Chapter Text
Hobbits were not by any means the only people in Middle Earth who would make a party last an entire day and night. But if one was going to attend a day-and-night long party, the Shire was the place to do it. Hobbits didn’t stand on ceremony, when it came to parties.
Once the initial pleasantries had been passed, they were content to enjoy many hours of chaotic revelry. If one wanted to remove oneself for a few moments of quiet reflection, one could generally do so and be relatively sure one would not be disturbed by festive ritual or social obligation.
And so he sat, quietly, at the edge of the party field, and reflected in relative peace.
A soft flump on the chair beside him alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. He looked down at the hobbit beside him – and stared.
Gandalf had encountered a great many hobbits of the years. It was quite hard for any hobbit to have a quality he’d find startling. He’d encountered the tallest and shortest and fattest and bravest and cleverest of hobbits. But he had never, in all the years he’d been visiting the Shire, laid eyes on a hobbit quite so impressively sticky.
The little hobbit sitting on the chair next to him, swinging his legs as if he hadn’t a care in the world, was positively filthy with jam and buttercream icing. He had jam in his hair and on his ears. He had buttercream smeared on his knees. His dæmon, perched upon the back of the chair in the shape of a squirrel, had jam in her tail. And he was looking up at Gandalf with bright-eyed curiosity, either oblivious to or – more likely – not caring about the jam dripping off his chin onto his lap.
Gandalf found himself trapped between disgust, amusement, and awe. It was mesmerising. He couldn’t take his eyes away. He said, “good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” said the little hobbit. Taking his hands from his lap, he began to lick the – somewhat fluffy – jam from his palms. “I’m Peregrin Took,” he said between licks. “How old are you?”
“How old am I?” said Gandalf.
The hobbit stuck his whole hand into his mouth and sucked. “Yes,” squeaked his dæmon, flitting into a robin.
“Well,” said Gandalf. “How old do you think I am?”
Peregrin sucked thoughtfully. In his lap, his dæmon changed her shape several more times before electing to be a large, shiny beetle. He took his hand from his mouth and said, “at least a hundred and twelve.”
“Is that so?” said Gandalf.
“Yes,” said Peregrin Took.
“Then I must be at least as old as that,” said Gandalf, and the little hobbit nodded as if that was precisely what he’d expected to hear. “May I ask you a question?”
“Yes,” said Peregrin.
Gandalf leaned a little closer, and said, “how did you get so sticky?”
Peregrin looked over his shoulder, in the direction of the party and authority. He beckoned Gandalf still closer with one wet, jammy hand. He said, “cake.”
“Did you,” said Gandalf, “bathe in the cake?” Very sagely, Peregrin nodded. “I see.”
Peregrin gave his hands one last lick and then, satisfied with their highly dubious state of cleanliness, he stood up on his chair, reached out, and planted one slippery hand firmly upon Gandalf’s beard.
As a rule, he was fond of infants. They were rather like soft, hairless little monkeys and often charming. He was fonder still of children old enough to talk with properly, who by and large were fascinating conversationalists. He found the stage in between, children old enough to walk and talk but not yet old enough to understand that they shouldn’t bathe in cake and then put their sticky fingers into a wizard’s beard, in turns tedious, frustrating, and alarming.
Gently, he extricated Peregrin’s hand from his beard. Peregrin put it straight back. Gandalf removed it again, this time saying, “no.”
Peregrin sat back down in his chair with a jolt. His dæmon, now in the shape of a rat, began to diligently lick the jam off his ear. He said, “why d’you have a beard?”
“Because I do,” said Gandalf. He dug about in his pocket, and produced a piece of the hard treacle toffee he kept for such occasions. “Here,” he said, handing it to the little hobbit.
Peregrin looked at the toffee. He looked up at Gandalf, his eyes wide and open with adoration. It was the look of one who had fallen in love at first sight. The look of one who had discovered the fountain of youth. The look of a tiny hobbit who was thinking, I have found a magical, possibly infinitely replenishing, source of treacle toffee.
“Eat up, there’s a good lad,” said Gandalf. He tousled the boy’s hair and hastily got up.
He thought – dearly hoped – he had managed to lose the little hobbit in the crowd of other, larger hobbits. He had just settled himself down at a table with a cup of tea when beside him there was a soft fumbling. Onto the table hopped a pigeon-shaped dæmon. A moment later there was her hobbit. He rested his chin on the table top and gazed up at Gandalf with wonder.
His mouth, of course, was effectively gummed shut. Hard toffee tended to have that affect on little mouths. It was a very effective strategy for quieting young dwarves and human children; somewhat less effective with young hobbits, who were sometimes canny enough to recognise that they had two mouths to talk with.
“Are you a real wizard?” squeaked Peregrin’s dæmon.
“Yes I am,” said Gandalf, stirring his tea.
Peregrin raised his head from the tablecloth. With some considerable effort, he swallowed the toffee. He said, “can you turn my sister ‘Vinca into a frog?”
“Please,” said his dæmon to him.
“Please,” he added.
“And why should I do that?” said Gandalf.
“I think it would be very funny,” said Peregrin, with the air of one who has given much thought to a problem. “And, she already looks like a frog, so it wouldn’t be hard.” His dæmon, as if in demonstration, turned into a frog.
Gandalf set down his spoon. “Young Master Took,” he said. “If I were to have the ability to turn persons into frogs – which I may or may not possess – then I am sure you’ll appreciate that, naturally, I would only use said ability against evildoers. To do otherwise would be a terrible abuse of my wizardly powers, not to mention wasteful. Do you understand?”
Peregrin nodded. Then he said, “’Vinca’s evil.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Gandalf.
“She is,” said Peregrin. “An evildoer. Please turn her into a frog, thank you, sir.”
“Master Took,” said Gandalf, laying a hand on the less sticky of the little boy’s shoulders, “I shall not, under any circumstances, turn your sister into a frog. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Peregrin. He laid his chin upon the table again. “May I have another toffee?”
“Please,” hissed his dæmon, now a snake.
“May I have another toffee, please,” said Peregrin.
“No,” said Gandalf. He sipped his tea.
His dæmon changed into a rabbit, pricked up her ears, and said, “why not?”
“Because I think you’re both sticky enough to be getting on with,” said Gandalf.
“Ah,” said Peregrin. “I understand.”
Gandalf attended to his tea, which he had been looking forward to enjoying. It was possible that if studiously ignored, the little hobbit would realise that no toffees or magic were forthcoming, and leave. And indeed, there passed a refreshingly quiet few moments.
He felt a tugging at his robe. Looking down, he saw a sticky little arm buried to the elbow in his pocket. He met Peregrin’s eyes, and said nothing. Peregrin stared back, not the slightly hint of guilt evident in his expression. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. Clasped in it were at least half a dozen treacle toffees.
“Now, you put those back,” said Gandalf.
Peregrin looked at the toffees. He looked at Gandalf. Eye contact firmly maintained, he shoved the whole gluey handful into his mouth and sat with proudly bulging cheeks.
Most young hobbits, in Gandalf’s experience, were at least a little afraid of him. Even those who didn’t understand who he was found his height intimidating and a number had confessed to being frightened of his hat. He couldn’t help but be impressed by this one’s nerve. He was a touch curious to see what he meant to do next.
Peregrin stuck his hand back into Gandalf’s pocket. “Don’t you dare,” said Gandalf. Peregrin merely worked his hand deeper – and very slowly, drew out Gandalf’s pipe.
“Put that back,” said Gandalf. Peregrin looked at the pipe in his hand. He looked at Gandalf. He chewed noisily upon his mouthful of toffee. “Put. It. Back,” said Gandalf in dark tones.
Peregrin put the end of the pipe into his sticky mouth and lounged back in his chair.
“Take it out of your mouth,” said Gandalf. Peregrin did nothing of the sort. His dæmon was watching him with bright crow-eyes and saying nothing to dissuade him from his current course of action.
Gandalf had heard it said that a rapidly-changing dæmon indicated a bright and inquiring mind. In this instance, the old adage was proving to be either entirely correct or utterly false. He couldn’t say.
He took ahold of his pipe and tried to lever it out of the boy’s grip. Unfortunately the stickiness of Peregrin’s little fingers was giving him something of an advantage. He pulled the pipe up and away but the boy stood up on his chair and held on tight.
“Let go,” said Gandalf.
Peregrin shook his head and did his best to grin around the toffee.
“Let go, or I shall turn you into a frog,” said Gandalf. The little hobbit’s eyes lit up in a manner that left not doubt that there was nothing he wanted more than to experience life as an amphibian.
With a good yank, he got his pipe out of Peregrin’s sticky grip, but as he went to put it safely into his other pocket the little hobbit climbed fully into his lap and made another grab for it. “I mean it!” said Gandalf, holding it out of his reach. “Frog!”
“Frog!” said Peregrin’s dæmon as he squirmed stickily and jam-scented in Gandalf’s lap. She changed into a monkey and rolled about on the table, howling with laughter.
It was then that with a cry of, “hey!” someone came to his rescue.
Another, somewhat larger, hobbit child dragged Peregrin off him and held him squirming, his arms and legs wheeling through the air like the limbs of an upturned tortoise. A beagle-shaped dæmon trotted about the older boy’s feet, with the soft, blurred quality of the unsettled. Gandalf took in the boy’s Tookish nose and thought, older brother.
“Is my cousin bothering you?” said the older boy, laughing, and Gandalf revised his opinion. To Peregrin he said, “what have you got in your mouth?”
“Mmrphphrgh,” said Peregrin.
“Toffee,” said his dæmon.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said the older boy, struggling to keep a hold of his little cousin. “What’s he been getting up to this time?”
“Bathing in cake, apparently,” said Gandalf.
“He does that,” said the older boy. He gave his cousin a shake. “You mustn’t bother Gandalf. He’s a wizard. You’re lucky I don’t tell your mother.”
“And where might I find his mother?” inquired Gandalf.
“Oh,” said the older boy airily. “She’s around somewhere.”
“I should rather like a word with her,” said Gandalf. “Your cousin has been pickpocketing me, young Master Took, not to mention –”
“Brandybuck,” said the older boy.
“Pardon me?” said Gandalf.
“I’m a young Master Brandybuck, not a Master Took,” said the boy. He hefted his cousin, and said to him, “shall I tell Gandalf whose son you are?”
Peregrin’s eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically.
“I think I shall,” said Master Brandybuck. “I’m sure your father would be delighted to hear about this.”
“Mmmph,” said Peregrin, working his mouth around the toffee as if contemplating spitting it out.
Gandalf pointed at his mouth. “Don’t you dare waste that toffee, young master hobbit.”
“Hm,” said Peregrin in protest.
“Now,” said Gandalf. “Who are his parents?” Though he had been doing some hobbit arithmetic, and he thought perhaps he could guess.
Master Brandybuck looked at his little cousin. His cousin looked back at him balefully. “This,” he said, giving the boy a shake, “is Paladin Took’s only son, and he’s going indoors.” He slung the little boy over his shoulder and saying, “enjoy the party. Good afternoon,” carted him squirming away.
With a sigh, Gandalf took up his tea. “Hobbits,” he remarked to himself.