Work Text:
The transformation happened in a burst of emerald sparks and the smell of damp earth and toasted acorns. Radagast the Brown had intended to cast a protective ward over the Company’s burglar, but a stray bumblebee had flown into his nose at the critical moment. The resulting sneeze redirected the ancient Rhosgobel magic, and where a sensible, forty-five-year-old Hobbit had stood, there was now only a pile of oversized clothes.
Thorin Oakenshield froze, his hand hovering over the hilt of Orcrist. "Radagast... what have you done?"
A tiny, muffled sneeze echoed from beneath the folds of Bilbo’s traveling cloak. The fabric shifted, and a small, curly head poked out from the neck hole.
Bilbo Baggins was no longer a man of the Shire. He was a fauntling, a toddler so small he barely reached a foot in height. His hair, usually a disciplined honey-gold, had exploded into a wild, auburn thicket of tight curls, currently tangled with several yellow primroses and a stray oak leaf. His eyes were enormous, shimmering like blue glass, and his face was so densely packed with freckles it looked as though someone had dusted him with cinnamon.
Perhaps most distracting of all was the tail. It was long, tufted like a lion’s at the end, and it was currently thumping against the dirt with a frantic, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack.
"He's... he's a pebble," Kíli whispered, dropping to his knees. "He's a tiny, freckled pebble."
The baby looked at the circle of looming, bearded giants. He didn't cry. Instead, he let out a sharp, demanding "Hmph!" and reached out his pudgy arms toward the nearest Dwarf.
…….
……………
……..
The realization that they were now traveling with a magical toddler hit the Company like a landslide. While Thorin paced, muttering about schedules and dragon-fire, the "Fathers" of the group stepped forward.
Dori, Gloín, and Bombur formed a protective triangle around the tiny Hobbit.
"Step back, all of you!" Dori commanded, shooing away the younger Dwarves with his hemmed sleeves. "He’s fragile! Look at those ankles, they’re like twigs! He needs a proper swaddle and a nap."
"He needs a snack," Bombur corrected, already rummaging through his pantry pack. "Look at those cheeks. They’re starting to lose their luster. A hungry Hobbit is a dangerous thing, even at this size."
"And he’s cold," Gloín added, thinking of his own son, Gimli, back in the Blue Mountains. He picked up the baby unceremoniously, marveling at how light he was. "His shirt is thin. We need to fashion him something sturdier."
Bilbo, for his part, seemed remarkably okay with being a baby. He nestled into Gloín’s thick beard, his tiny hands coiling into the Dwarf’s braided whiskers. He didn't speak. He just watched them with those vast blue eyes, his tail wagging so hard it nearly knocked Gloín’s pipe from his belt.
…..
…………
……..
By the second day, it became clear that Baby Bilbo was a tactical genius. He quickly realized that if he made a small, pathetic whimpering sound, Dwalin, the fiercest warrior in the Company would crumble.
Dwalin was currently walking with a scowl, but he was holding his arm out stiffly because the toddler had decided that Dwalin’s leather vambrace was the only acceptable place to sit. Bilbo refused to walk. Every time his tiny, furry feet touched the grass, he would lift them back up with a look of profound disgust and reach for the nearest Dwarf.
"I am a killing machine," Dwalin grumbled, though his hand was cupped protectively around Bilbo’s middle. "I am the Scourge of Azanulbizar. I am not a pony."
"Up," Bilbo said. It was his first word of the day.
Dwalin sighed and lifted him higher. Bilbo patted Dwalin’s bald, tattooed head and let out a loopy, toothy grin. The tail wagged a frantic mile-a-minute.
"He's doing it again," Fíli whispered to Kíli. "He's using the 'Eyes'."
"It’s irresistible," Kíli agreed, holding a shiny silver button he had sacrificed to keep the baby entertained. "I’d give him the Arkenstone right now if he asked for it."
……
…………..
……
The feeding schedule was a nightmare. Bilbo ate like a full-grown Dwarf but had the stomach capacity of a walnut, meaning he needed to be fed every forty minutes.
Bombur spent the majority of the trek preparing tiny, Hobbit-sized portions of dried fruit, softened hard-tack, and bits of roasted sausage. Bilbo would sit on Bombur’s stomach during breaks, his tail twitching in anticipation.
"More?" Bilbo asked, pointing at a piece of cheese. That was his second word. He wouldn't say another for fourteen hours.
"He's a quiet one," Balin noted, watching the auburn-haired toddler carefully dismantle a daisy. "Radagast said the magic suppressed his adult mind. He’s all instinct right now. He knows he’s safe, but I guess he hasn't quite found his voice."
"He doesn't need a voice," Thorin grumbled, though he was currently busy carving a small wooden pony out of a piece of firewood. "He has thirteen servants. He merely points, and we provide."
…..
…………
…….
The Sun had begun to dip behind the jagged horizon of the wilderness, casting long, spindly shadows across the camp. What had started as a lighthearted suggestion by Fili and Kili to keep the hyperactive, auburn-haired toddler occupied had quickly spiraled into a tactical disaster.
"Alright, Bilbo!" Kili had cheered, covering his eyes with his large, calloused hands. "You go hide, and we’ll count to one hundred! No peeking!"
The tiny Hobbit had let out a high-pitched giggle, his lion-like tail giving a final, excited thwack against Thorin’s boot before he vanished into the tall grass.
..
"Ready or not, here we come!" Fili shouted, turning around with a grin.
At first, it was a game of easy confidence. The Dwarves strolled around the perimeter, checking behind large boulders and under low-hanging pine branches. They expected to see a tuft of auburn curls or a wagging tail sticking out from behind a log.
"He’s a clever little pebble," Gloin chuckled, peeking into an empty hollow stump. "Probably found a rabbit hole."
But thirty minutes passed. Then an hour.
The casual grins began to fade. The Dwarves’ movements became more frantic. They stopped strolling and started jogging. Dwalin was lifting heavy stones as if Bilbo might be flattened beneath them, and Balin was peering anxiously into the dark canopy of the trees.
"Bilbo?" Thorin called out, his voice losing its regal edge and sharpening into genuine alarm. "Bilbo Baggins! The game is over! Come out now!"
Silence. Only the rustle of the wind and the distant cry of a hawk answered him.
……
Two hours in, the camp was in a state of total mobilization.
"We’ve lost him," Dori wailed, wringing his hands. "He’s barely a foot tall! An owl could have scooped him up! A large fox! Oh, the Thain will have our heads!"
"He doesn't like to walk," Bombur panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "He couldn't have gone far. He must be stuck. Or hurt."
The younger Dwarves were pale with guilt. Kili was frantically searching the same bush for the tenth time, tears pricking his eyes. Thorin stood in the center of the clearing, his face a mask of cold terror. He was the King Under the Mountain, but he felt utterly powerless against the disappearance of one tiny, freckled fauntling.
"Everyone! Form a line!" Thorin roared. "We sweep the forest in a grid! Nobody sleeps until he is found!"
…………
…….
The search party was about to head into the darker thickets when Dwalin suddenly froze. He grunted, a strange expression crossing his face as he felt a rhythmic, scratching sensation near his hip.
"Dwalin? What is it?" Balin asked, his hand on his brother’s arm.
Dwalin didn't answer. He looked down at the massive, deep pocket of his reinforced leather traveling coat. It was a pocket designed to hold whetstones, spare daggers, or heavy iron rations.
Crunch. Crunch. Smacker-smack.
Dwalin slowly reached down, his huge fingers trembling slightly. He unbuttoned the flap of the pocket and peeled it back.
Nested deep inside, sitting atop a bag of dried apricots and a half-eaten wedge of hard cheese, was Bilbo.
The toddler looked up, his face smeared with orange fruit-paste and a few crumbs of travel biscuit stuck to his auburn curls. His huge blue eyes blinked lazily in the sudden light, and his tail gave a slow, sleepy wag against Dwalin's thigh.
"Found me," Bilbo whispered, his voice muffled by a mouthful of apricot.
The collective exhale from the Company was loud enough to startle the ponies.
"He was... he was in your pocket the whole time?" Thorin asked, his voice cracking as he stepped forward, looking like he didn't know whether to laugh or collapse.
"I didn't even feel him climb in," Dwalin muttered, looking down at the tiny thief with a mix of awe and exasperation. "He’s so light... I forgot he’s barely the size of a loaf of bread."
"warm," Bilbo explained, reaching up with a sticky hand to pat Dwalin’s stomach. "Snacks. stay."
"Oh, you'll do no such thing!" Dori cried, lunging forward to scoop the toddler out. "You’ve given us all gray hairs! My heart nearly stopped!"
Bilbo let out a sleepy protest as he was transferred to Dori’s arms, but he quickly settled, his head dropping onto the Dwarf’s shoulder. As the adrenaline faded, the Dwarves looked at each other, realizing just how much their lives now revolved around a creature no bigger than a boot.
"No more hide and seek," Thorin decreed, though he reached out to gently tweak one of Bilbo's auburn curls. "From now on, we play... stay where I can see you."
Bilbo didn't answer. He was already fast asleep, his tail coiling contentedly around Dori’s wrist.
…
……….
…………….
……..
..
The sun was dipping low over the Carrock when Gandalf finally returned from his "pressing business" in the south. He strode into the camp, ready to give a lecture on punctuality, only to stop dead in his tracks.
The fierce Company of Thorin Oakenshield was gathered in a tight, protective circle. Dwalin was sitting on a stump, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Dori was frantically folding a small piece of cloth into a makeshift diaper, and Thorin was holding what looked like a bundle of auburn curls and a very long, very active tail.
"What in the name of the Valar..." Gandalf began, leaning on his staff.
At the sound of the Wizard’s voice, the bundle in Thorin’s arms erupted. The tiny Hobbit, barely a foot tall and covered in cinnamon freckles, wiggled with such force that he nearly shot out of the King’s grasp.
"Ganda! Grandad Ganda!"
The baby’s tail whipped through the air like a lion’s lash, thumping against Thorin’s chest armor. The toddler didn't just speak; he unleashed a torrent of high-pitched, breathless babble that moved at a million miles an hour.
"Ganda-look! Look-look! I finded many big Hobbits! They gots face-fur! So much face-fur, Ganda! Can we finded a dragon now? Is there a map? I gots a tiny pony, see? Thorin-man carved it! Does it go to the Elves? Are there adventures? I want an adventure! Why are we stopped? We gots to find the gold-mountain and the big-flying-lizard!"
Gandalf blinked, his bushy eyebrows migrating toward his hairline. "Bilbo? My word, you are... significantly smaller than I remember." He turned to the Dwarves, who were looking exhausted. "He’s been like this the whole time?"
"No!" Gloín cried, throwing his hands up. "He barely said two words for weeks! We thought he was broken!"
"Ah," Gandalf said, a look of profound realization crossing his face. "I see. You found the 'Switch'."
Bilbo was currently vibrating in Thorin’s arms, his tiny hands patting the Dwarf's beard. "Ganda, why this Hobbit so crunchy? He gots metal on his clothes. Weird Hobbit. Very weird. All of them! Big-loud-Hobbit," he pointed at Dwalin, "and Round-snack-Hobbit," he pointed at Bombur.
The Dwarves stiffened. "Hobbits?" Thorin rumbled, looking down at the toddler. "Bilbo... we are not Hobbits."
The baby stopped mid-babble. His tail went perfectly still. His massive blue eyes grew even wider. "Not... Hobbits?"
"We are Dwarves, Master Baggins," Balin said gently. "Children of Aulë. From the mountains."
The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then, Bilbo began to vibrate again—this time with the intensity of a hive of bees.
"DWARVES? Real-life-Dwarves? From the deep-down? With the hammers? And the mines? Do you gots gems in your pockets? Can you see in the dark? Why your ears not pointy? How do you grow the face-fur? Is it magic fur? Do you eat rocks? I readed about you in the big books with the dusty smell! I thought you was just legends! Can I see a hammer? Do you gots a mountain? Is it a big mountain? Can I live in the mountain?"
"He’s going to explode," Kíli whispered, watching the auburn curls bounce with every question.
…..
………..
…….
Gandalf let out a long, weary sigh and gestured for the Dwarves to sit. Bilbo, meanwhile, refused to be put down. He pointed at Thorin’s shoulder and gave a demanding "Up!" until the King sighed and let the toddler perch there like a royal falcon.
"You see," Gandalf explained, "Bilbo was never a 'normal' fauntling. He was either entirely introverted, lost in his own head for days, or he was... well, this. He only talks when he hits upon a 'Fixation.' Dragons, maps, Elven lore, and the great adventures of the Old Days."
Gandalf looked at the baby, who was now trying to inspect the braids in Thorin’s hair with the intensity of a diamond-cutter.
"The other Hobbits in the Shire... they weren't kind to a child who spent his time talking to Rangers and dreaming of fire-drake scales. They called him 'queer' and 'odd.' He grew up quite lonely because he didn't understand the other children, and they certainly didn't understand why he wanted to know the exact geography of the Blue Mountains instead of playing conkers."
The Dwarves looked at the tiny, vibrating Hobbit with a sudden, sharp pang of sympathy. They knew what it was like to be judged for being different.
"That is why adult Bilbo is so obsessed with being 'respectable,'" Gandalf continued. "He spent thirty years trying to bury this hyperactive, curious child under a layer of doilies and tea-sets just so his neighbors would stop whispering. But now that the magic has stripped away those adult defenses..."
"He’s just a lad who wants to know everything," Dwalin grunted, reaching out a thick finger. Bilbo immediately grabbed it and started asking if Dwalin’s knuckles were made of granite.
…
………
…
"Dragon! Ganda, is the dragon real? Does he gots red scales or gold scales? Does he sniff like a dog? I want to see the map! Thorin-Dwarf, show me the map! Is there a 'X'? I like 'X's!"
"I am not walking," Bilbo added suddenly, his lip curling in a pout as Thorin tried to set him down to get the map. "Feet are for Hobbits. I am a Dwarf-Prince-Rider! Carry me to the dragon!"
Thorin looked at the Wizard, then at the tiny, auburn-haired child who was currently demanding a lecture on mountain-tunneling. The King Under the Mountain didn't even argue. He simply tucked the toddler back into the crook of his arm, opened the map, and began to point out the secret entrance.
"Here, Master Bilbo," Thorin whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "This is where we go."
Bilbo leaned in, his tail wagging so hard it created a breeze. "Ohhhh. A secret door. Very sneaky, Thorin-Dwarf. I like it. Tell me more. Tell me everything."
…
………
……
Thorin had barely unrolled Thrór’s Map before the tiny Hobbit began to vibrate with such intensity that the parchment rattled. Bilbo’s auburn tail was a blur behind him, thumping against Thorin’s arm as he peered at the lonely peak of Erebor.
"Smaug," the toddler whispered, his voice hushed with a mix of awe and scholarly critique. "He is the fire-drake. Very big. Very golden. But..." Bilbo looked up at Thorin, his large blue eyes blinking rapidly. "Is he as big as Ancalagon?"
Thorin frowned, glancing at Balin. "Anca-who, lad? Is that some Hobbit legend?"
"Not a legend!" Bilbo squeaked, his tiny hands gesturing wildly to encompass the sky. "Ancalagon the Black! The greatest of the winged drakes! He was so big he broke the Three Peaks when he falled! Eärendil had to fight him with a shiny ship!"
"Now, now, Master Bilbo," Glóin chuckled, patting the toddler’s curly head. "That sounds like a lovely bedtime story. But no dragon could be larger than the beast that took our home."
Bilbo huffed, crossing his tiny arms over his red shirt. "What about Glaurung? The Father of Dragons! He didn't even gots wings, but he was mean-mean-mean. He made people forget things! And Scatha! He was a long-worm. Fram the Northman kilt him. And Gostir! And the great Fire-drake what broke the white city Gondolin!"
The Dwarves exchanged skeptical looks. Dwalin let out a gruff snort. "Lad, you've a grand imagination. One dragon is enough for anyone’s lifetime. No need to go inventing monsters with names like 'Gostir' just to frighten yourself."
"I am not 'venting!" Bilbo shrieked, his face turning as red as his shirt. He looked toward the fire. "Grandad Ganda! Tell the Smith-Hobbits! Tell them!"
Gandalf, who had been quietly puffing on his pipe, let out a long, shimmering smoke ring in the shape of a winged beast. "He is quite right, you know," the Wizard said casually, his voice cutting through the Dwarven skepticism.
"What do you mean, 'right'?" Thorin asked, his grip tightening on the map.
"The names he speaks are not fables, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling under his bushy brows. "Glaurung was indeed the first and most terrible of the Urulóki. And as for Ancalagon..." Gandalf paused, his expression turning somber. "If Ancalagon the Black were to sit upon your Mountain, the peaks of Erebor would crumble beneath him like a child’s sandcastle. Truly, in the annals of dragon-history, Smaug is rather small."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Kíli looked at the map, then at the foot-tall toddler, then back at the map. "Small?" he whispered. "The dragon that ate Dale and took the Kingdom... is small?"
Bilbo nodded solemnly, his tail giving a sympathetic flick. "He is just a baby-dragon compared to the Black One. But don't worry, Thorin-Dwarf. I will help you. We will be very sneaky." He patted Thorin’s cheek with a sticky, freckled hand. "Maybe Smaug just needs a nap and some tea. But probably not. He is a 'drake, after all."
Thorin looked at the map, then at the hyperactive toddler who apparently knew more about the terrors of the world than the King himself. He felt a sudden, strange surge of gratitude that this tiny, walking encyclopedia was on their side.
"Very well, Master Scholar," Thorin said, his voice a bit raspy. "Tell us more about this... Glaurung. If we are to face a 'small' dragon, we should learn how the big ones were bested."
Bilbo’s tail began to wag with enough force to create a draft.
….
……….
….
The Company had paused for a brief midday rest near the edge of a sun-dappled glade. Bilbo, currently perched on a fallen log and swinging his short legs, was nursing a piece of honey-cake with focused intensity.
Suddenly, the auburn tail stopped its idle swaying. It went straight as an arrow, the tufted tip twitching with predatory focus. Bilbo’s massive blue eyes locked onto a large, chattering squirrel that had scrambled down a nearby oak tree, seemingly mocking the tiny Hobbit for his slow pace.
Without a word, Bilbo’s chubby hand shot down. He didn't even look away from the squirrel as his fingers closed around a smooth, pebble-sized stone.
"Bilbo, no-" Balin started, sensing a change in the air.
Too late. With the practiced, fluid snap of a seasoned hunter, the toddler flicked his wrist. The stone whistled through the air with terrifying speed and precision.
Thwack.
The pebble struck the bark exactly an inch above the squirrel's head. The rodent let out a panicked squeak, did a backflip of pure terror, and vanished into the high canopy so fast it seemed to teleport.
"Ha!" Bilbo chirped, already reaching for a second rock. "Tail-thief! No mocking the 'Burglar'!"
Before he could launch a second assault, a pair of large, grey-robed arms swooped down. Gandalf hoisted the toddler into the air, holding him at arm's length like a particularly dangerous firework.
"That is quite enough of that, Master Baggins," Gandalf sighed, ignoring the way Bilbo’s tail lashed indignantly against his sleeves.
"He almost had it!" Kili cheered, looking impressed. "Did you see that aim? He didn't even brace himself!"
"It is a talent I had hoped he had outgrown," Gandalf said, turning to face the bewildered Dwarves. He tucked the squirming baby under one arm, where Bilbo proceeded to pout and cross his arms. "You see, in his younger years…. well, younger than this, Bilbo was known as a bit of a terror to the local wildlife. He spent many a summer perfecting his aim with stones. Squirrels, crows, even the occasional intrusive magpie."
Thorin arched an eyebrow. "Our respectable, doily-loving Hobbit was a stone-thrower?"
"A champion one," Gandalf confirmed. "He grew so proficient that the birds of the Shire developed a sort of ancestral memory of the name 'Baggins.' Even as an adult, have you not noticed? When Bilbo walks through a forest, the squirrels do not chatter. The birds do not linger on branches near his head. They stay quite a respectful distance away."
"I hit 'em," Bilbo muttered, his bottom lip poking out. "They steal the seeds. Bad birds. Crunchy squirrels."
"He was a lonely child, as I told you," Gandalf added softly to the Dwarves. "Stones were his way of interacting with a world that wouldn't play with him. Now, however, it is merely a reflex."
Dwalin looked at the foot-tall toddler with a new level of respect. "Remind me never to play 'conquers' with him if he finds a pile of rocks. The lad’s a natural-born marksman."
Bilbo let out a sleepy yawn, his anger forgotten as his head lolled against Gandalf’s shoulder. "Stone goes zoom," he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. "Ganda... I want a peach. A big one. No squirrels allowed."
…
……..
….
For the weeks, the Company was a mobile nursery. They fought off Wargs with the baby tucked inside Dori’s sturdiest tunic; they crossed rivers with Bilbo held high above the water like a precious relic. The auburn curls grew wilder, the leaves in his hair became more numerous, and his tail never stopped its frantic, joyful wagging.
Then, on a crisp morning near the edge of the forest, the emerald sparks returned.
The Dwarves were mid-breakfast when a sudden pop echoed through the camp. A cloud of oak-scented smoke billowed up, and when it cleared, the toddler was gone.
In his place sat the adult Bilbo Baggins, wearing a red shirt that was now dangerously tight and orangey-brown pants that barely reached his shins. He had an oak leaf behind his ear and a confused, slightly horrified expression on his face.
"Good heavens," Bilbo wheezed, clutching his head. "Why does my jaw ache? And why am I sitting in Thorin’s lap?"
The Dwarves went silent. Thorin, who was still holding the wooden pony, slowly stood up, looking remarkably embarrassed.
"You... you were unwell, Master Baggins," Thorin said, clearing his throat and adjusting his regal furs.
"Unwell?" Bilbo looked down at his bare, furry feet. "I feel as though I’ve been on a three-week holiday, but I can't remember a lick of it. Why is Dwalin looking at me like he wants to cry? And why do I have a sudden, inexplicable craving for mashed carrots?"
Dwalin turned away, hiding a soft smile. "You don't want to know, lad. Just... put your coat back on."
Bilbo stood up, swaying slightly. The dwarfs notice his tail no longer wags and feel their heart break.
He looked at the flowers scattered on the ground around him and the way the entire Company was looking at him with a tenderness that was entirely new.
"Did I do something embarrassing?" Bilbo asked nervously.
Dori stepped forward, patting Bilbo’s shoulder. "You were a perfect gentleman, Bilbo”
Bilbo spent the rest of the day trying to figure out why Kíli kept trying to hand him shiny buttons and why Bombur kept offering him "teeny-tiny" sandwiches. He remembered nothing of being a foot-tall prince, but as he sat by the fire that night, he felt a strange sense of belonging he hadn't felt before, as if, in those three weeks, he hadn't just been their burglar, but their kin.