Chapter Text
Not everyone can speak Parseltongue. Not everyone can conjure magic with a mere thought. Not everyone can master every form of magic known to wizardkind. And, not everyone can become an Animagus.
This was unacceptable.
Tom Riddle, the brightest student Hogwarts had ever seen, the heir of Slytherin, the wizard destined for greatness, should have been able to achieve this "simple" feat. To transform into another creature, to wield the intellect of a wizard within the form of a beast it was a power he deserved. No, it was a power he needed.
"Amato Animo Animato Animagus" Tom incanted, his voice dripping with confidence. He spoke the words as if he were commanding magic itself, bending it to his will without regard for rhyme or reason. He believed in his own greatness, and so he believed magic would follow.
He hadn’t given much thought to what form he might take. Why would he? Tom Riddle was destined for something magnificent a dragon, perhaps, or a Thestral. Even a serpent, a regal basilisk, would have been fitting for the heir of Slytherin.
But as the magic coursed through him, something felt… off. Instead of growing larger, more powerful, and more imposing, he felt himself shrinking. His body compacted, his limbs shortening, his vision narrowing.
'A small creature? ' He thought, momentarily puzzled. Perhaps a snake, after all. A young basilisk, sleek and deadly, would still be a worthy form.
But the transformation didn’t stop there. His body continued to shift, his limbs becoming stubby, his hands—no, his paws growing webbed. His vision adjusted, and he caught a glimpse of black fur.
His heart sank.
When the transformation was complete, Tom looked down at himself. Webbed feet. Black, glossy fur. A long, snout-like nose.
He was a Niffler.
If his furred face could have paled, it would have been as white as an Inferius. A Niffler. A small, ridiculous creature known for its obsession with shiny objects. This was not greatness. This was not power. This was… an insult!
Tom’s mind raced. How could this have happened? He had willed himself to be something magnificent, something worthy of his legacy. And yet, here he was, a creature more suited to pilfering galleons from unsuspecting wizards than ruling over them.
He tried to transform back, to undo the spell, but his magic felt… different. Unfamiliar. It was as if the Niffler form had its own instincts, its own desires. He could feel an almost irresistible pull toward anything shiny. The gilded frame of a nearby mirror caught his eye, and before he could stop himself, he was scurrying toward it, his little paws reaching out to grasp the gleaming edges.
No. This was unacceptable. Tom Riddle would not be controlled by the instincts of a common beast. He forced himself to focus, to push past the Niffler’s impulses and reclaim his magic.
It took every ounce of his willpower, but eventually, he managed to reverse the transformation. As he stood there, human once more, his chest heaving with exertion, he glared at the mirror, as if it were to blame for this indignity.
But even as he stewed in his frustration, a thought occurred to him. Perhaps this wasn’t a failure. Perhaps it was a test. After all, even in this ridiculous form, he had retained his intellect, his magic. If he could master this transformation, if he could bend even the instincts of a Niffler to his will, then what couldn’t he do?
A slow, calculating smile spread across his face. Tom Riddle didn’t fail. He adapted. He overcame. And if that meant learning to wield the power of a Niffler, then so be it.
After all, even a Niffler could be dangerous in the right hands. And Tom Riddle’s hands human or otherwise were always dangerous.