When Dumbledore held up the phone screen for the dwarves to see, that stubborn bunch predictably decided that some wicked foreign wizard had stuffed Gandalf into a little box.
Gandalf, meanwhile, was grinning from ear to ear as he held the phone up. With Skyl coaching him from the side, he waved at them and greeted them, "Hello, everyone. I'm so glad to see you…"
A dwarven warrior snatched the phone away in one swift motion, turning it over and over as he searched. "Where's the keyhole? Don't be afraid, Gandalf—we'll get you out!"
When they couldn't find any keyhole, they raised their hand-axes—and whatever weapons were within reach, like a bench from Bilbo's home—ready to smash the phone into bits. The feast on the table practically recoiled in horror, as if it could, and everyone seemed to want to cover their eyes.
"N-no! Listen to me…" Gandalf had to explain at length before they finally understood what was going on. "In short, this Albus Dumbledore is reliable—someone you can trust. He will certainly help you reclaim the Lonely Mountain."
Even after the call ended, the dwarves remained fascinated by the phone. Thorin in particular looked as if his eyes were shining. "Friend Dumbledore—no, esteemed Wizard Dumbledore—do you happen to have any more of these little things? If you can provide one for each of us, then when we retake the Lonely Mountain and reclaim the treasury, I will pay you in gold worth a hundred times its weight."
It was obvious he'd already realized how much a communication device like that could change a war.
Dumbledore smiled with profound mystery and calmly put the phone away. "Wizard business," he said. "You Muggles should keep your noses out of it."
Everyone sighed in disappointment.
After the meal, the dwarves helped the хозяин clear the table. They were quick with their hands, singing as they worked—cheerful and diligent.
When the last plate had been washed and set to drain, everyone gathered again in the sitting room. Dusk had fallen; Bag End wasn't lit, and the dwarves liked that darkness. It suited exiles, and it felt like an underground mine. Bilbo knew they were about to talk about serious matters. And what serious matters could there be, if not the Lonely Mountain Dumbledore had been going on about all this time?
"About the Lonely Mountain," the dwarves said as they lounged comfortably with pipes in hand and feet propped up, "everyone knows our hardworking forefathers mined and smelted gold there. Day after day, year after year, they piled up coin until it became a sea of gold in vast halls. Yet even that wasn't the greatest treasure of the Lonely Mountain. There was also the legendary Arkenstone—its radiance so dazzling, it was like a star fallen to the earth."
The Lonely Mountain's immeasurable hoard became famous far and wide, and—unsurprisingly—drew the attention of a dragon. The evil worm Smaug attacked the mountain, drove the dwarves out, and took the treasure for himself. That hatred had been running in their blood ever since, leaving them restless by day and by night.
And now, it was the twelve dwarves gathered here—called together by Thorin and heartened by Gandalf—preparing to cross the Misty Mountains and return to their homeland.
It would be difficult beyond doubt: danger at every turn. They would have to overcome harsh wilderness and treacherous terrain, flee the pursuit of orcs who bore them old grudges, and even after reaching the Lonely Mountain, somehow find a way to deal with a dragon. In the days when the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain were numerous and heroes were many, they still fell beneath dragonfire. Now there were only a handful of them—how could they dare claim victory so lightly?
That is what makes an adventure an adventure: knowing it cannot be done, and doing it anyway.
Bilbo didn't even know why he'd ended up in this conversation. Everything that had happened today was too strange, too sudden. A hobbit's small, domestic mind wasn't built to handle a moment like this.
From the dwarves' words, Bilbo learned they had settled in the Blue Mountains to the west, living the life of ordinary folk. But what kind of longing could make them abandon peace—risking their lives to go slay a dragon?
In the pitch-black Bag End, the dwarves' bold boasts kept stoking Bilbo's courage. His small body seemed to swell like a balloon; before long, he was puffing out his chest and belly.
Following Gandalf's instructions, Dumbledore fanned the flames with a smooth tongue. "To defeat a dragon, one needs a great hero. But this land has known peace for too long—the warriors' swords have rusted, axes are used for chopping wood, and shields have been dismantled to make cradles. So we must settle for the next best thing: a burglar. The rarest sort—one in a hundred. In other words, Mr. Baggins."
In the dark, the dwarves' eyes gleamed like a pack of beavers.
Bilbo's face burned scarlet in the darkness. Still, he was pleased to be of use. He nodded with a feigned calm—putting on that "professional veteran burglar" air, as if to say: Leave it to me. I'll have it done in minutes.
Everyone laughed.
Then Thorin said, "Very well. It seems we can set out before dawn. On this journey, some of us—perhaps all of us—may never return, but we have already found the confidence of certain victory…"
His words were cut off by a hobbit's scream.
They thought Bilbo had been shot by an arrow. He dropped onto the floor, twitching uncontrollably.
Dumbledore raised his wand. "Lumos."
The room filled with bright light—bright enough to expose every last detail of Bilbo's terrified, undignified state.
His face was drenched with sweat and tears, his nose running—clearly the talk of "never returning" had frightened him badly. Yet he forced out a stubborn little protest. "I was only struck by lightning. Don't you worry about me."
Sniffling and wailing, Bilbo fled back to the cellar, not knowing how the dwarves would mock him behind his back.
After a while, Dumbledore came looking for him.
"Bilbo, are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Bilbo was an adult hobbit—he couldn't cry like a child whenever he got scared. "When are we leaving? I'll pack my things."
Dumbledore sat beside him. One large, one small, they leaned against a wine barrel. "Don't put too much pressure on yourself. Bilbo, you've never been on an adventure before. Would you allow an old man to nag you a little?"
Bilbo nodded.
"If you truly resist adventure, then you needn't throw yourself into danger just to save face. Gandalf believes you are the right choice because the blood of the Took hero Bullroarer runs in your veins—an oddity among hobbits, one who could defeat orcs and strike off the goblin chieftain Golfimbul's head. He believes you have that courage, and that capability."
Bilbo said nothing.
"In my view, you do have courage. But a lifetime of comfort has worn down your nature. You don't possess the skills to match. So you should give up while you still can." Dumbledore's voice was calm—and cruel, shattering the budding heart of a newborn adventurer.
Bilbo still didn't speak.
Dumbledore patted his shoulder, stood, and prepared to leave. "Thank you for the wonderful meal you prepared for us. I won't forget to remind Thorin to settle the bill in full."
The old wizard started toward the cellar door.
"Wait!" A voice suddenly stopped him—it was the hobbit. "I think I'm very suitable. Didn't they say thirteen is an unlucky number? If you count me, that makes fourteen people. And if you count you too, that's fifteen."
With his back to Bilbo, Dumbledore allowed himself the faint, confident smile of a seasoned educator. By the time he turned around, his face was solemn. "Have you truly made up your mind?"
"Yes! Absolutely, definitely, unquestionably."
"Very well, then. Join us at once. Thorin is signing the employment contract. For those who take part in this adventure, once he becomes King under the Mountain, there will be generous rewards."
In the sitting room, Thorin thumped his chest and declared grandly, "When I reclaim the Lonely Mountain, I will share the wealth our people have gathered through generations with all brave warriors! The Arkenstone shall return to the throne and thus be mine—but every other person will receive one fourteenth of the gold."
Bilbo tugged at Dumbledore's sleeve. "Wizard, one fourteenth of the Lonely Mountain's treasury… how much money is that?"
"A lot," Dumbledore said.
Enough to refurbish Hogwarts from top to bottom and still have a great heap left over to deposit into the school vaults.
Ah, Hogwarts had endured for a thousand years, and keeping it running was no easy task. Life was hard; even a headmaster had to take on side work. If such a fortune came in, the staff salaries could finally rise properly.
The old educator smiled faintly. Slaying a dragon, was it? Did they really think "the strongest wizard of the century" was an empty title? It was time to give these outworld Muggles a little taste of wizardly awe.
To the dwarves and the hobbit, this adventure would change their fate. To Dumbledore, it was simply earning extra money on the side.
As Thorin was about to put pen to the contract, Dumbledore ambled forward with a genial smile. "As for the contract, I have a better suggestion." From his robes he drew a thick stack of parchment, enchanted so that any who broke its terms would pay a price they could not bear. That way, no one could dodge the payment.
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