Delusional

Jessylane318

Harry cleaned the mugs once more with a yellowing rag, listening silently to the great cheer amongst the hobbits, dwarves, and men. The entire inn seemed in an uproar as they danced about and sung loudly, drinking far too much than necessary. That is, all but Strider, silent as ever, smoking his pipe without expression.

The man had appeared suddenly again exactly ten days after his departure, though no one seemed to mind this strange occurrence. When asked, Mr. Butterbur explained it away as the queerness of Rangers. They come and go as they please, no one in their right mind would try to stop 'em.

Rolling his eyes at the hobbits antics, Harry scrubbed a particularly nasty spot and watched Mr. Underhill walk near Strider, sitting down next to the cloaked man. The boy wondered silently if they knew each other, but decided not at the expression of distrust on the hobbit's features.

Something about the round little hobbit with the kind blue eyes bothered Harry. He wasn't sure why, but he felt oddly possessed to get closer and all the while repulsed to stay very far away. In the end, he settled for studying the strange little man's friends: a blithering tween, as he'd been told by a snorting Nob, going on about a birthday party and another, a gardener, as he quickly heard, who liked to tell stories of his old gaffer and sit in comfortable silence.

As the merry little hobbit, Mr. Took, just began to close the entertaining tale, Mr. Underhill stole the attention, suddenly pulling himself atop the table next to Strider to join the festivities. Drawing attention away from the surprised looking Took.

After yells for a song from half the inn, Mr. Underhill finally agreed to sing after a somewhat awkwardly short speech. Harry got the impression the hobbit had jumped before thinking.

"There is an inn, a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill..."

The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he runs his bow,
Now squeaking high, now purring low, now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests and laughs until he chokes..."

Listening to the jolly tune, the green eyed wizard glanced surreptitiously around the pub, watching men clap their hands and dwarves toasting ale. He frowned at Strider's concentrated glaze unwavering and dark.

Swallowing, he pushed down a wave of irritation. What did he care if Strider seemed oddly concerned with the hobbit and yet had refused to look at him even once? Why should he feel anything for a complete stranger?

Gripping the glass a little more forceful than necessary, Harry moved it away and began on the next one.

"The Man in the Moon took another mug, and rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale, and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat: "The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits, and the Sun'll be rising soon!"

So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle, a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon: "It's after three!" he said.

They rolled the Man slowly up the hill and bundled him into the Moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer, and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle; the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
The guests all bounded from their beds and danced upon the floor.

With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke! The cow jumped over the Moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill, as the Sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise they all went back to bed. "

There was a loud round of applause which Harry refused to join, for despite it all, Frodo did have a good voice and seemed to tickle the crowd's fickle opinion.

"Where's old Barley?" they cried. "He ought to hear this. Bob ought to learn his cat the fiddle, and we'd have ourselves a dance." They called for more ale and Harry rushed behind the bar, missing their next words, but guessing them all the same.

The song came again, only this time the crowd joined in, some humming and other singing with the tune, for it was well liked and Harry had heard the children singing it sometimes as they danced in the streets while he passed.

And then, as the song came to the notion of the horned cow jumping over the moon, a rhyme Harry distantly remembered his Aunt Petunia telling to his cousin Dudley, he heard a distinct clatter. Looking up, the young wizard had only a moment to comprehend the vanishing, singing hobbit when a sharp pain took his forehead. Falling to the floor, unnoticed by any, Harry managed, through the pain, to see something strange.

A hobbit appearing suddenly, sitting next to Strider's muddy black boots which remained unmoved.

"There's some mistake somewhere," said Butterbur, and Harry noticed at once he'd come from around the fireplace. "There was to much of that Mr. Underhill to go vanishing into thin air; or into thick air, as is more likely in this room."

"Well where is he now?" cried several voices.

"How should I know? He's welcome to go where he will, so long as he pays in the morning. There's Mr. Took now; he's not vanished."

"Well I saw what I saw," stated Mugwort obstinately, an elderly man with a rough face and stubborn demeanor. Harry honestly doubted he'd remember any of this in the morning considering the slur in his voice and the number of mugs on his table. "And I saw what I didn't!"

"And I say there's been some mistake," repeated Butterbur, picking up the tray and gathering up the broken crockery.

"As do I," replied Harry from behind the bar. He didn't like angry and confused looks about the small tavern, nor Mugwort's disrespect towards Butterbur. "Mr. Underhill could hardly just disappear into thin air, as Mr. Butterbur has said. The room's hazy enough for you drunkards to imagine."

The crowd did not seem to believe his words, as they frowned and grumbled, but they also didn't press Mr. Underhill for questions, which Harry could easily tell, the hobbit was avoiding. The guests quickly fled the inn; all but few casting angry glances of distrust.

Harry took their empty pints at once, giving each person a strained smile as they left. No one bothered to return it.

Looking towards the corner Strider had sat in, the dark haired youth frowned deeply.

"There's trouble brewing, young Harry. Be sure of it," confided the old Inn Keeper, his dark eyes fearful and glossy as he laid a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "Best not stay up late, lad. Now go find old Bob and tell him to come in."

Harry nodded agreeably, though highly reluctant to leave the warmth inside.

Wiping his hands, Harry moved into the night.