Goodbye To Flesh

Disclaimer – this story is based on situations created by J.K Rowling or the corresponding owners. I own nothing except my ideas.

Summary: When Draco Malfoy discovers a strange book in his library and reads from it, he finds himself at the start of an adventure involving mind swapping, time travelling and his worst enemy. HG/DM. Post-HBP.

Goodbye To Flesh by Elven Victory

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Chapter One – The Beginning

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It was morning.

The sun had not yet risen, though the sky was filled with the telltale grey of the approaching dawn; dark fog, like a snake, wrapped itself around the sleeping world, filling every crack and coiling around every tree. It pressed itself against windows and the walls of houses; it choked all breathing things. It blocked out the light.

Draco Malfoy stepped out of the Study's fireplace at Malfoy Manor and brushed the soot off his robes with what can only be described as haste. He swayed slightly as he untied his blackened shoes and left them, side by side, on the green rug he was standing on. His eyes scanned briefly over the untouched paperwork on his father's old wooden desk.

The Grandfather clock in the corridor outside gave an anxious tick. As he closed the Study door, the Slytherin looked up at the numbered face expectantly. It was in shadow, but Draco could see the black, ornamental hands becoming clearer by the minute. They read twenty-minutes-past four as if scolding the new Death Eater for his lateness.

Draco glared at the clock as if it were a grimy muggle object. He turned on his heel and strode off down the portrait-lined corridor, his bare, sore feet stinging as it made contact with the thick carpet. He wanted to be as far away from his father's study as possible. His Dark Mark -- the symbol of his service to the Dark Lord -- had stopped burning when he had answered to its call almost nine hours ago, and now he wished he had ignored it.

The air was cold and stale as the young Death Eater walked down the hall; he hugged his robe tighter around his body for extra warmth. The kitchen fires had probably been lit now, but upstairs the night air still wafted about the house, its escape impossible until the windows were opened.

Where was he to go? They'd come after him any minute. An early stroll in the grounds seemed undesirable, as his feet were sore and aching. His mother was still asleep at the far end of the Manor, so an early breakfast was out of the question. As for sleeping… he was tired, but he couldn't possibly sleep. His walk began to slacken… now he was trudging along the hallway with weary limbs.

Behind him, he could now hear hurried -- but gentle -- footsteps following his own, but he knew who they belonged to. He didn't look back, but continued to walk, his pace quickening very slightly. A bitter expression crossed his face.

"Draco!" The footsteps had quickened; they were no longer soft, but hard against the carpet, as if running on the bare, wooden floor. The young Death Eater didn't look back. He walked faster. "Draco!"

They caught up with him; their footsteps fell in step with his own. Draco continued to stare straight ahead, as if trying with all his mind power to ignore his companion's presence.

"You are a failure, Draco," said the newcomer. "Next time, I will not be there to save your neck. If I am there I will simply refuse to assist you. I do not believe you can complete this new mission the Dark Lord has kindly set you; I should have given him this news myself."

For the first time, the young Mister Malfoy looked up into the cold, bleak eyes of Severus Snape. The former Potion's Master sneered at him, and continued to speak.

"I see -- you feel it is fruitless to attempt to contradict me? Finally you see some sense. You are extremely fortunate that I was there to help you, otherwise--"

"I don't need your help," Draco practically spat, his eyes dancing with an unknowable light. He turned his gaze back to the end of the corridor. "I could have avoided the Dark Lord's anger if it hadn't been for you. I would have done quite well on my own."

A look of seething coldness crossed Snape's face. "Is this how you show your gratitude towards me? Well, I think little of it. If I had not been there, you would have been punished very severely. The single dose of the Cruciatus Curse you received would have meant nothing. Perhaps you would not even be here to tell the tale now. The Dark Lord will not forget this meeting: you virtually ran from the circle this morning--"

"I didn't."

"Do not dare interrupt me again, boy." His voice was icy, and low. "You virtually ran from the gathering this morning, and I had to give the Dark Lord my own reasons for your early departure. Do you expect Him to be so lenient next time? I think not." And then, as if an afterthought, he asked: "I believe you realise the point in the mission you have been set?"

"Yes," replied Draco. "Why wouldn't I? He gave clear enough instructions."

"Clear enough for any wizard of normal intelligence," remarked Snape, sneering again. "You are an exception to that rule. Tell me, Draco, do you remember what the Dark Lord asked of you?"

"To take P--"

Severus gave a low hiss. "You stupid boy! Say nothing here! If someone is listening…" His gaze travelled over various spots in the ceiling high above them. "As you were fellow schoolmates with Potter, this task should certainly be a simple one: however… if you are unsuccessful, it will be your second failure, and the Dark Lord will think you completely worthless. Therefore, I suggest you do not make a complete mess of it as you did with your first mission. Do you understand?"

"Why wouldn't I understand? I heard it perfectly well the first time."

Snape's new jolt of anger seemed to be radiating off him in large waves. "Very well," he spat. "Why your father thought you valuable is beyond my comprehension. Do you realise exactly who you are talking to? I have no patience with you if you speak to your superiors in that way."

"Why? I didn't say I needed your help. I certainly didn't ask for it. I was given instructions that were clear and simple -- I don't need you to run through them with me again, time after time. I am intelligent enough to do things on my own, thank you very much."

"I could say otherwise, but if that if how to feel, I believe there is no need to pursue any conversation. You leave me no choice but to leave you to your own demise." And with a swish of his black cloak, he darted away back down the corridor.

Nonetheless, Draco was not moved or hurt by his former Professor's words at all: his mind was swarming with other thoughts as he continued to walk. Weak light was streaming from the gaps in the curtains now; the sun was rising. The stars would have vanished into a world of grey fog and overcast skies.

Almost idly he turned down a flight of wide, carpeted stairs and swept through a short corridor. He walked up another staircase and trudged along the new hallway that greeted him. And then, scratching his forearm, he entered the Library, sniffing as he breathed in the thick, musty air.

The Library was one of the largest rooms in the house; tall, wooden bookcases lined the walls and bulky rugs covered a good part of the floor. Beams of light filtered through the gaps in the deep green, floor-length curtains, illuminating swirling clouds of dust and the thick, leather-bound books on the shelves. In the centre of the room was a mahogany table and chair.

Draco, having been greeted by this sight many times before, strode over to the chair and sat upon its velvet -- though slightly stained -- lining. He felt forgotten tiredness overwhelm him as he rested. He turned his gaze over different bookcases in the room and smirked to himself: the Library was a pleasant familiarity that didn't involve the Dark Lord.

How long he sat there, leaning back into the soft cushion, a look of pure contempt on his young face, he did not know. Perhaps he even fell asleep for a short while, for it only seemed a few minutes after his arrival that he heard house-elves bustling past the door: surely this was a sign of the household's awakening.

While comfortable, homely silence grew on him, Draco began to muse in his own thoughts: he began to ponder over what Snape had said to him earlier. He could still hear the man's harsh, icy voice ringing in his ears: "You are a failure… Why your father thought you valuable is beyond my comprehension…"

As if in answer, the Slytherin clapped his left hand upon the table in anger. "I'm not a failure!" He cried, shattering the silence like glass and causing the clouds of dust to swirl faster, as if out of surprise. "You don't know a thing about me! You don't know what I'm like at all! No-one ever will, especially not you, you silly little man…"

He raised himself from the chair and began pacing around the table, his eyes scanning over the books on the nearest bookshelf. Part of him hoped he would find some hidden comfort in the pages of an old family diary, or his former Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 he had left in this very room five years ago. An odd expression -- almost happiness -- crossed his face as he stared at the titles: A Book of Curses, Casting the Unforgivable Curses, The Spells of Time, Tracing The Caster, Au Revoir à la Chair, The History of Dark Mag --

"Au Revoir à la Chair?" Malfoy asked allowed, his contentment suddenly being swept away. He had never heard of that title before. He reached his arm out and pulled the article off the shelf; it was a large, dark green, leather-bound book with the title in fancy gold lettering. He didn't recognise it, and usually he knew all the books on this particular shelf.

With the weighty volume in his arms, he sauntered back over to the chair and sat down, placing the newfound book on the table. He turned a few of its dusty pages over until he found slanted, handwritten text:

Pensez à qui vous êtes;

Pensez à ce qui vous voudriez que soit.

Et dites alors

au revoir à la chair

Underneath this text was the complicated diagram of a sphere surrounded by circles. There was nothing horrifying about it, though it made Draco's skin suddenly crawl. He turned to another page and read yet another script, though this time the style of the text was ghostly, almost haunting:

To Those Who Seek What They Cannot Find:

Confide in Another's Mind.

A Month of Stolen Years,

An Eternity of Taken Fears

Makes the Everlasting Time.

Think of who you are,

And what you'd like to be.

And Then Say

Goodbye To Flesh.

If the text on the previous page had made the young Death Eater wary, he was even warier now. "Goodbye to flesh?" he said aloud, shaking his head roughly as if in answer to his own question. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He turned the leaf over again, his interest in the book increasing. But what was this? The pages after the introduction poem held no secrets except dried, yellowed parchment; they were completely blank. The words he had read a few seconds ago came back to mind: "Think of who you are…"

Suddenly, to the young man's astonishment, words began to write themselves on the blank page; they were printed in the same, slanting handwriting as the earlier text: "Think of what you'd like to be… resentful… cautious… intelligent… wealthy… famous… loyal… powerful… brave… cunning… ambitious… energetic… studious…"

Draco stared at the open book before him as if continued to write by itself. He felt a strange sensation in his head, almost as if it were being searched. "Intelligent? Brave? What do you mean?" he asked the parchment, a look of horror on his tired face. As replying, the writing changed:

"Intelligent? Brave? What do you mean?" In its curved, haunting text it copied down his very words, but it didn't stop there: writing continued to appear, though it wasn't from his own mouth: "Studious… brave… intelligent… cautious…"

The former Slytherin went to close the book, shocked, but he stopped dead. The writing on the page had ceased, though about half way down the parchment a drawing was being sketched. It was drawing the eyes: eyes he had looked into often enough in the past, though he couldn't think who they belonged to. Then came the nose, and the mouth, and the eyebrows… there was no denying who it was now…

As the finishing touches were put to the girl's hair, Draco looked into the face of Hermione Granger. It was as if they were back at school again; as if she was standing next to Potter, books in her arms, glaring at him with mutual hatred. Even though she was a drawing on parchment, the platinum-head closed the book with a snap as if she would jump out at him. How dare the portrait of a mudblood come anywhere near Malfoy Manor?

"Filthy little…" he cursed under his breath. But as he slid the book across the table, away from him, and leant back in his chair, he couldn't ignore the searching feeling in his head. Was this an invention of the Dark Lord's, perhaps to spy on him or the House? He didn't know, but he felt, if possible, uneasier than he had felt in all in his life.

The clock near the Study began striking for all it was worth, signalling the arrival of Eleven o'clock. Realising that he had probably slept through breakfast, Draco rose from his sitting position, strode towards the door, and headed down to the Dining Room for Afternoon Tea.

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"Draco, darling, where have you been?"

The Slytherin boy's platinum head shot up; his mother was looking at him intently, as if waiting for an answer. She leaned forwards and handed him a small plate of scones, her eyes not moving from her son's face.

"I've been in the Library all morning, mother," he replied at length, taking the plate almost greedily and setting it down on the table. Narcissa, satisfied by his answer, turned back to her drink of tea and said no more.

Draco had made it down two flights of stairs to the Dining Hall for lunch; his mother had given him the type of greeting that was very rare in the Malfoy household: clearly, she had been missing him. But now, as they sat there in silence, she didn't seem to notice the pained look on her son's face.

Narcissa took a sip of tea and helped herself to another slice of cake. As she swallowed the first mouthful in silence, the stillness of the room seemed to grow on her. She turned back to Draco.

"Are you quite well?" she asked. Her son stared at her, as if he couldn't comprehend what she was asking him. His eyes seemed to be growing large and over-bright. "You seem very quiet this afternoon."

"I'm very well, moth--" Suddenly his entire body went limp; he brought his chair down with him as he fell to the carpeted floor, motionless, as his mother scrambled up from her seat and sped towards him like a dart.

But though she shook him, he did not awaken.

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Author's Note: Do you like it? I'd like constructive criticism in reviews, if you don't mind. I'm not too sure about some of it, though hopefully the next chapter will be preferable. Please review!