Goodbye To Flesh
By Elven Victory
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Chapter Three – Au Revoir à la Chair
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As soon as Draco Malfoy awoke from his slumber he knew something was wrong. Well, not wrong--unusual. There was nothing sinister in the way he could feel weak sunlight filtering through his platinum hair, and there was nothing too odd about the fact that the sheet covering him felt no longer silk; what really felt strange was the feeling of something… something else… oddly, he felt a little more intelligent than usual…
Remembering why he was in bed in the first place, he rolled over and groaned heavily. He had fainted. No matter what the circumstances, a Malfoy does not faint. By doing that hideous act he had showed a sign of weakness.
But… on the other hand… his dream had been worse than fainting. Everything had seemed so real, so life-like. He could have sworn that he was actually there. Who were the people in it? He could remember talking to two people his own age, but his memory was blank. In deep thought the young man rolled over again, pulling the strange, new sheet up higher to prevent it from sliding down. His hair was attacking his face; he pushed it away with his hand groggily.
Draco sat bolt upright, still half asleep. No, it couldn't possibly be… it was all in his imagination… his hair was the same as what it always had been. But somehow, he wasn't convinced at all. Slowly, as if expecting to see some half-deformed monster waiting for him, he opened his eyes, only to come into direct contact with a messy lock of brown hair in his outstretched hand.
"What the--?" Realising that something had gone drastically wrong to the point of him having brown hair, he looked up. No--he did not recognise the awful, badly decorated room or the partly torn curtains. He had never seen the dusty bedside unit or the ugly broomstick leaning against the wall. If his mother saw the carpet, she'd faint right away--it looked as if it hadn't been swept for centauries. The young man looked at the sheet covering him and he was filled with horror; the blanket was covered in ginger hair. In disgust, he grabbed it roughly and threw it away from him onto the floor. This sudden movement caused more hair to fall in his line of view; he clutched it violently and hurled it back over his shoulder, cursing under his breath.
Melodious laughter was blowing in through the open window. It was unfamiliar and sickeningly sweet. As Draco attempted to ignore the awful sound, a mental image of a certain girl's portrait shot through his mind. Something began to dawn on him…
He pushed the thought aside roughly, trying to think of another reason for his strange surroundings. "Mother?" he called softly, hoping that she would answer him. But as soon as he had said it, panic began pulsing through him… that voice he had just used was not his own. "Mother? Someone?"
The laughter ceased; windchimes were chanting in the breeze somewhere outside. The birds seemed to have fallen completely silent.
Draco tried again. "Anyone?" he asked softly into the thickening silence.
Suddenly the door was pushed open; a boy of seventeen stood there, red hair gleaming in the glassy sun filtering through the window, his mouth turning upwards into a smile. Draco froze: a million feelings and emotions were running through his mind…
"You're awake!" Ron acknowledged, grinning. He strode over to the bed and sat next to Malfoy, hardly noticing how his 'companion' shot away from him in horror. "How are you now? Mum was really worried. She said the bacon did it…"
Draco was close to falling off the bed. He couldn't think properly. He had recognised the boy as soon as he entered the room: it was Ron Weasley, Potter's best friend. What was he doing in Malfoy Manor? But, then… the room they were in didn't look like anything out of the beautiful house he knew.
"What are you doing here?" Malfoy hissed viciously, earning a startled look from the newcomer. His voice, however, didn't have quite the effect it should have done due to its new tone. "Do you realise where you are, and who you're talking to? Are you lost? I would ask you to rake in a little money and buy yourself a map, but you probably couldn't afford one anyway."
Ron stared, a stung look creasing his face. "What's wrong? You must feel really bad…"
"I think I will become very ill if I stay here any longer," came the smarmy reply. "Where's my bedroom? This room isn't fit for the house-elves. I didn't think we had rooms like this in the house."
"But, this is where you always sleep!" exclaimed Ron, his eyes shocked and glossy. He looked bewildered. Then, as if he had struck upon the reason for his friend's strange behaviour, he asked: "Have you drunk any poison, or anything?"
"What's it to you?" asked Malfoy simply.
"Well, I just thought--"
"I wouldn't answer one of your questions if the world depended on it," came the swift reply.
"But you never act like this! I need to know what's wron--"
"My problems and concerns are my own, you silly little boy," said Draco nastily. He quickly raised a hand to rub his temple as a searing pain shot across his forehead. Ron's confused look changed to concern.
"You're not all right, are you?" he asked. "Why's your head hurting?"
"Does it matter?" replied Malfoy, silently seething, even though the pain in his head was slowly fading away. He looked at Weasley firmly. "What are you doing here?"
Ron's expression changed again. "Mum told me to come upstairs and check on you, so I did. Harry was really worried about you, but he's talking to Lupin and I didn't want to drag him up…"
Draco repeated the names mentally, his opinions slowly changing. Harry? Lupin? Wasn't Lupin the old Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?
However, Ron was still speaking. "…so Tonks said she'd give him a new broomstick for his birthday, to help him with whatever he needs to do."
"What? Who's Honks?"
"Tonks," corrected Ron. "Did you hit your head?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Malfoy, his throat constricting rapidly. A new thought was dawning on him… he began to realise why there were strangers in the house: Dumbledore's old lot had come to raid Malfoy Manor!
"Do you remember what happened?" asked the redhead out of the blue. "After lunch?"
"No," replied Draco, curious as to know exactly what had happened. Was his mother safe? Had they taken her? "Tell me."
"Well," began Ron, "you fainted after lunch while Harry was talking to us. Mum came up and moved you into Ginny's bedroom to rest and recover. Don't you remember, Hermione?"
Malfoy inhaled sharply; although he wasn't able to properly comprehend what Weasel had just said, the name had stuck in his head. "What did you just call me?"
"I called you 'Hermione'. That's who you are, isn't it?"
The Death Eater stared at Weasley, horrified, but beginning to understand. Dumbledore's lot hadn't raided Malfoy Manor.
"Aren't you, Hermione?" Ron was waiting for an answer, but his companion just stared at him, an empty shell.
Things started to click into place inside of Draco's head… the book… the portrait of Granger… him fainting at lunch… him waking up in an entirely new environment with the Weasleys for company… his sudden growth of chestnut hair… how could he have been so stupid?
"I am," answered Malfoy, sickened. He touched his hair again so as to make certain that it wasn't in his imagination… yes, he still had a mop of tangled curls. He surveyed his fingers and his half-bitten nails. He ran a hand over his face. Nothing he owned previously belonged to him now. He was entirely different.
He cleared his throat. Then, in what he hoped was an authentic voice: "Can you leave me alone?"
The redhead looked uncertain, and perhaps slightly afraid at his friend's attitude. "Okay…" he replied, rising from the bed and standing as if ready to leave. "Do you want me to bring Harry up?"
"No."
"Well, if you're sure, I guess…" He smiled, turned, and strode towards the door to exit the room. The door closed with a mournful 'click'.
Draco groaned inwardly. Obviously the book earlier had caused some massive side effect to the point of him trading minds with Granger, the Gryffindor know-it-all. He was stuck with untameable, thick hair and her body! A mudblood's body! Tainted blood was running through his veins! The idea was unbearable. What would his mother say? What… what would his father say, if he was out of Azkaban?
But… if he was in Granger's body, what had happened to her? Had she just dissolved into nothingness, never to show her ugly face again, or had she… no… that wasn't possible… he refused to think about it.
He had to get out of the house. He had to get back to the library and reverse the spell. He had to find that book and destroy it with all the power he had. But… how?
And then a marvellous thought struck him… he could have gone home minutes after he had arrived! How could he have been so stupid?
His spirits lifted, Draco rose from the bed and got ready to Apparate to Malfoy Manor.
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Hermione Granger's eyes shot open. At once she realised the room she had seen earlier was not in her imagination; the bed, windows and books on the mahogany bookcase were all very real, even though they barely registered. But something else was rushing through the girl's mind: she also immediately noticed that something was wrong. Apart from the fact that her head was aching furiously, and her right forearm seemed to be burning, something was definitely not right.
Two women were standing over her. One she recognised at once as Draco Malfoy's mother, Narcissa. She wore a green satin cloak, fastened round the neck with a beautiful brooch. The other woman, who had straight, chestnut hair and green eyes, was unfamiliar.
"W-What…?" The muggle-born shut her mouth as soon as she had spoken: her voice was low and drawling. Narcissa placed a warm hand on the girl's forehead, looking concerned.
"How are you feeling?" she asked gently, her voice oddly sympathetic. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to her companion and they began talking in low murmurs. Hermione wondered why Lucius Malfoy's wife would ask how she was feeling.
"W-Why are you h-here?" the muggle-born asked, at once wishing she hadn't opened her mouth again: her voice was, again, a bored drawl. What was wrong with her? Where… where was she?
"Don't be ridiculous, Draco," said Narcissa. "I know you are feeling unwell but that is no excuse ask me such an insignificant question."
Hermione wondered if her hearing was still all right, or whether she was dreaming. What had she just been called?
"Excuse me?" she asked, in a voice that she hoped was polite. "I'm sorry…?" Narcissa placed another hand on the girl's forehead.
"Why are you apologising?"
"D-Did you just call me…" she couldn't bring herself to say it.
"I called you 'Draco'," replied Narcissa, growing impatience present in her voice. "That is who you are; that is your name."
Hermione could do nothing but stare in reply. She began to gape like a fish out of water.
"I--I… I don't understand," she croaked. "What's happening?"
The chestnut-haired woman cleared her throat quietly, looking at the ill patient.
"Narcissa, Draco is still recovering," she said gravely, her face expressionless. "Perhaps we can leave him alone for a while."
The blonde woman stepped back, looking at her son. "Yes, I suppose so…" she muttered. "Very well. Draco, we're leaving. If you need anything at all, the house-elves will assist you--"
"House elves?" asked Hermione, shocked, as the other woman left the room. "You have house-elves?"
Draco's mother ignored her. "I trust you will come downstairs before dinner-time; Severus contacted me earlier and he requires to speak to you."
"Snape!" exclaimed the girl, taking a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were lit with some odd emotion. "Professor Snape?"
"Yes, Severus Snape," acknowledged Narcissa. "Why the sudden shock? He told me he came by earlier--"
"Here?"
"Yes, and--"
"Why? Why did he come round? What did he want?"
"He spoke to you, did he not?"
"He did?"
"So I hear," said Narcissa, a frown creasing her pale brow. "What ever is the matter? You seemed fine earlier."
"Did I?" asked Hermione, shocked. The very mention of Snape's name had sent her mind reeling. Suddenly, she asked: "What time is it? What year? Season?"
"It is five o'clock," replied Narcissa. She walked towards the open doorway to exit the room. "Remember my words, won't you? I must leave: there are a few companions of mine I would like to address. Goodbye, Draco." And without another glance at the bed, she left the room, leaving a very confused Hermione to stare at the large, closing door.
A clock somewhere in the room sent off five chimes. The muggle-born examined her surroundings carefully, attempting to think of a reason for the strange room and its people.
The first thing she noticed was the elegant colours and decorations: the carpet and curtains were deep green and everything wooden in the room was carved mahogany. At the end of the room, and below a hefty mirror on the wall, stood a large fireplace; its mantelpiece was covered in decorative shells and--Hermione gasped--a skull. The walls were ornamented with paintings and small tapestries.
"There just has to be a logical reason for this!" The muggle-born exclaimed after a minute or so, trying to ignore the new drawl that erupted out of her mouth. She scratched her head out of frustration. But instead of her hand finding its way into the normal mass of thick hair, her fingertips lightly touched something soft and smooth. "Wha--?"
She leapt out of bed (which wasn't a very wise thing to do, as the bed was much higher than usual), and walked across the room softly, the thick carpet warming her bare feet.
She passed the heavy mahogany chest-of-drawers, but when she reached the bookcase, she had to pause to look at the books. All of them were heavy and leather-bound with their titles written in fancy scrolls.
"The Magic of Dark Arts?" she asked aloud, horrified at what some of the books were called. Obviously she wasn't at The Burrow anymore…
The girl stole away from the bookcase and sighed, her eyes scanning the walls. The clock on the mantelpiece seemed to tick slightly louder; Hermione's gaze shot to it.
"Oh!" She gasped as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. Panic surged up her entire body; shivers were prickling up her spine. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound issued from her lips… she was… she was… Malfoy?
There was no mistaking the reflection in the mirror. There was no mistaking the soft, platinum hair or the grey eyes, or the pale skin. The muggle-born gave her arm a furious pinch in case she was dreaming. Unless it was some sort of illusion…
"Yes, that's it!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly, doing her best to comfort herself. "This room is an illusion, conjured by Mr Weasley to help the Order and its members. This must be a test of some sort…"
Walking forwards vigilantly, she held out her arm to touch the mirror--but, what was that? She pulled down the sleeve of her robe to get a better look at half a black marking on her right arm.
The Dark Mark, quite black and visible, glowered at her menacingly from her forearm.
Panic surged up her body again as she stared down at it; she felt her throat constricting… she could hardly breathe… her head began to spin… this had to be a nightmare…
As if out of shock, she yanked her arm away and it collided with the mirror on the wall; the golden frame shook, and the glass vibrated violently. For a moment it seemed to hover - then the entire thing came crashing off the fireplace and onto the floor, shattering into a million fragments.
Hermione stared down at the now-splintered face of Draco Malfoy, terror filling every inch of her body. This couldn't be an illusion: Mr Weasley wouldn't put her through this! What was happening? Why was the Dark Mark on her forearm? Why…
"GRANGER!" A voice rang around the hallway outside; the door behind her was forced open. The muggle-born spun round to face the intruder, only to come face-to-face with… herself?
They stood in silence, staring at one another. Hermione couldn't bring herself to speak; her throat had gone dry. The newcomer was glaring at her in half-disgust, half… fear?
Finally the girl brought herself to speak. "Who… who are you? W-Where am I?" The icy look she received unnerved her, but somehow she recognised it…
The intruder narrowed their eyes. They turned to the bedside cabinet behind and grabbed the wand off the desk…
Hermione took a ferocious step back as the wand was turned on her. Thoughts raced through her mind… her head began to ache again…
"Who have you seen?" asked the stranger in a violent hiss, raising the wand a little higher. His eyes trailed over the room, finally landing on the broken mirror. They blazed wildly. "What happened to the mirror?"
"I--I… It broke!"
"Mirrors don't simply break, mudblood!" He pointed his wand at it. "Reparo." The mirror's shattered glass and golden frame fixed together again; suddenly the entire thing was undamaged. The stranger turned back to Hermione, glaring.
The muggle-born suddenly recognised. "Malfoy?" she asked, her head spinning and her voice full of hatred. Was it possible? Was it… was it really him?
Draco sneered. "How ever did you guess?"
"You!" exclaimed the girl, her face full of wild shock. It was unbelievable… Malfoy was in herbody!
"Me," came the cool reply. His voice was flat and emotionless, almost as if he had expected to see Granger there all along.
Hermione's eyes narrowed in distaste. "You…" she took a gulp of air. "What's happening? This can't be real!"
She didn't quite finish her sentence, however: in that second, Draco had spun round, grabbed his wand off the bedside unit, and was pointing the device directly at the girl's heart.
His now brown eyes were filled with some unknowable coldness. "If you tell anyone about this little incident, mudblood, your life won't be worth living. Petrificus Totalus!"
Hermione hadn't quite finished speaking as the spell hit her; mouth agape, hands outstretched, she crashed to the floor, rigid and unmoving.
Draco looked at his old body for a fleeting second before racing out of the room, wand still in hand. He ran along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. He darted past familiar walls and paintings, the sound of running feet behind only vaguely registering. He turned a sharp corner and ran down another flight of steps onto a carpeted floor.
"Malfoy!" His own voice bellowed down the stairs he had just left. Draco, still hardly slowing, spun around and fired several curses at the new figure standing at the top of the staircase. He had no time to see whether he had succeeded, however; he continued to run as if the Death Eaters themselves were on his trail.
Only one thing ran through his mind: he had to get to the library and reverse the spell before anyone saw him. Granger couldn't know…
As he raced along the new corridor he felt sure he had lost the muggle-born. He turned a corner and--
Finally he skidded to a halt in front of a tall, closed door adorned with decorative carvings. He took its silver-lined handle and pushed the entrance open warily.
The Library greeted him again, perhaps this time a little less welcomingly. The curtains had now been opened: they hung either side of the enormous windows, tied back with silver and green cords. Every book on the shelves was now illuminated fully by golden sunlight. The table in the centre of the room was shining: Draco's spirits lifted as his gaze trailed over the still-open book on its wood-and-leather surface.
He walked over to the chair and sat down again, remembering the day's earlier events. He looked down at the book: its pages shone yellow in the new light. The portrait of Granger had vanished, leaving a sheet of blank parchment.
"You!"
Draco shut the book with a snap. He looked round in his chair, his eyes narrowing when they saw the newcomer in the room: his body, or rather, Granger, was staring at him intently. She was standing a few strides away from him.
Malfoy sneered. "I thought I got rid of you. Get out."
Hermione looked at him madly, almost fearfully, but determined nonetheless. Perhaps, if this was a test, she had to face up to the Slytherin and tell him what she thought of him. Then, it would all be over.
"I hate you," she said simply, her voice flat and emotionless. When her enemy said nothing in reply, she continued. "You are the reason Dumbledore's dead and I absolutely detest you for it. How… how could you?"
"I told you to get out," repeated Draco, his voice now dangerously smooth. "Mudbloods are not welcome in Malfoy Manor."
"I don't care whether they are or not! You should be sent to Azkaban, you know, just like your father--"
Suddenly Malfoy stood up; his eyes were expressionless and cold, but his anger seemed to be radiating off him in waves. "Don't."
Hermione stared at him; her face had lost its mad, wild rage and had been replaced by a look of cold hatred. What was happening? She had voiced her opinions, and yet nothing was carrying her away back to The Burrow.
"Is this a dream?" she thought aloud, as the Death Eater took up his seat in front of the table again. She took a step towards him. "Your spell--it didn't work. I must be dreaming…"
"Do you think something even this horrific would happen in a nightmare?" snapped Draco, his eyes fixed on the table. "Wake up, you stupid girl! This is reality. You're contaminating my perfectly clean, pureblooded body with your filth. Do you think I'm exactly pleased about it, Granger? This is not a dream."
"No…"
"And here I am, as you! If my father was here…" He shook his head in disgust.
"But… how?" asked Hermione wildly, shock showing on Malfoy's face for perhaps the first time. She began pacing on the carpet. "This isn't normal! There has to be a logical reason for this…"
"There is only one reason for this and that is perfectly logical," replied Malfoy coldly.
"But your spell didn't work!"
"How should I know why it didn't work, mudblood?" sneered Draco. The Gyffindor, however, seemed to have taken to pacing the floor again. She was muttering under her breath.
The Death Eater looked down at the closed book on the table. There it was, staring up at him, the cause of all his problems. 'Au Revoir à la Chair'shone brightly in the golden sunlight.
Suddenly the hardback was snatched up from the table; Malfoy spun round in his chair, angry. "Do you mind?" he said icily, watching as Hermione looked down at the book's leather-bound cover with a frown. "It's Dark Magic, Granger; it might kill you."
"Do you know what the title says?" the muggle-born asked, her eyes wide and over-bright. Draco stared at her. "It's French. It says 'Goodbye To Flesh'."
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Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, everyone! I was never really happy with this chapter, and it's been rewritten by me countless times. In fact, I don't think I'm happy with it even now. Thank you for all your feedback! And, now onto the reviews:
DarkPegasiKnight: Thank you for reviewing! Yes, the other language was French: I'm not very good at French, but I know enough.
Silverbunnie: I understand what you mean about making Ron blunt: perhaps I shouldn't have made him appear as such a complete idiot! Thank you for your review. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.
Xitai: Thank you! I appreciate that.
Cassandra Raven: I've only just noticed how many times that term was used; thank you for pointing that out to me! I'll be sure to find another form of address for him. Thank you for reviewing!
X DraGoNeTTe: Thank you!
Downinnewyork: Thanks for your feedback! I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
DcoD: I'm glad you liked it! Thank you for your review.