other an almost simultaneous eyeroll. There was an uncomfortable silence as the pair tried, and only partly succeeded in not letting their embarrassment show.
"It's just no one at Hogwarts smokes," Dumbledore continued, oblivious. "I've tried to encourage some of the children to start, but they just don't seem interested." He sighed. "I even had the house elves hide nicotine in their pumpkin juice to get them surreptitiously hooked, but they all go around tooting on those vape sticks instead."
"Kids today..." Bombadil shook his head in disgust.
Gandalf, who had by this time wreathed himself in a cloud of thick smoke waved a lazy hand in the air, without bothering to lift his head from the pillow where it rested. "Someone pass the poppers."
"You feeling accommodating?" Ask Tom, licking his lips.
"Most." Replied Gandalf simply. "Just watch out for splinters-"
Just then, the door banged open and McGonagall rushed into the room, her face contorted in panic and terror.
"Albus!" She cried, frantically. "Albus, we're under attack!"
"Not this again," Dumbledore sighed. "Minerva; if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, immigration is a good thing for the countr-"
"No, Albus!" McGonagall wailed. "I'm not talking about that; it's the Night King! He's joined forced with the Nor-Folk and they're attacking Hogwarts!"
As if on cue a large boom echoed around the castle, shaking the walls and causing small puffs of plaster dust to dislodge from the roof and walls.
Dumbledore jumped up at once. "Raise the alarm, get everyone to their stations, we must repel the invaders-"
"But there is no one Albus!" McGonagall's face was almost inhuman in its sheer frenzy. "They're all on the toilet; poisoned by Snape's cooking!"
"But, I thought no one actually ate any?" Tom interjected, looking confusedly at McGonagall.
"They didn't need to!" McGonagall tore at her face. "According to Madam Pomfrey, it was so noxious that just being in its vicinity was enough to induce violent, explosive diarrhoea and uncontrollable vomiting; among other less savoury symptoms!"
"The brown wedding!" Gandalf burst out laughing, burning his nostrils away with deep inhalations of poppers.
"All standard forms of magical communication have been cut; we have no owls, no floo network, no- nothing! We're alone, Albus." McGonagall looked pleadingly at the headmaster. "What on earth are we going to do?"
"Not alone, Minerva." Dumbledore smiled "And there's only one thing that can be done in a situation like this." He went on, confidently. "Tom, pass me my magically jailbroken HTC U11; I need to give Jacob a call."
