Originally published in Miruvor, Hilary term 2000.
"Potter," humphed the old man in the corner, between puffs of his pipe. "Seems to be all I hear about, these days. Magic isn't what it was in my day."
"Well," offered Bilbo, buttering another slice of toast, "they are children's books, after all. You must remember that your main role in 'The Hobbit' seems to be fireworks. You didn't get to do any big magic until 'Lord of the Rings', and there isn't much, even in that."
"That," observed Gandalf darkly, "is precisely my point. Even the 'fireworks', as you so kindly put it, were only called up with magic as a last resort. Tolkien knew what magic was for. It was always impressive, and there was always a hidden cost. These new writers just don't have the same standards - Rowling's the worst of them, though, with her little charms for doing trivial jobs, and everything achieved by waving a wand and shouting in dog-latin."
"Is it me," asked Frodo through a mouthful of cold pizza, "or is he getting more like the four Yorkshiremen sketch all the time?"
"The what, dear boy?" asked Bilbo, who didn't watch TV, even for reruns of classic series.
"The four Yorkshiremen," repeated Frodo. "It's a Monty Python sketch, with four old men sitting around complaining about how much tougher it was to get anything done in their day, and how everyone gets it easy nowadays."
"Boy's getting the idea," put in the Wizard, making one of his smoke-rings turn into a blue figure-eight. "Potter just waves a bit of a stick and shouts a word or two, and hey presto! Magic."
"Not at all," muttered Frodo, "like a certain someone opening the gates of Moria."
"I heard that, young Frodo. I had to suffer to get those doors open, I'll have you know. And anyway, that was magic that had already been emplaced. All I had to do was activate it. Might not even have been magic, except for the password bit - plenty of mechanical ways to open those doors, and Dwarves are cunning buggers, you know."
"Actually," Bilbo crunched the last mouthful of his toast whilst simultaneously spreading honey on the next slice, "I thought a lot of the Dwarves-as-engineers stuff came later. I mean, our lot were good at tunnels and armour, I'll grant you that, but is there one place in the books where it mentions machines? Eh?" He prodded Frodo, who went over and put more bread into the toaster.
"Just because it wasn't mentioned, that doesn't mean it didn't happen," retorted Gandalf firmly. "It's never explicitly stated that Sam and Rose had..."
Bilbo interrupted loudly. "It was never explicitly stated that you Wizards had any inherent power, without the rings and the staffs and everything. Didn't Saruman lose all his power when you broke his staff?"
"I thought his staff all left voluntarily, except Wormtongue?" Frodo looked at the expression on Gandalf's face and added "I'll shut up now, shall I?"
"It might be an idea, dear boy," agreed Bilbo. "How's that toast coming along, by-the-bye?"
"Nearly ready, Bilbo."
"The staff was just a metaphor, you tom-fool of a Baggins," began Gandalf, ignoring the interruptions.
"A Wizard's staff has a knob on the..." began Frodo, but Gandalf puffed a truly gigantic smoke-ring at him, and the coughing fit obscured the rest.
"The breaking of his staff," repeated Gandalf, "was just a metaphor for the authority I had been given over him after my return to Middle-Earth from the eastlands. And if nothing else, you must accept that a good solid yew staff is a far more impressive tool that an eight-inch willow twig with a bit of hair in it."
"Well, granted," admitted Bilbo, eying the hefty seven-foot branch in question with some doubt and more caution, "but wouldn't it be even more impressive if you put a few nails through one end and used it as a club? Where's that toast?" he added as an afterthought.
"Coming, Bilbo," replied Frodo, putting the last piece from the twelve-slice toaster into the rack and heading back toward the table.
"I told you," said Gandalf crossly, "The staff is a metaphor. Nothing more." He stopped and stared ferociously at Frodo. "Were you going to start singing again?"
"Absolutely not," lied Frodo, deciding that discretion was unquestionably the better part of valour, at least in this particular case. "I was going to say," he added, thinking fast, "that maybe the wands are a metaphor too?"
"You mean Potter could actually do spells just by shouting at people? Ridiculous idea. That's the problem with people trivialising things - once they've started, some other idiot comes along and makes things even worse. And if that were the case, how come nothing happens when they're practising saying things, eh?" When Frodo had no answer to this, Gandalf added "Ha!", as though that concluded the argument, and then blew another figure-eight smoke-ring.
"If the staff is just a metaphor," observed Bilbo after a moment's quiet, "doesn't that mean that all your magic was done just by waving your arms around? Not wishing to seem picky at all."
Gandalf blew several more impressive smoke-rings, trying to make it look as though he considered the question beneath him, before replying loftily "the staff was a metaphor because it was given to me by the Valar, who were also the source of the power of the five Wizards. I should have thought that was obvious to anyone."
"So what you're saying," concluded Frodo, "is that you didn't actually have any power at all, and might just as well have been a metaphor yourself."
"Pipsqueak!" roared Gandalf, so loudly that Frodo dropped his toast into the sink. "Throw yourself down, next time," he added, largely at random, and stormed out of the room, taking his staff - metaphorical or otherwise - with him. A last smoke-ring remained, hanging in the air like a small thundercloud.
"That was bad mannered of him," remarked Bilbo mildly. "Frodo, dear boy, do you suppose it's time for lunch yet?"
The smoke-ring, unobserved, drifted gently towards the cooker, emitting tiny lightning bolts.