Sylas raised an eyebrow at the Hobbit's official tone. It felt more like an interrogation than a greeting.
"Hello," he said politely. "May I ask who you are?"
"I am Robin Smallburrow, Sheriff of Michel Delving."
Sylas was a little taken aback. He hadn't expected to meet a Hobbit police officer.
"A pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Robin. My name is Sylas. I've just come from Hobbiton and plan to travel around the Shire for a while."
Robin's eyes widened. "Wait, you're that Wizard? Sylas the Wizard?"
Sylas blinked. "You've heard of me?"
"Ahem, well, yes," the Sheriff said, adjusting his collar. "News of a Wizard appearing in Hobbiton has spread across the entire Shire. I didn't expect you to visit Michel Delving so soon."
Now recognizing Sylas's identity, Robin's tone softened considerably. The initial suspicion melted away, replaced with warmth and curiosity.
"Welcome to Michel Delving," he said, gesturing with pride. "Let me show you to the best inn in town."
Under the Sheriff's guidance, Sylas was soon led to the local inn—The Bird and Baby.
Aside from its unusual name, the inn had another challenge: its ceiling was quite low. Sylas had to duck as he walked through the door, and standing upright meant bumping his head more often than not.
The innkeeper, recognizing the problem, had two small Hobbit beds pushed together to create a makeshift bed just long enough for Sylas to stretch his legs.
As he was settling in, a familiar blue glow appeared before his eyes.
[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location detected – The Shire – Michel Delving. Would you like to sign in?]
Sylas lit up with excitement.
"Yes, sign in!" he said aloud, forgetting for a moment where he was.
[Sign-in successful! Congratulations. You have obtained the Hogwarts first-year Charms textbook: Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1]
A translucent spellbook shimmered into existence before him, floating gently in the air. Sylas reached out with wonder.
The book obeyed his will, flipping open as he thought of turning the pages. He dove in immediately, eager to learn.
The content was simple but thrilling. It contained five foundational spells taught to first-year students at Hogwarts: Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Incendio, Alohomora, and Reparo. None of them were combat spells, but that didn't matter.
For Sylas, this was his first true step into real magic.
Until now, he had been relying purely on raw magical force. Lifting objects and manipulating them with pure energy was difficult and exhausting. It required intense focus. If he lost concentration, the effect would collapse immediately.
It was effective, but unstable. During battle, this kind of control left him vulnerable. While focusing entirely on levitating a cleaver, he couldn't dodge or defend himself.
Spells, however, were different. They were structured, balanced. Once cast successfully, they remained active with only minimal magical effort to maintain them. It was like placing energy into a magical lock, the spell held steady without requiring constant attention.
Sylas couldn't help but feel excited. This was the breakthrough he had been waiting for.
He eagerly flipped to the first spell in the book.
Lumos.
The wand-lighting charm. Basic, yet symbolic. A light in the dark.
He read carefully, memorizing the wand movement, pronunciation, magical theory, and intent required. Even without a wand, he was determined to try.
Standing up, he extended his hand and mimicked the wand motion as best he could.
"Lumos!"
Nothing happened.
Sylas wasn't disappointed. On the contrary, he felt encouraged.
After all, casting any spell without a wand, no matter how simple, was already considered an advanced magical technique. Wandless casting was something only a handful of highly trained or naturally gifted wizards could achieve. Most witches and wizards couldn't even perform nonverbal magic, let alone wandless.
In the magical world, a wizard without their wand was often barely more dangerous than a Muggle.
Yet Sylas, through sheer perseverance, was managing it.
He tried again and again, refusing to give up. At last, a tiny spark flickered at the tip of his index finger, no brighter than a firefly, and then fizzled out.
But that fleeting moment of light was enough to send a thrill through him. He grinned.
"Lumos!"
Motivated by that sliver of success, he tried again. This time, a soft, white glow appeared at the tip of his finger. It flickered like candlelight, casting warm illumination over his delighted expression.
...
The next day, Sheriff Robin arrived at the inn with an enthusiastic invitation.
He wanted to personally show Sylas the sights of Michel Delving.
Their first stop was the Town Hole, the modest headquarters of the Shire's regional administration. There, Sylas was introduced to the Mayor of the Shire, who welcomed him with polite curiosity and offered him tea, biscuits, and an enthusiastic handshake.
Government in the Shire was unlike anything in the outside world. Loose, peaceful, and grounded in tradition, it operated more as a series of communal agreements than rigid laws. Each town or village mostly governed itself, and Hobbits contributed to society out of habit and goodwill rather than enforcement.
The Mayor's role was mostly ceremonial, he was responsible for organizing feasts, managing the post office, and ensuring public order. Elections were held every seven years, though few Hobbits took them too seriously.
After their visit to the Town Hole, Sheriff Robin guided Sylas to a local landmark known as the Mathom-house.
"This," Robin said proudly, "is the Shire's own museum."
Sylas raised an eyebrow. "Mathom?"
"In our tongue, that means 'useless thing,'" Robin explained cheerfully. "The Mathom-house is where we keep items too valuable to throw away, but too impractical to use. Old heirlooms, curiosities, and historical odds and ends."
Sylas was expecting shelves of dusty teacups and mismatched buttons.
Instead, he was stunned.
Though there were certainly relics of Hobbit history, ancient pipes, tattered ledgers, faded letters, there were also weapons. Real ones. Longbows, spears, steel-tipped arrows, axes, swords, pieces of armor. Some shone with age-old polish; others were marked with strange patterns.
He wandered among the exhibits, more and more intrigued.
Finally, he stopped before a longbow mounted on the wall.
The bow and arrow before him were unlike anything Sylas had seen.
Fashioned from an unknown wood with a warm amber hue, the bow gleamed like polished metal, yet retained a surprising flexibility. Elegant floral carvings curled along its limbs, delicate, precise, unmistakably Elven.
"That one," said Sheriff Robin, noticing Sylas's fascination, "was said to belong to an Elf. No one remembers exactly when or how it came here… but it's been part of the Mathom-house collection for generations."
Sylas's eyebrows lifted.
He hadn't expected to find an actual Elven bow in a Hobbit museum of forgotten odds and ends.
And there was more.
Sheriff Robin continued the tour, leading him to a row of items displayed beneath soft lanternlight. There were axes with stone heads and Dwarven patterns etched into their handles, breastplates of dark metal engraved with runes, and small Hobbit-sized shields that bore deep dents and blade marks.
"These," Robin explained, "were forged by Dwarves. And see the size? Tailored for Hobbit warriors during older times, when we didn't always live in peace."
Sylas was silent, eyes drifting over the worn armor.
It was hard to imagine the peaceful, cheerful Hobbits of today donning helmets and charging into battle. But the scratches and scars on the old iron spoke volumes.
Eventually, they stopped before a display case where a silver chainmail vest shimmered faintly under the lanternlight.
It was beautifully made, woven from hundreds of tiny silver rings, soft and fluid like fabric, but unmistakably strong.
Sylas could tell instantly: this was no Hobbit-sized relic.
The chainmail vest was long and broad, clearly designed for someone of his own height and build.
"This," Sheriff Robin said with a hint of pride, "was forged by the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. A gift, we think, from a long-forgotten guest. It's said to be resistant to fire and cannot be pierced by any blade. But no Hobbit can wear it, it's far too large, so it's stayed here, gathering dust."
Sylas's eyes didn't leave the chainmail. It was exactly what he needed.
As a Wizard-in-training, he was strong in magic but weak in defense. Something like this would be invaluable protection.
"Sheriff Robin," Sylas said carefully, "I'd like to ask… could this piece be sold?"
The sheriff offered a gentle smile and shook his head.
"Ah, I'm afraid not. The items here, even if they're unused, belong to all of Michel Delving. Public property, you see. If you wanted to take it, well… you'd need the consent of every resident in town."
Sylas frowned slightly, disappointed, but then Robin's tone brightened.
"However," he added with a wink, "we Hobbits are a friendly folk. And if you were to perform some of that magic I keep hearing about, perhaps as entertainment at the town's anniversary feast, I imagine the crowd would be more than happy to grant your request."
"Feast?" Sylas echoed, intrigued.
"Five days from now is Michel Delving's 1,200th anniversary," Robin said proudly. "We're throwing a grand banquet in the Great Hole Hall. Food, music, dancing, every Hobbit in town will be there. And of course, you'd be our honored guest."
Sylas smiled, his mind already spinning with ideas for magical performances.
He had planned to leave the town after signing in with the Hogwarts system, but now, with the chainmail within reach and a feast on the horizon, he decided to stay a little longer.