12. Cry Havoc

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter! Never will!

Note: I'll give a big huge shout-out to anyone who tells me in a review what the title of this chapter is from. :) And I hope to get chapter 13 posted next week. In the meantime, have a great Thanksgiving!

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Chapter 12 – Cry Havoc

September casually rolled into October and the leaves on the trees started changing into the dazzling jewel-tones of autumn. At Hake's Edge, the weeks passed as they usually did – Hermione worked endlessly; Harry and Draco trained. The men rarely caught sight of their third housemate, and they both, for different reasons, wished it weren't the case.

Harry missed his friend dearly. He had only Draco for company, and though they were rapidly becoming friends, it was a friendship of necessity and convenience. With Ron and Hermione, he could just be himself. He could be quiet, or loud, or silly, or anything in the world he wanted and nothing would change. Theirs was a predictable relationship, something in which Harry found great comfort. Since leaving the Ministry, Harry had enjoyed very little of that comfort, and because of the current circumstances, it could only come from Hermione. He missed Ron's contagious laugh and easy sense of humor. Lately, he was missing Hermione's sharp wit and thoughtful discussions, even though she lived across the hall from him. He hadn't had a decent conversation with her in weeks, and was starting to brood.

Draco enjoyed sparring with Hermione. She was very intelligent, well read, and thoughtful. On two occasions to date, they had debated the moral and ethical implications of famous literary works. These debates became heated, but never vicious. Both he and Hermione were able to discuss the issues without letting things become personal. They conversed naturally; Hermione took one position, and Draco assumed the role of devil's advocate. Usually, he agreed with Hermione, but would never have admitted it; his pride and the somewhat less than friendly edge to the interaction on these two occasions kept him from such an admission.

It had been a few weeks since their last discussion, which had been about the classic Crime and Punishment, and Draco was itching for a new debate; he'd just finished For Whom the Bell Tolls. A moral and ethical debate would happen soon, though he didn't know it. It would not be about a book, it would be heated, but it would also become very personal, for both of them.

It was a Wednesday, just two weeks into October. There was nothing special about this particular Wednesday. Draco and Harry came in from training in the evening to clean up and eat dinner. Harry went directly upstairs, but Draco wandered through the house, ending in the drawing room where he was surprised to find Hermione sitting in a chair. She had an edition of the Daily Prophet on her lap, and she was staring in front of her at nothing at all. As Draco looked closer, he saw dry tear streaks running down her face.

He wasn't the kind of guy to be moved by tears; only his mother's tears could affect him. So it wasn't Hermione's tear-stained face that caused his stomach to twist into knots. It was her eyes. They were empty, but full of sadness at the same time. Something about their far-away gaze unsettled him.

"Granger? You're never home this early." It wasn't the most insightful thing to say, nor the most helpful; but he wasn't that kind of guy either. It was, nonetheless, true. Hermione said nothing; she only blinked to indicate she heard him. Then again, she may have just blinked. Then Draco said something he didn't think he'd ever said before in his life. He'd never said it because it would mean he was thinking about someone else, and he very rarely did that. "Are you okay?"

Hermione turned to him then, her eyes still distant, but now searching his. She shook her head and turned to look out the window.

Draco waited for her to say something, but she didn't. "What's wrong?" he asked, again speaking a combination of words never before uttered by his mouth in sincerity.

Hermione still said nothing, but absently handed him the newspaper. It didn't take long to find what she'd been upset by. On the front page was a large picture of a disturbing scene – Aurors and Ministry officials wandering over a street corner amid cars and wreckage. The article, written by Rita Skeeter, had this title: "Death Eaters Go On Massive Killing Spree." Draco looked up at Hermione before reading the article, but received no acknowledgement from her.

Returning to the paper, Draco read.

Nearly 200 Muggles were killed last night as Death Eaters went on a nasty killing spree. The murders took place throughout London and surrounding towns. There seems to have been no pattern or purpose to the killings. Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour indicated in a meeting with the press that his foremost mission as of today is finding out what was behind the murders. Some interviewed believe it may have something to do with an attack nearly one month ago on a family of Aurors. Lucius Malfoy, known Death Eater, made certain demands that, according to a trusted Ministry employee, were not fulfilled. Could this be the retribution implied by his message?

Lucius Malfoy was reported to be seen at more than one of the murder scenes, though no letters from him have been reported found. Of all the Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy has been most thoroughly sought of late, as his son, the infamous Draco Malfoy, seems to have disappeared. The… (continued on pages 2-7).

Draco didn't need to finish the article to know it would go on to list both his and his father's crimes, in detail, with pictures and diagrams to provide emphasis. They ran these stories periodically to get the public stirred up against the Death Eaters and Dark side. Then the article would compare him to his father, noting that the son had surpassed the father, in both status and cruelty, to which the author would write some snarky comment about his father becoming weak. Draco scowled; his father was many things, but he was not weak.

He looked at Hermione, who was still staring out the window.

"Granger." Draco wasn't sure what to say next. His thoughts were focused on the fact that this wasn't exactly unusual news, or extraordinary in any way. The sad fact was that Death Eaters were ruthless, evil people who cared nothing about anything except themselves and in some cases, their Master. He knew it would be cruel, however, to simply dismiss the story, and in turn, her feelings, as it had so clearly upset her. But he'd never cared about peoples' feelings before. They made you weak; his father had beat that into him at a very young age. He was not weak either.

When he said nothing more, Hermione looked at him. She was unreadable. "You said my name," she stated blankly.

He was nervous! What?

"Uhm, I don't want to sound – insensitive, but this isn't exactly – something new."

To his surprise, Hermione didn't scream at him. No, that would have been bearable in its predictability. Instead, it seemed as if the story in the paper had been the last drop in a vast ocean of pain and loss inside her that had been near to overflowing for a long time. What happened caused that ocean to spill over. When she spoke, there was ice in her voice.

"I know that, Malfoy," she spat. She shook her head. "You people disgust me."

"What people?" he asked. He honestly wanted to know what could rattle Hermione. Since the beginning of their efforts, she'd seemed unflappable, steady, an anchor. He even found himself drawing on her strength at times. When he asked the question, he wanted the answer. He had no idea that he was under attack, and that he had already lost.

"Mindless sheep. Cowards," she muttered, scowling fiercely enough to rival his own.

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm making perfect sense, if you would just open your head and listen," she snapped.

"Just say it," he said, impatiently. "Stop dancing around whatever's on your mind and just spit it out. I'm in no mood to figure out riddles."

That was, as Draco would learn over the course of the next few minutes, the wrong thing to say. Now Draco saw fire in her eyes.

"Death Eaters. Mindless sheep. You're promised power and the world at your feet, so you follow your Dark Lord blindly, doing everything he commands, killing freely. You kill Muggles – Muggles, Malfoy!" Hermione jumped up and started pacing furiously. "They're defenseless! So you choose to attack Muggles. It's just sick. People who derive pleasure from the torture and killing of those who cannot fight back are cowards. You prey on the weak because it makes you feel strong. And you attack Aurors in their sleep. Never in broad daylight where there's a chance at a fair fight. I mean, you kill children, for Merlin's sake! What can this possibly accomplish for your cause?"

As Hermione ranted, Draco couldn't help but get angry. She was lumping him in with all the Death Eaters, and for some reason that he couldn't think about right now, he resented it. What did she know about him? Nothing. Granted, it was true that he was a Death Eater, only he'd never grouped himself with the other of the Dark Lord's followers. At first, it was because he knew he was smarter than all of them, and he considered himself just slightly better than them. He would rise above them. Then, after Hermione's parents, when everything changed, he started to despise what it meant to be a Death Eater. The killing, the torture, the destruction; as his heart slowly changed, so did his tolerance for what the Death Eaters did.

"Some of those Muggles killed yesterday were people I knew! The doctor, from Hertfordshire – he was a friend of my parents, someone who fixes people when they're sick or injured. A teacher, factory workers, petro attendants; people who are only different from you because they don't have magic. In every other way we're exactly the same, but your lot can't get over themselves and all the pureblood nonsense in order to see that. You're all so prejudiced that you can't even deal with the fact that your esteemed Master is a half-blood! He should be on top of the 'Pureblood's Official List of Everyone We hate.' But he says all the right things, about Mudbloods, and Muggles, all because he's a descendant of another evil man and his own father was a Muggle!"

Hermione paused to take a deep breath before continuing, but Draco cut her off.

"Enough," he growled. "I refuse to sit here and listen while you show your prejudice off like a badge or a medal, trying to cram it down my throat."

"My prejudice?" Hermione squeaked, practically screaming. Draco merely met her furious gaze with one of defiance. "My prejudice," she repeated calmly; too calmly She sat down huffily in the chair and faced Draco with icy daggers for eyes. "Please, Malfoy, I beg you. Tell me all about my prejudice. After all, you know the subject too well, as I'm sure you dear father started drilling it into you before you were even born."

A tiny nerve somewhere in his brain would snap and he could see and feel only rage. Whenever she mentioned Draco's father, he temporarily lost the ability to think rationally. Why this happened, exactly, and why it happened only with her, he would never fully understand.

Draco moved from his seat until he was inches from Hermione's face. She flinched, and for the first time was slightly frightened of him. Perhaps it was the crazed look in his eyes, the one usually reserved for those he later killed, once upon a time. Sometimes that same feeling came back to him, and he had to consciously struggle with it to prevent it from taking hold of him

"Listen carefully. I don't want to have to repeat myself. Again. Never, and I do mean never when I say never, ever speak to me of my father." Draco's voice had an edge of steel and fire to it. "Don't say his name, or allude to him. I will not hesitate to make you regret it. This is your last warning."

Hermione nodded slowly, unable to tear her gaze from his. He couldn't tell if she was still afraid, or just preparing her next onslaught behind that mask of intense concentration.

"And do NOT try to tell me what I know and don't know. You know nothing about my life, what I grew up with, or what passes through my mind. You will never understand me, because you don't want to. You want to keep living in your black and white world where there are either Death Eaters or good guys. Wake up, Granger. That's nowhere near close to reality. Not all Death Eaters are as bad as you say, and not all 'good guys' are as pure as you believe. Everyone has to choose a side, and in this War there are only two choices. Some of those who live in the grey areas will choose a side that is not completely theirs."

"As for prejudice, yes, I grew up with it. Everyday. And I am prejudiced. But I'm also not naïve enough to think I've got all the answers. I've seen all kinds die, Granger. Pureblood. Mudblood. Half-blood. Muggle. They all die the same. They all have the same blood; it runs red from everyone just the same. I may be prejudiced, but I also know that blood won't save you in the end. If you think for one second that blood matters to the Dark Lord, you're gravely mistaken. He'd kill me without blinking and welcome you, if you offered yourself to him, in the same breath. He doesn't want to rid the world of those with less blood; he wants to rule the world. Alone. And he'll do that however he must, including recruiting those who would be willing to fight for the right cause, specifically, the cleansing of Wizarding blood."

"You hate me because of blood."

"I hate people for all sorts of reasons," he spat. "And yes, before I knew you, I hated you for your blood. Then after I got to know a little bit more about you, I found new reasons to hate you. One last thing; you attribute motives to all Death Eaters, and that reflects on me. And though I would never presume to know all the motives behind others' pledge to the Dark Lord, I know that mine was not and is not what you seem to assume. I was never offered power or even a small piece of the world. I wasn't really given a choice, not the kind with simple, right and wrong, black and white alternatives." She started to open her mouth, but again Draco cut her off. "And don't try to tell me there's always a choice," he said, sneering. "You can't even fathom what real choice is. So until you've faced what I've faced, until you're given two impossible options and forced to choose, you cannot judge my actions."

He stood up, a sufficient amount of anger deposited on the now pale girl in front of him. As he backed away, toward the couch, Hermione's color quickly returned to a flustered pink.

"You still chose to be awful to me and Harry and Ron, and tons of other people."

"Yes, I did. And I would do it again. It's a part of me, and it always will be. Despite everything, though everything, all of my choices have brought me to this moment, and have helped make me the man I am today."

"Oh, is that so?" she said, her voice full of ice and bite. "And do you like yourself, Malfoy? Are you proud of who – what – you are?"

A hundred different thoughts and emotions hit Draco all at once and he nearly stumbled under the weight. After the initial onslaught, three words paraded in front of his eyes like a marquee: hate – fear – shame. Over and over; in multicolored glitter.

Draco frowned, suddenly exhausted from their bickering and yelling. Where was Potter? Why wasn't he down here, defending her or something? Wasn't that his bit? Run in, and save the day, or the damsel in distress? He ran a hand through his loose, straight hair, sighing.

"And what kind of person am I?" he said with a heavy voice.

"You're just like all of them, just like your father. You have attacked and killed defenseless Muggles; my parents included. You have always taken pleasure in other peoples' pain and misfortune. You disgust me. And nothing is ever going to change that. You are never going to chance."

Draco was once again pushed to the edge of rage, toward that feeling of pure fury and murder he'd come to call simply Red. But he kept himself from jumping. "Listen to me very carefully," he said through clenched teeth. "I want to make sure you're listening. Are you? Granger, are you listening to me?" he yelled. She nodded, afraid to roll her eyes. "I am nothing like Lucius. Nothing at all. Am I clear?" She blinked, but said nothing. "Granger. Am. I. Clear?" He was almost screaming at her.

"Yes, Malfoy, I heard you," She replied, through gritted teeth.

"But did you really hear me? Do you understand me?" His voice had returned to the deadly calm of a few moments before.

Hermione regarded him coldly. "That you're nothing like your father?" She narrowed her eyes. "I can't detect a difference."

"Get out."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said, get out. Out of my sight. Now."

Hermione was stunned. Was it possible she'd pushed him too far? What was too far for Draco Malfoy? Who was he, really? Hermione recovered from her shock and did as he commanded; she stomped to her room in a huff, slamming the door behind her. After a minute, she heard his door slam too, rattling the window in her room.

She sat on her bed, her mind still reeling from what had just happened. It wasn't the giant screaming match, but him sending her away that had her mind spinning. Three things were plaguing her thoughts. One – he'd become so angry with her that he'd told her to leave. But he hadn't once called her – that name, or any names, or cursed, or hexed, or killed her (which she was afraid of at one point). Two – she had simply done as he'd commanded. She gave him what he wanted, which was her out of his face. Why had she backed down without more of a fight? Draco brought out the fire in her, and she didn't like to leave unless the other person was a smoldering heap of ashes. Perhaps the fact that he hadn't called her names has shocked her so much she didn't argue when he told her to leave.

The third thought was the most disturbing. It seemed as though she cared. That could explain the hot tears threatening to spill over. Through the entire fight, she kept waiting for it – the "M" word. She was ready with a response, and she expected it to shoot from his mouth at every turn. But it never came. If there was one thing she thought she could count on, it was Draco Malfoy acting like the Draco Malfoy she knew: a 15-year old princeling who sought ways to make her life miserable.

The Draco Malfoy down the hall from her was nothing like that boy. He'd been right – she knew nothing about him. She'd formed a rigid image of him in her mind, and wasn't about to let anything topple it. He hadn't called her a Mudblood, not once, not even when she tried to bait him by speaking of his father. The boy he once was wouldn't have blinked an eye before spitting it at her.

She'd actually almost wanted him to call her the name so she could retreat behind her wall and go back to the world she knew, where he was everything she knew he was; it was safe in that world. But he hadn't. That's why she'd started the whole tirade, she realized, to remind herself that he, her parents' killer, was an awful, cold, unfeeling jerk. Because there was a part of her, a part she refused to acknowledge, that was starting to see another truth. His behavior during all the time she'd spent with him over the last couple of months was extremely contradictory to that image she held of him. He was still himself, still arrogant and rude, but his words didn't carry the hate and venom they once did. Until tonight, when she'd forced it out of him.

And so she cared. She cared that he was different – obviously different, blaringly different. She was finally forced to admit it to herself, which was hard. The effort caused two of those hot water drops to fall into her lap. She cared that he hadn't called her a Mudblood because it meant he was a stranger, someone she didn't know at all. Not that she really wanted to know him, but it hurt to find out she had been oh, so, wrong, and it made her want to know why she was wrong, which meant finding out things about this stranger she might regret learning.

She could learn that he had a heart after all, that he really did know the right things to do; that he really was changed. She had accepted at the surface that he was changed, but it hadn't turned her internally. Deep down, she saw the same person she'd always seen, still expected the worst from him, was still waiting for him to unleash his true nature on her.

Hermione allowed another tear to fall before making her decision. She couldn't – wouldn't – stay in this house. He was too much; there was too much she had to work through before she could face him again. She packed her bag for a week, intending to crash at the Burrow. Malfoy would get his request; she'd leave; he wouldn't have to look at her. Quietly, she opened, exited through, then closed behind her the door to her room. Hermione tiptoed down the stairs, through the house, and out the door.

When she was safely tucked away in Ginny's room, with her two friends beside casting worried glances at her and each other, only then did Hermione allowed her tears of sadness to fall unrestrained.

Harry emerged from his room five minutes after Hermione left. He noticed her door was shut, as was Draco's. Thinking nothing of it, he went to find food. After an hour passed without a peep from either of his housemates, Harry went to call on Hermione.

He knocked on her door; there was no answer. "Hermione?" Nothing. He tried the handle and was surprised to find it unlocked. "Hermione?" he said again, peeking his head into the room. She was not there, her bed was perfectly made, and nothing was out of place. Harry frowned, then walked to Draco's room.

He knocked.

"What?" came a very grumpy voice.

"It's Harry. Open up." Harry heard a groan and the door opened a moment later.

"What?" asked Draco again, looking slightly disheveled and frowning deeply.

"Do you know where Hermione is?"

Draco scowled. "No, I don't. Why in Merlin's name would I know? Check her room."

"She's not there."

"Downstairs?"

Harry shook his head.

"Outside?"

"Nope."

"Well, Harry, I have no clue where she would be," Draco said in exasperation. Then his eye's narrowed. "What have you been doing?" Surely Harry couldn't have missed their fantastic fight. He was sure everyone all the way in London had heard it.

"Oh, Ginny wrote me and I needed to send her a good reply. I heard you and Hermione talking and it was distracting, so I put a silencing charm on my room."

"Oh. Well, wherever she is, I'm sure Granger can take care of herself."

"Uh-huh. She'll be back soon, I'm sure."

"Whatever. Bye, Potter."

Harry nodded, distracted. It wasn't like Hermione to go somewhere without telling him. And Malfoy was acting funny; it wasn't like him to be unconcerned over her whereabouts. He was always insistent that she tell him exactly where she was going, and when she would return. For him to dismiss the fact that she wasn't even on the property was highly unusual.

It bothered Harry. He knocked on Draco's door again.

"What?" said Draco, now a little angry.

"I was wondering why you don't seem to care that Hermione is gone."

"I told you. She can take care of herself."

"But you're usually so protective."

Draco scowled. "Well, I don't feel like caring tonight. Okay?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Bye, Potter." And Draco shut the door in Harry's face.

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A/N: Thank you, everyone, who has reviewed this story! I've had 30 reviews for both chapters 10 and 11, and I can't thank you enough! This was a big chapter, and I hope you all liked it. :)