The dittany had finally matured.
Robert stood quietly in the small clearing behind George Baggins' house, gazing at the two tall, vibrant dittany plants swaying gently in the breeze. Their emerald-green leaves shimmered faintly with magical vitality, and a subtle herbal fragrance lingered in the air. Any wizard familiar with healing potions would have treated them with reverence.
Robert felt none.
Without hesitation, he drew his cleaver and stepped forward. Two clean, decisive strokes severed the plants at the roots. The leaves wilted instantly, their magic already surrendering to his will.
He wasted no time.
Setting up a sturdy iron pot over a controlled flame, Robert chopped the dittany into evenly sized pieces and tossed them inside. He added clean water and adjusted the heat carefully, allowing the mixture to steam and boil. The scent grew richer as the magical essence seeped into the liquid, filling the air with a warm, invigorating aroma.
Robert watched the pot with unwavering focus.
Once the leaves had completely broken down, he extinguished the fire and poured the contents through a fine straining cloth. The residue was discarded, leaving behind a clear green liquid that shimmered faintly with restorative magic. He returned the liquid to the pot and resumed heating it, slowly evaporating the excess moisture.
Time passed in silence.
Eventually, the liquid thickened into a dense, glossy green paste that clung stubbornly to the bottom of the pot. Robert nodded in satisfaction.
Essence of Dittany.
This potion was a staple in wizarding households—one of the few healing concoctions simple enough to be brewed without a wand. Yet despite its simplicity, its effects were nothing short of miraculous. It could mend broken skin and shattered flesh, healing most injuries almost instantly, so long as they were not inflicted by the Dark Arts.
Robert carefully transferred the finished paste into two jars, one large and one small. He sealed them tightly, ensuring none of the precious potion would be wasted.
The larger jar he kept for himself.
The smaller one, he carried into the house.
George Baggins was seated at the table, enjoying a late afternoon snack when Robert placed the jar in front of him. George blinked, peering at it with curiosity.
"Robert, what's this?" he asked.
"A potion I made," Robert replied calmly. "It heals wounds. I want you to keep it."
George lifted the jar, examining the thick green paste inside. His eyes widened slightly. "You're giving this to me?"
"Yes. Consider it a thank-you gift—for letting me stay here and for your hospitality these past few days."
George hesitated. "I appreciate it, but… I don't know what it does."
Robert didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into a small cage near the wall and gently removed a mouse. George stiffened.
"Robert…?"
With a small knife, Robert made a shallow cut along the mouse's side. Blood welled up instantly, and the mouse squeaked in pain.
George shot to his feet. The way he stared at Robert was as though he were looking at a dark wizard performing forbidden rituals.
But before he could speak, Robert dipped a finger into the jar and applied a tiny amount of the green paste to the wound.
The effect was immediate.
The bleeding stopped. The torn flesh knit together before George's eyes, healing at a speed so fast it bordered on the unbelievable. Within seconds, the mouse was whole again, scurrying about as if nothing had happened.
George froze.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
"This… this is impossible," he finally whispered.
Robert returned the mouse to its cage and wiped his hands. "It's just a potion."
George stared down at the jar, suddenly feeling its weight. His hands trembled slightly.
"Robert… this is far too valuable. I can't accept something like this."
Robert smiled faintly and pushed the jar back toward him. "Don't worry. Brewing it isn't difficult for me. Think of it as insurance—for emergencies."
George swallowed hard. He was no fool. A medicine capable of healing wounds in seconds would fetch a fortune anywhere in Middle-earth.
But seeing the sincerity in Robert's eyes, he finally nodded.
"Then… thank you."
From that day on, the bond between them grew noticeably closer.
With Essence of Dittany secured, Robert gained an extra layer of safety. And with safety came boldness.
Whenever he had free time, Robert ventured toward the Old Forest.
He never went too deep—at least not at first. He lingered along the forest's edge, darting in to collect branches before retreating swiftly. The trees reacted violently every time, as if offended by his presence.
What kept Robert returning was the progress.
Each encounter sharpened his instincts. His magical control improved rapidly, honed through constant combat. He tested every spell he knew from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, Jinxes for the Jaded, and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.
The results were undeniable.
Though injuries were unavoidable, Essence of Dittany allowed him to recover by the next day, ready to challenge the forest again. To Robert, the Old Forest became nothing more than a dangerous training ground—a beginner's area filled with hostile mobs.
He failed to notice one crucial detail.
The trees remembered.
Their resentment grew with every skirmish.
After two months in Bree—the longest he had stayed anywhere besides Hobbiton—Robert decided it was time.
Based on proximity alone, the Old Forest was the most suitable location for a system sign-in. Moreover, he had already gathered dozens of wood samples: ash, poplar, cypress, holly, redwood, and more. Though many were suitable for wand-making, none resonated with him. Each carried a faint resistance, rejecting his magic.
He needed better material.
And that meant going deeper.
After informing George and bidding him farewell, Robert crossed the High Hedge and entered the Old Forest once more.
Immediately, he sensed something was wrong.
The forest was silent.
No rustling branches. No shifting roots. No sudden attacks.
Anomaly meant danger.
Robert remained alert but pressed on. The system still did not respond, leaving him uncertain whether the forest counted as a valid sign-in location—or whether he needed to reach its heart.
Then, a path appeared.
It was narrow and unnaturally clear, as if freshly carved. Trees on both sides leaned away, forming a passage that had not existed before.
Robert's grip tightened on his wand.
As he stepped onto the path, the trees behind him surged together, sealing his escape. Roots burst from the ground, branches whipped through the air, and the forest erupted in coordinated fury.
"Protego!"
The shield charm flared to life just as thick limbs slammed into it.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
Roots froze mid-motion.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Several trees stiffened, locked in place.
Robert fought with precision, his experience showing. Yet more trees arrived, herding him forward. Every retreat was blocked—except the path leading deeper inside.
He understood their intent.
They were driving him inward.
Robert ran.
Behind him, the path vanished, reclaimed by the forest as though it had never existed.
Night fell as he ran, mist thickening until moonlight vanished completely. He cast Lumos, its glow barely piercing the gloom.
At last, he burst from the forest into a wide valley.
Low shrubs replaced towering trees. A river flowed quietly through the grassland, and beside it stood something ancient.
A colossal Old Willow.
It towered over everything, its branches stretching like skeletal arms. The twisted trunk was riddled with deep crevices resembling a grinning mouth, emitting a slow, ominous creak.
The heart of the Old Forest had revealed itself.
And it was watching him.
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