Chapter Text
“No. No. Most certainly not. No, Gandalf, no. Don’t look at me, no.” Bilbo decisively shakes his head. “No.”
He leans back in the unduly comfortable armchair and takes a demonstrative sip of his tea. Even if he has his doubts on how Gandalf is running the school, he has to admit that the headmaster does brew a nice cup of tea. He does his to enjoy it and ignore the fact that his old acquaintance is watching him with a patient smile over his own cup, not saying a word.
“No.” Bilbo repeats firmly.
The last time Gandalf looked at him like this, they sat in Bilbo’s tiny Manchester flat. They were having tea as well. And Gandalf had somehow convinced Bilbo to come back to Hogwarts as a teacher. But he’s not going to agree to Gandalf’s latest scheme this time. Not when he can already imagine that things aren’t quite as Gandalf describes them.
Especially when it involves…
“Gandalf, it’s been thirty years since I last played Quidditch,” Bilbo says. “I can’t even recall the rules.”
… that blasted sport.
“Oh, they haven’t changed at all. You’ll find there aren’t too many.”
“Yes. Yes! That entire game is hazardous to one’s health! It should have been outlawed centuries ago!”
“Maybe you should give it a chance,” Gandalf suggests. “I know Quidditch looks quite harsh when coming from a muggle perspective – you know, recently some muggle parents came here and asked me about insurance. I told them not to worry – you just need to give it a try.”
“No.” Bilbo takes another sip of his delicious, warm tea and crosses his legs. “The muggles are perfectly right. That game is madness.” And you must be mad to think I’ll join, he adds in his head. Teachers’ Quidditch, really. Who comes up with these things?
But Gandalf just chuckles and Bilbo feels his blood pressure rise. “Oh, I think it might suit you quite fine. Just go to the tryouts, and see if you fit in. Might help you get back into the swing here.”
Bilbo takes a long, calming breath. Term hasn’t even started yet, and he’s already regretting his decision to return to Hogwarts. Just how can Gandalf be this convincing? So far the man has done nothing but smile at Bilbo over the rim of his teacup, a spark in his eyes, and with a sinking feeling Bilbo remembers that Gandalf did not do anything else when he made Bilbo sign the contract.
Teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. At Hogwarts. Only for one year, too, since the position is apparently cursed - not that Gandalf actually answered Bilbo’s question about that, the old coot. Cursing a teaching position seemed indeed fairly absurd, but Bilbo had seen weirder (including being caught up in a muggle tradition called “no-pants-Monday”), and after looking into the fates of the former DADA teachers, he had… well, he had agreed.
Why had he, again?
Gandalf smiles at him. “Just think about it, and maybe go visit the tryouts tomorrow. It might be a great opportunity to get to know your colleagues.”
Perhaps Gandalf has finally discovered a liquid form of the imperius curse, because come next morning Bilbo finds himself walking toward the Quidditch pitch. He has intentionally not brought a broom, nor is he wearing sporty clothes – instead he donned a white shirt, a green waistcoat and a burgundy robe. He hopes his sheer clothing will proclaim his intention to keep his feet on the ground to anybody looking.
It’s not too warm (Scottish summers being what they are), which is rather fitting given that he most certainly is not even going to touch a broomstick. No, he is going to make small talk, get to know his new colleagues, and watch them be reckless. Then he is going to return to his rooms, finish his curriculum, and enjoy a nice cup of tea.
Bilbo enters the pitch to find several people already there – some standing in small groups and chatting, while others are already flying up in the ai. He stops for a moment – it’s been thirty years since he completed his own education here, and it seems that except Gandalf and Professor Binns all the faces have changed. He doesn’t know anybody -
“Ah, Professor Baggins!”
Except Balin Fundinson, who welcomed Bilbo to Hogwarts and oversaw the details of his employment contract (and, in sharp contrast to Gandalf, actually provided answers to several relevant questions).
“Professor Fundinson,” Bilbo greets in return and approaches the group.
“Glad to see you could make it,” Balin says. “But please, call me Balin. We all call each other by our first names – it does rather nicely confuse the students. But let me introduce you to your new colleagues!” He ushers Bilbo toward one of the larger groups.
“Of course not everybody’s here yet. And we’ve not heard anything from Radagast, so I hope I don’t have to find us a new Herbology teacher at the last second.” Somebody chuckles and Bilbo looks around to find that he is – as so often – the shortest person in the vicinity. At least now he can easily visit Gringotts if he needs to feel tall.
“Everybody, this is Professor Baggins. He’s teaching Defense this year.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bilbo says and puts on his most charming smile.
His new colleagues snigger, and he can almost hear the bets being placed. This tiny man – will he even last the entire year? In this cursed position? Has he even any experience with Defense?
“Welcome to Hogwarts, eh,” a man says cheerfully and tips his rather uncommon fur hat at Bilbo. “Bofur, I’m teaching muggle studies.” They shake hands, and then more introductions ensue.
There’s Professor Gloin who teaches Arithmancy and is only here to help out – a wise decision, Bilbo thinks. Professor Dwalin who has the build of a professional wrestler, but teaches Transfiguration, and the very young Charms Professor Fili who proceeds to give Bilbo a very, well, charming smile. His brother Kili is already up in the air, though he gives a short wave as he flies by. Then Bilbo is introduced to Professor Thorin Oakenshield - Hogwarts’ venerated Potions Master.
Who is very, very tall.
Bilbo has to tilt his head backward.
“So you’re the new Defense teacher?” Professor Oakenshield asks, and despite the disdainful tone, his voice sends shivers down Bilbo’s spine. It’s deep, dark and quite fitting for that handsome face with wonderfully bright blue eyes. It’s a shame that such face looks so frowning and distant, though.
Ah! Why, oh why, is this highly attractive man looking at Bilbo like a speck of very annoying dust? This is a bit disheartening, but this might also save Bilbo from any awkward emotional entanglement with colleagues. Which would be very good to avoid indeed. Trying to chase the thoughts, Bilbo resolutely ignores the quickening beatings of his heart.
“Indeed,” he returns smoothly. “Gandalf asked me for a favor. Apparently nobody else was qualified.” Bilbo makes sure to turn his most innocent smile at Thorin, as somebody muffled laughter is heard in the background.
Thorin doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, it would seem so. Best of luck to you then, Professor Baggins.”
Oh no you don’t, Bilbo thinks and only smiles wider. “I look forward to working with you, too, Professor. Are you trying out for the staff team as well?”
“He’s our vice captain, and he’s our best hope for a seeker right now,” Bofur adds with a snort.
“Really?” Bilbo asks with only half-feigned surprise – Thorin does have the built of a professional athlete, though Bilbo would have imagined him along with Dwalin on a wrestling ring than on a broom. “I was thinking to try out for seeker as well.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” a very tall, red-haired woman interrupts, landing her broom right next to them. She slides off effortlessly, and inclines her head. “Sorry for the delay, I’m Tauriel, the flying instructor, and in charge of this ramshackle team.” She laughs. “Gandalf told me you were a brilliant seeker.”
Thorin’s thrown deepens. Bilbo can practically feel Thorin’s blood pressure rising, so he shakes Tauriel’s hand with an extra portion of enthusiasm. “Oh, I just have an eye for small golden things.”
Later, when Bilbo has folded his burgundy rob and put it aside, he finds himself on a borrowed broomstick hovering high above the Quidditch pitch in his shirt and waistcoat. He realizes that Gandalf likely seeing his wish come true, though how the old codger would have predicted this, Bilbo does not know.
Thorin glares at him from the other side of the pitch, before turning his eyes back to the sky. Why is he even trying out for seeker, Bilbo wonders. He’d obviously cut a much better figure as a beater or a chaser, what with the bulging muscles his tight sporting clothes so nicely reveal.
Then again, Bilbo also should ask himself why he is trying out for seeker, when he had absolutely no intention of even allowing his feet of the ground.
Before he can feels sorry for himself, he spies the familiar blink of gold from the corner of his eye, and the chase is on.
Air rushes past his ears, an old familiar sound, his heart races, and the broom vibrates as he goes faster and faster. The world rushes by, becomes a blur of narrowing lines, and from the corner of his eye he spies Thorin moving, catching a bludger flying his way – and dodging it without breaking a sweat.
Something glimmers again in the distance, and this time he’s sure.
Thorin slows, seemingly confused - perhaps he’s not seen it yet. Which is good, because he’d be closer, but Bilbo just urges the broom to go a bit faster –
And then the snitch dives.
Thorin sees it this time, and jerks into motion, but Bilbo just flies past him, squinting against the wind. The air plays in his clothes, ruffles his hair, and it feels so great to have his blood pumping again, and the snitch is close, so close... and Thorin is gaining on him.
The other Professor may have the better broom, but there is a reason Gandalf urged Bilbo onto the team; one that was not necessarily related to getting to know his colleagues. Bilbo leans forward ever so slightly, using his weight to remain in the lead. The snitch heads straight for one of the audience towers, not making any show of slowing down –
A grin slowly spreads over the young man’s face.
Like this, just like this, this is it, this is what’s feeling alive is - d the wind in his hair and the rush in his blood and the sense of elation that fills him as he steers his broom straight toward the obstacle, knowing that everybody watching must think he’s insane.
Thorin slows.
Bilbo is ready the moment the snitch changes its trajectory sharply. Instead of flying into the tower, it shifts its course skywards, but that’s too late, because Bilbo’s fingers close around it while he lets himself fall backwards and forces the broom up with his legs.
For a moment he is utterly weightless, thoughtless, timeless. His knees brush the stiff fabric covering the tower, the gold of the snitch cool in his hand.
Then inertia stops. Bilbo is caught head-down within a backward looping, grinning when he should probably be terrified. But he got this. . One twist to the side and he's out of the looping, upright again, and the metal of the snitch cool against his fingers. With a long-forgotten sort of joy (a type he may have considered himself too old for) he steers his broom into a curve and rather gently glides down back to the field, where everybody is staring at him like he just robbed Gringotts with an electric guitar while riding a double-headed unicorn.
Bilbo self-consciously smooths his hair once his feet touch the ground. He’s not entirely certain what to say (after all, if he’s honest with himself, he only wanted to show up to Thorin. He has no desire at all to actually join the team) – but that might be too late now. And there's a spark in him, a voice that demands more, that wants to go up and fly again -
Bofur doesn’t even wait to get off his broom to throw his arms around Bilbo, and only Tauriel coming up from behind them keeps them upright. Several other teachers clap, and Bilbo feels his cheeks reddening.
“We’ve got a seeker, captain,” Bofur proclaims cheerfully.
“And wow, is he good,” Kili chimes in. “Have you played professionally?” He asks Bilbo with sparkling eyes.
Bilbo chuckles. “No, not at all.”
“Never mind, Professor Baggins,” Tauriel announces. “You’re still the most qualified person to play seeker here.”
“Ah, you see –“ Bilbo begins, the rational voice in his head urging him to clear up the misunderstanding. This was a fluke, it insists. This shouldn't happen again.
Before he can try and explains himself Thorin interrupt him. “I quite agree,” he says to Tauriel. “I’m sure the Professor won’t let us down.”
Who is he to disagree with that wonderful drawl? Bilbo’s eyes trace the sharp outline of Thorin’s cheekbones, the faint gleam of sweat that disappears right into the long beautiful dark hair which has been tied back into a tight ponytail.
"Alright," Bilbo mumbles without thinking.
“Great! It’s good to have you back to playing beater, Thorin!” Dwalin joins in. “I mean Ori did do really well, but –“
“… it’s not my game,” adds a small man almost dwarfed by his gear. Dwalin laughs and claps his shoulder.
“Thanks for helping us out, Ori,” Tauriel says, and then turns back to them. “But now we have a team! Fili will be our keeper, Thorin and Dwalin beaters. Bofur, Kili, and I will be chasers, and Professor Baggins our seeker! We might actually win this thing!”
Everybody cheers. Bilbo joins him, though he does wonder just what they are looking to win. This is teachers’ Quidditch, some sort of downtime activity to stretch some muscles and get some air, isn’t it?
Nothing competitive, right?
Right?
Astonishing to think that he ever was that small, Bilbo thinks as he watches the first years walk into the Great Hall, their eyes wide with wonder. Tonight, the Hogwarts dining hall is lit by thousands of candles while the ceiling shows the grand night sky outside. There is some magic to it, still, even after thirty years.
“Quarter for your thoughts,” Bofur whispers from next to him.
“They are all so tiny,” Bilbo returns.
Bofur snorts. “Every year. Then again, you’re not so tall yourself, Professor. Don’t think I missed that growing charm on your chair.”
Bilbo grimaces and resolves to put a wordless shrinking charm on Bofur’s chair in retaliation. They need something to pass the time during the sorting ceremony anyway. It grows long indeed, as the delicious scent of food wafts through the hall and waters their mouths.
Balin continues to read out name after name, and by the time they reach the letter “t” Bilbo is contemplating climbing on the table and declaring a mutiny. From the looks of it, the student population would likely join him. Perhaps some of the teachers, too. At last, the sorting ends as Zhang, Weiman joins Hufflepuff and the loud growl of Bilbo’s stomach is swallowed by the loud cheer.
Gandalf rises to his feet, waves for silence.
“Welcome to Hogwarts and to your new houses!” Gandalf says. “Before the feast begins, I have a few announcements to make.”
Somebody groans. Bilbo resolves to look up how many incidents of murder, attempted revolutions, or plain tumult have so far occurred during the opening feast.
“First, the Forbidden Forest is, unsurprisingly, forbidden. Second, as some of you may have heard, this year the four european Magical Schools have decided to hold a staff Quidditch competition in order to foster cooperation. I hope you will all be there to support your teachers.
And now, without further ado, let the feast begin!”
A dramatic wave of Gandalf’s arm materialises food upon the tables before the old wizard takes his seat.. The students dive for the beef and potatoes like starving men. The staff’s manners aren’t much better. Yet,, Bilbo stares at the food for a long moment, ignoring the growling of his stomach.
This is not a good time to question his own decisions. And he should know better than to expect Gandalf to make sense.
But –
A continent wide Quidditch competition? Played by the teaching staff? Whoever thought fostering academic cooperation through a Quidditch competition - of all things - was a good idea?
Good thing then, Bilbo realises as his heart sinks low in his chest, that he just signed up for it two days ago, isn’t it? .
“I wonder how far we will get,” Bofur comments airily between two bites. “Didn’t think we stood a chance. Our chasers are good, but without a good seeker... Well, now that you’re here, our chances are better. And I hope we’ll beat at least Beauxbaton.”
Maybe the curse on his position will get Bilbo before the first match. Or, he thinks glumly, maybe this is the result of the curse.
So much for that, Bilbo thinks with ill-boding calm. Well then, better enjoy the food while he can.
His first week of teaching passes without any notable incidents, and he manages not to think about Quidditch for a while. He regularly hears about explosions and mishaps from other classes, but Bilbo has roughly fifteen years of teaching experience and it shows. While he may be indeed smaller than most of his students, they listen to him from the moment he challenges a particularly cocky fifth-year to attack him.
When the student throws a shaky petrificus his way, Bilbo merely ducks, hooks his foot behind the student’s ankle and trips him.
He does cushion the student’s fall with a wordless charm, but the message is received. “Lesson one,” Bilbo tells his astonished class. “Do not solely rely on magic.”
Bilbo’s resolution to ignore everything Quidditch related only lasts until the second week, when Tauriel greets the staff on Monday morning by announcing a practice schedule. “The house teams will help us out. That way we all can practice at the same time and help each other out.”
With a small sigh into his teacup, Bilbo wonders whether he will have to sacrifice two or three afternoons. He can live with that, he supposes. Flying is nice, after all.
“We will hold joint practice five days a week, and hold a practice match every Sunday. If you have a conference or need to leave the school on a Sunday, please let me know well in advance. We need every player to attend regularly.”
Bilbo’s grip on the teacup loosens abruptly.
Five – six days a week? This is -
“Quite a lot,” he comments, forcing himself to downplay his shock.
“Well, we want to win this thing,” Fili declares with a wide smirk. “So we better practice hard.”
And they do. As the leaves turn red and yellow, Bilbo ends each day by slipping into a set of old, comfortable robes, grab a broom and walk up to the Quidditch Pitch. While hell initially, at some point he becomes used to sore muscles, bruises, and the rush of flying.
It is also, he soon discovers, a very nice distraction from the students.
While the first years are certainly cute, their attention span at times leaves much to be desired; there is nothing that doesn’t make the fourth years giggle; and the seventh years give Bilbo the impression of never having been assigned required reading before. So while he genuinely likes most of his students, flying after class still provides a very welcome stress relief.
He also connects with his colleagues. Bofur is quickly becoming a fast friend, and Bilbo has shared some interesting conversations with Fili, who is actually very brilliant at charms. They even discuss some possible development in countercharms and joint-teaching in related subjects.
“We could also ask my uncle to assist,” Fili adds while he wipes the sweat from his forehead, as they walk back to the castle with the sun setting behind them.
“Who?” Bilbo asks, watching the long shadows before them, and thinking that soon they’ll be practicing after dark. Winter is near, after all.
“Ahh, Thorin,” Fili chuckles as Bilbo turns to him looking utterly bewildered. “He’s my uncle, and Kili is my brother. I think we’re also distantly related to Balin and Dwalin, but you’d have to ask Balin for the details on that. It’s quite funny that there’s so much family here.”
Bilbo blinks, and nods. “I didn’t know…” he mumbles, and realizes that just how easily challenging Thorin could have worked out quite badly for him.
And then he wonders whether Gandalf has ever heard of the word “nepotism”..
October arrives with stormy winds and grey skies. Flying high above the pitch, Bilbo has to grip his broomstick with both hands to keep steady – and still the rough gusts push him back and forth easily. Not that the Hufflepuff seeker is having a better time. They’re holding a practice match against the yellow-and-black team, and so far the students are in the lead.
Below, the audience cheers – though they’re not quite as numerous this Sunday as the week before. Over his head, the sky darkens further, and Bilbo is unsurprised when the first drops of rain hit him. Of course, his robe isn’t charmed to be water-repellant.
Hopefully the snitch will show up soon. Bilbo reaches up to wipe the water from his face; the rain is coming down harder now.
Another cheer from below – the student chasers have scored again.
Then the Ravenclaw Tower falls surprisingly silent, which Bilbo understands the moment he sees Thorin flying past them. Likely, he is glaring.
However, Fili, Dwalin, Tauriel, and Kili by now all have taken Bilbo aside individually to assure him that no, Thorin’s glares don’t mean anything. It’s just his face – he always looks rather grim. He’s actually a really nice person underneath.
Bilbo shakes his head in lonely resignation. He’s had very little interaction with Thorin, and while he would claim that the man has a way of getting under Bilbo’s skin, it’s not as if Bilbo wasn’t retaliating in kind.
Another blow of wind pushes him aside, and Bilbo ducks close to his broom. Raindrops hit his face hard, and Bofur – flying by – yells at him to “hurry up and end it before everybody drowns!”
His cloak begins to stick to him. Water trickles down his back, his hair clings to his face. And once again Bilbo resolves that this week he will go out and buy decent Quidditch clothes. He’s been in self-denial long enough. If he’s going to be serious about this. It’s time to get equipment before he gets sick.
With the winds buffeting him and his fingers slowly growing cold, Bilbo starts to circle higher and higher. He has to squint against the rain hitting his face, but in this weather the snitch ought to be quite visible. A glimpse to the Hufflepuff seeker shows that he still hovers in the shadow of Gryffindor tower and is watching Bilbo closely.
“… but Professor Durin foils the attack, and now the quaffle has been passed to the other Professor Durin…”
Bilbo sees a glimmer from the corner of his eye. Half-hidden behind the Gryffindor tower, but it’s gold, and Bilbo dives.
“And Professor Baggins is moving – has he seen something?”
Rain and wind hit his face, and his fingers are numb, but he sees the shine of gold again through the rain, and it’s definitely the snitch. The Hufflepuff seeker is closer – or rather was, since he just starts to move right as Bilbo zooms past him, and he’s probably flying too fast for this broom (he really needs to buy better gear).
The wood under his numb fingers shivers; the snitch zigzags ahead; the rain obscures his vision – he narrowly dodges around a fluttering Gryffindor banner, and then the golden ball is there and Bilbo plucks it out of the rainy Scottish sky.
“The snitch has been caught! The game is over! The teachers have won!” the announcer yells, though he does sound more enthusiastic at the prospect of the game being completed rather than at the teachers’ win. Bofur whoops, the Hufflepuff captain flies to Tauriel for a dutiful round of congratulations. Around them, the stands are emptying quickly, and now that Bilbo lands, he realizes that the temperatures dropped sharply since it started raining.
He is utterly soaked, too.
With a shudder he returns the snitch to Tauriel as she collects the equipment and ushers the Hufflepuff team off.
“Warm up!” Fili calls after them. “We’ll sort out the pitch and stuff!” He pushes some loose blond strands back and nods to his teammates. “Best not let them catch a cold. The parents will lynch us.”
“Or sue, if they’re muggles,” Bofur adds cheerfully. Then he looks at Bilbo and his eyes widen. “Mahal’s beard, you’re soaked.”
To his added mortification Bilbo can’t keep his teeth from chattering. “Yes, well…”
“You really need a charmed robe. Weather’s not going to get any warmer here, you know,” Kili helpfully suggests. “And maybe another broom, too. Yours is a bit old, and I know that the folks at Durmstrang won’t be using anything as old as last season.”
“Yes, yes,” Bilbo agrees, and looks up. Dwalin is still flying, chasing the remaining bludgers, while Fili is gearing up to inspect the stands and towers for any incurred damage. Tauriel gathers the returned equipment, and Bilbo wonders if he can just leave –
When a heavy, warm cloak settles around his shoulders.
“Here,” Thorin’s deep voice says right next to his ear. “So you don’t catch a cold between here and the castle.”
Warmth floods Bilbo. The cloak is undeniably well-made, water-repellant, and just everything Bilbo needed. It’s a kind gesture, and yet, why does this feel so much like Thorin criticizing him?
His heart gives a small pang. But as the adrenalin wears off, Bilbo can’t quite feel angry. Thorin isn’t wrong – and perhaps the others are right and he’s just a little gruff – so he huddles deeper into the cloak.
“Thanks,” he says to Thorin with a small smile. “I’ll return it later.”
And maybe it’s his imagination – or more likely a residue of match-induced excitement– but a faint hint of red dusts Thorin’s cheeks.
“You’re welcome,” he returns. “Keep it as long as you need it. And now, go. We’ll tidy up.”
Bilbo ends up dreaming of Thorin. Obviously. This results in him being rather red-faced during breakfast, prompting Tauriel, Bofur, and Fili to wonder whether he may not be coming down with something. Bilbo promises them he’s not.
“That’s good,” Gandalf interrupts, once again only arriving when it suits him. “I just received an owl informing me of the dates for our matches.”
Their surroundings fall rather silent, and the small part of Bilbo that still finds everything here utterly insane starts to scream. But as this part has steadily been shrinking, Bilbo finds it easier to ignore.
“When?” Kili asks enthusiastically. “How is this going to happen?”
Gandalf chuckles. “All schools will be playing against each other once, and the final ranking will be decided by points. So the goals are rather important, too.”
“We won’t let them score,” Dwalin promises darkly. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he’d suspect dark magic or intended sabotage.
“Yes, that would be good,” Gandalf encourages. “Well, we’ll be facing Beauxbaton in early December, and then Koldovstoretz in late Febuary. The final match will be in mid-May against Durmstrang.”
Bilbo swallows. Playing against the student teams is one thing, but against other teachers from other schools in another. They now have dates and names and that makes this rather more real than he is comfortable with.
“We’ll win this, Gandalf!” Fili promises cheerfully. “We’ll do!”
Bilbo isn’t quite so certain.
The flying instructor at Beauxbatons used to play Quidditch professionally; he also thinks Durmstrang may have at least two or three former players on their staff. This is definitely not going to be easy.
The announcement prompts Tauriel to train them even harder. They now regularly practice their flying after dark, in the rain, even during the first snowfalls of the year. Bilbo’s bones ache and even Thorin expresses some complaints when they limp back to the castle after another hard bout of practice.
“I’m not sure if I’ll actually live to see that game,” Bilbo grumbles. “Not if Tauriel kills us all before.”
Thorin actually snorts. “I’m pretty sure she’ll bring you back just to play them in that case.”
Bilbo shudders. “What a scary thought.”
“Gandalf would likely help,” Thorin helpfully adds, and this time does not hide the small grin playing on his face. It transforms him, Bilbo finds, and the spark in those blue eyes makes his heart skip a beat.
“He would, wouldn’t he.” Bilbo merely shakes his head. The rivalry between Hogwarts and Beauxbaton is long-standing and almost a tradition in its own right. To add fuel to the fire, it surfaced that Tauriel used to teach at Beauxbaton, before Gandalf offered her a position at Hogwarts.
“How do you know him?” Thorin asks out of the blue and draws Bilbo out of his thoughts.
“Gandalf?” Bilbo returns and on Thorin’s nod continues. “He actually used to be a good friend of my mother’s. Well, he was around a lot, and then I went to Hogwarts.” He shrugs. “I suppose we never truly lost touch.”
Especially as Gandalf never lost his habit of showing up out of the blue. Each and every time, it ended with Bilbo doing something he had not planned to, if not altogether refused. Maybe this was also a sort of tradition...
“How did you get to know him?” Bilbo asks Thorin.
The other man stiffens, and Bilbo realizes belatedly that it may not have been the wisest of questions. If he has pegged things right, Thorin is roughly eight years his senior – which means he was still at school during the height of the second wizarding war, while Bilbo was happily hidden away at the family estate.
“The war,” Thorin offers with a small sigh. “My family … lost everything. Gandalf offered us a way out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Thorin shrugs. “It’s all a long time in the past now.”
Not that long, Bilbo thinks.
“And we got out alright in the end. Settled in England and did rather well for ourselves,” Thorin adds. “My father used to insist we needed to go back to our homeland. Maybe one day we will. But for now this is home, I suppose.”
Bilbo swallows, not quite certain what to say. His own life experience so far has been quite different – despite all the places he has seen, the knowledge he has collected, and the experiences he gained, it can’t possibly amount to anything Thorin has been through. “I think Gandalf has that habit of bringing people to places they didn’t know they needed to be.”
Thorin smiles at his attempt at levity. “Would you agree?”
Bilbo shrugs. “I still don’t know why I signed that contract, but I can’t say I’m regretting it.”