In the quiet shadows of Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy sat hunched over a stack of ancient tomes, his wand in one hand, a quill in the other, and a scowl stretched tightly across his pale face.
Becoming an Animagus, he had decided, would be the ultimate flex. Potter and his little gang had their patronuses and their bravery and their ridiculous Gryffindor pride—but Draco? He’d master something few wizards dared. He’d become something powerful. Regal. Dangerous.
“A dragon,” he muttered, eyes glittering. “Or a hawk. Something with presence.”
It took months of grueling work, secret practice, and one ill-advised attempt involving a bezoar and a bad reaction to dandelion root. But finally, on a rain-soaked Tuesday night, he stood in the drawing room, chest heaving with anticipation. He closed his eyes, concentrated, and whispered the spell.
The transformation hit him like a jolt.
And then he was… small. Low to the ground. Covered in pale fur.
He skittered across the cold marble floor and caught sight of his reflection in the leg of a polished silver tea tray.
A ferret.
He let out a squeaky noise of pure horror.
A ferret.
Draco spent five full minutes rolling in frantic circles, tiny paws batting at nothing, until he managed to change back. He collapsed onto the floor, panting, hair a mess, pride in tatters.
The worst part? He knew what everyone would say.
Moody’s voice echoed in his head—“Think I’ll turn you into a nice, fluffy ferret...”
“Unacceptable,” Draco muttered, yanking a blanket off a chair to hide under. “This is an insult. A travesty. A cosmic joke.”
The next day, he charmed his mirror to never show ferrets again and bribed the house elves not to speak of the incident. But deep down, he knew the truth.
He was a ferret.
And it was so on-brand it made him sick.
Still, weeks later, as he slinked unseen through Hogwarts’ corridors, eavesdropping and stealing pastries, he begrudgingly admitted the form was useful.
Even if it was absolutely, offensively humiliating.
Especially the squeaking.