Hermione stared at the painting on the wall. It was clearly a Monet - but that couldn't be right. Because Monet would not have been able to paint a bird that actually flew around his painting, while occasionally chirping. Monet could not have made the river in the painting actually run, with the light sound of running water that could be heard if one only listened closely enough. Monet had not made paintings where little frogs actually leapt around on lily pads, splashing into the water. Because Claude Monet was a Muggle. Wasn't he?

Malfoy would know. (Ask him.) But Merlin, did she not want to have to ask him. She had made her deal that she would speak to him, but she was not going to talk to him without his prompting. (Ask him.) Which was worse? Having to speak to Malfoy, or refusing to learn something new?

It had been a day and a half of this so far, with Malfoy dragging her around his grossly oversized Manor today, and part of his gardens the day before. (It was actually really nice.) A day and a half of having to talk with him. To a Death Eater. A Death Eater who was being weirdly kind to her. (Why was he being nice to her?) Why was he being nice to her? If it was a front, it was a good one, because Hermione had been pressing as many buttons as she could, trying to make him crack. But there was nothing. At most, something seemingly sympathetic, or sad, or even longing would flash across his eyes. (What did that mean?)

Though, with all of the changes with Malfoy, he was still the same Malfoy, more or less.

He still was irritatingly intelligent - he had always come second in class to her, which was something she had been able to ignore when his wit wasn't on full display, as it was here. (And Hermione had always found cleverness to be very attractive.) Like how in the gardens, she had offhandedly mentioned an obscure Arithmancy theory, and he had immediately caught on, and had given an interesting comment on it, which made Hermione fall into a conversation with him for half a moment. Until reality set in, and she remembered that this was Malfoy. Not someone to talk with about academia. She had abruptly stopped talking, and had ignored him in favor of a rosebush for a few moments, before returning to their walk, this time without the freely flowing conversation.

He was still full of unnecessary (and actually kind of funny) commentary and snark when he spoke. His biting remarks tended to focus on things, rather than people, when she abruptly would glare at him whenever he would start to insult her friends. When he would remind her that he was still Malfoy.

He was still terribly cocky, but the more she unwillingly (was it unwilling if she secretly wanted to know more?) learned about him, he almost seemed to have a right to be as proud of himself as he was. Almost. But not really.

Hermione's attention turned back to the potential Monet. (Ask him.) Fine. Fine, she would ask him. But only because there was nothing she hated more than not knowing something. She turned around to find where he was, but Malfoy was only a few feet behind her, looking at her strangely. (Looking at her fondly.) He raised an eyebrow. Merlin, he was infuriating. But she wanted to know.

"Is this a Monet?" she asked finally.

Malfoy nodded.

"How?" she demanded. "Wasn't he a Muggle? How could he paint a magical portrait?"

Malfoy ambled forward, looking closer at the picture. (Coming closer to her.) "He was a wizard. A half-blood - Muggle mother, Wizard father. He sold most of his work in the wizarding world, but he still was fairly active in selling painting works that muggles would be allowed to see." (Fascinating.)

"That's absolutely fascinating," Hermione breathed, before she could stop herself. She folded her arms, holding herself tightly, as if that would make her stop talking to him. As if it would make the words stop flowing from her mouth like water from a stream. What was wrong with her, that talking to Malfoy felt as easy as breathing?

"Do you want to stay in here, or move on?" Malfoy asked.

"Move on," Hermione replied. It felt far too wrong to be admiring artwork in a private gallery, when there were people in Azkaban. (Why couldn't she just enjoy it, though?) Even still, the rest of the Manor was just as ostentatiously beautiful as her bedroom and the library was. Hermione had always known that the Malfoys were massively wealthy, but this? This was just obscene. And Malfoy walked through the halls of his home like it was normal. Well, it was for him, she supposed. (Would it be normal for her, one day? Would she stay long enough for that to happen?)

"So are you a fan, then, of Monet?" Malfoy asked, curiously.

"A fan?" Hermione repeated, taken aback. "Malfoy, you are so pretentious. When people say that they're a fan of something, it's usually like a musician or maybe a movie franchise. Like the Spice Girls or Star Wars. Not a freaking painter."

Confusion was written all over Malfoy's face. "What in Merlin's name is a Spice Girl?"

(He looked really cute, taken aback like this.) Before Hermione could stop herself, the corners of her mouth twitched upwards, just for half a second. Unfortunately, Malfoy caught it, and his eyes absolutely lit up. (Pure, unadulterated joy, directed completely at her.)

Hermione scowled. "If you wanted to know," she said, her voice icy, "You could learn about it in the Muggle world. Godric knows you'd never set foot in it, because your head is so far up your arse."

"Why would I even want to go into the muggle world? I'm sure it's absolutely disgusting and dirty."

"Could you be any more of a prejudiced berk, Malfoy?" Hermione asked. "Don't answer that. I don't want to know your convoluted answer."

"Are you worried that it's going to make too much sense?" Malfoy asked. (Would it?)

Hermione realised that somehow without her realising, he had come far too close to her while they were walking. She took a large, deliberate, step away from him, and continued on, "No, actually. I mean, it's not like my parents are Muggles, and everyone I knew for the first eleven years of my life were Muggles. Or that I live in the Muggle world."

"Lived," Malfoy corrected. (Lived.)

"Live," Hermione said firmly. (Lived.) "I live in the Muggle world when I'm not at Hogwarts. What do you even get out of all of this? It's like you want me to win the bet and go free. So why don't we just save us some time, and you can give me my wand, and let me go."

"We both know that that's not true, but whatever helps you sleep at night," Malfoy said, shrugging.

"You don't know anything, Malfoy. Fuck you," Hermione bit back.

"Speaking of," Malfoy said, before he stopped at a door. He opened it, and Hermione peered inside the room warily. It was especially opulent, but in a more understated way. The room was large and spacious, colored in deep greens and black. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves that were filled to the brim, and there were chairs, lounges, and couches scattered across the room. In one corner lay a large cabinet, filled with expensive looking bottles of alcohol. At the very end of the room, there was an Alaskan King sized bed. He smirked. "You can sleep in here whenever you like, Hermione."

"It'll be a cold day in hell when that happens, Malfoy."

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

The past three days had gone exceedingly well, at least in Draco's opinion.

The night before the first day Hermione had promised to spend with him, Draco had spent half of the night planning it out into agonizingly perfect detail. While it had been necessary, he wanted to make up for upsetting her by revealing the members of the Order and Dumbledore's Army that had been captured. Draco had eventually decided that the gardens would be the best place to start, as the flowers were all in full bloom this time of year, displaying a vibrant array of colours throughout the grounds. Yet, despite the immense range in shades, none of them clashed, and all blended seamlessly together.

That day, while he showed her around the sprawling grounds of the Manor, Hermione glared at him the entire time. Still, she kept to her word and talked to him. And, even though the words were hostile and rife with insults, she certainly was speaking to him - something he would take over her ignoring him any day.

And for the first time ever, Draco was grateful that his Hermione was a Gryffindor. She stuck to what she had promised to do - to talk to him. Even though she obviously didn't want to speak to him, and was currently livid with him, she was talking to him. He, on the other hand, rarely followed through with his promises if he had no desire to. At the end of the day, there were very few people who Draco would always follow through with on a promise that he made, and Hermione was one of them. Which is why he made their bet unwinnable for her. Now that he had gotten ahold of her, now that she was by his side, where she had always been meant to be, he was never going to let her go. But still, he wasn't going to break a promise to her. So the impossible bet was tantamount to keeping his word to her, while keeping her with him.

The second day, Draco gave Hermione a tour of the entire Manor. Just like the day before, they didn't stop in any one place, and although Draco wanted to take his time and to tell her the history of each and every room, they simply didn't have the time, with the Manor being as large as it was. That day, her insults were less sharp and her words less barbed, although she still wore a scowl more often than not.

However, there were moments, that even without his use of legilimency, Draco could tell that Hermione was just starting to crack. For example, at one point, she had spoken to him of her own violation, without any prompting from his part. Of course, it was for her to learn something - it seemed that her desire for knowledge would never be quenched, no matter what situation she was in. And then, there was her first smile for him. While it had lasted no longer than half-a-second, and was contained to the corners of her lips, it was her first one that was for him. Only for him.

Then today, they had revisited a small part of the garden. It had been the portion that she had seemed to be the most interested in on the first day, and he could tell that her mind had been brimming with questions, but she had said nothing at the time. Their revisit, though, had been the little extra push that she had needed, and Hermione had caved, and asked a few questions about the ecology of some of the plants in that specific part of the garden. It had developed into something one could call a conversation, before she had shut herself back off again. After that, though, she looked at him a bit less with hostility, and a bit more with curiosity - like he was a puzzle that she was trying to solve. When he dipped into her mind, Draco had discovered that her source of confusion was his kindness towards her.

That had made Draco absolutely seethe internally, before he shoved his anger away via Occlumency, for it to be resolved later. Did she not think that she deserved kindness? Why wouldn't he be kind to her? What had her little Gryffindor 'friends' done to her, to make her confused by his kindness? Draco wanted nothing more than to hold Hermione close, and to explain to her the depth of his feelings for her, and how her 'friends' were nothing more than poison-spewing liars. But, Draco knew, however unfortunate it may be, she wasn't yet ready for that.

It was late in the afternoon when Draco had led Hermione back inside, and into the tea room. Like the gentleman that he was, he pulled out her seat for her, before she sat in it. Hermione's brows knit together, and Draco almost chuckled out loud. Of course she wasn't used to manners, when she was used to the Weasleys. Well, he was here to rectify that.

"Ivory!" Draco called out. The elf popped in, standing at wait. Draco looked at Hermione. "What kind of tea do you like?"

"Earl Grey, with a splash of milk, and two sugars, please." Draco refrained from rattling it off, alongside her. It was the exact same as the way that she normally took it in the mornings. Draco had watched her far too many times across the Great Hall, making her tea, and then sipping it, while engrossed in a book.

"And I'll have what I normally have," Draco directed to Ivory. The elf disappeared with a pop, and after a few moments of silence, came back, two cups in hand.

Hermione looked at her own cup with unmasked suspicion. "Is there anything in here?"

"Just what Miss ordered," Ivory said. "Does Miss want Ivory to make another cup?"

"No, I just-"

"It's alright, Ivory," Draco said, cutting her off. "Go back to the kitchens, alright?"

"Yes, Master," Ivory said, before popping out of the room, yet again.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Malfoy, if there's any potions in here, I swear I'll-"

"There isn't," Draco said. "Do you want me to drink from your cup to prove that it isn't?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose, "That's completely unsanitary."

"Then just trust me when I say that it's just tea," Draco cajoled. When she hesitated, he shuttered away his growing anger with Occlumency. "Come on, Hermione, if I would've done something to you, I would've done it by now. Spiking your tea wouldn't make any sense."

"Forgive me for being wary," Hermione said, her tone turning icy. "It's not like I was kidnapped or anything."

In his mind, Draco started putting chains around the box that was storing his anger. "Fine," he said, calmly. "Don't drink the tea then. I always thought you were far too cautious to be a Gryffindor."

Hermione shot him a truly frosty glare, before impulsively grabbing the teacup and taking a sip. She paused for a moment, seemingly waiting for any effects to kick in, eyeing him with distrust the whole time. Draco sighed. There wasn't anything in the damn tea. Why did she have to have such a hard time trusting him? Oh, of course. Potter and Weasley. The root of seemingly every problem.

When Hermione had retired to her room for the night, Draco had wasted no time in apparating to Muggle London. The streets were filled with disgusting muggles, and Draco sneered. How his Hermione came from these animals, he would never understand.

He wove through the crowds of the city until they started to thin out, and the buildings started to look more and more rundown. And then, there, right underneath a bridge, was a group of schoolboys, that looked to be his own age, sitting in a circle, smoking cigarettes. Draco studied them from afar, looking at each of them carefully. His eyes settled on one, who seemed to be the leader of the group, who was drinking from a bottle of beer. Dark, messy hair, a wiry frame, and green eyes. All he was missing was a pair of glasses and a lightning scar, but the muggle looked enough like Potter that Draco was satisfied that he would do.

Draco crept up on the group, and quick as a flash, he cast Sectumsempra on each of the muggles, with the exception of not-Potter. Not-Potter reared back in horror, his cigarette falling abruptly out of his gaping mouth, and the bottle of beer falling onto the grass, the brown liquid spilling out, as his friends started to bleed out quickly. Not-Potter rushed over to each of his friends, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, but most of them were dead by the time not-Potter reached them. Looking up wildly, not-Potter pulled a knife from his jacket. His feral eyes landed on Draco, who was quickly approaching, and understanding dawned on his face. Not-Potter held his small knife in a way that was probably supposed to be threatening, but his face quickly turned to shock when the knife turned into a quill. While the muggle was caught off guard, Draco stunned him, and grabbed his body, before apparating into the Manor's dungeons.

He pointed his wand at the muggle. "Rennervate."

Not-Potter blinked awake, before his eyes focused on Draco, who was standing over his body.

"What the fuck?" not-Potter screamed.

"Oh, no, no, no," Draco tsked. "This won't do. You need to be taught some respect. Now, hold still, or I'll make this hurt even worse."

Not-Potter froze in fear. "Look, man, my parents have money. We can give you w-whatever you want-"

"Silencio," Draco snarled. Not-Potter began to gape like a fish, when Draco conjured a pair of round frame glasses and shoved it onto his face. The shock turned to complete horror when Draco conjured a knife. "Finite Incantatem," Draco murmured. Not-Potter immediately started screaming, and Draco sighed. Of course he had had the misfortune to pick a dramatic one. "Hold still, and this won't hurt as much," he commanded.

Not-Potter scrambled backwards, trying to get as far away from Draco as he possibly could. Draco sighed. Could muggles not understand direct orders from their superiors? He brandished his wand. "Imperio," Draco said smoothly, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the muggle's brain bent to his will without even the slightest semblance of resistance. "You will be staying absolutely still until I tell you that you can move. You are allowed to scream, and beg for your pathetic life."

Not-Potter did as such as Draco took his knife, and pressed it against the man's forehead, hard enough to break the skin. Slowly, he carved it in a jagged lightning shape, and stood back, admiring his work. "You may move now, but you cannot try to run or fight."

Fear finally truly began to settle into not-Potter's eyes. "What the hell is this? How are you making me do this?" he asked, desperately. "Please, you don't want to do any of this."

"Don't presume to know anything about me, you filthy Muggle."

"Ple-"

"Crucio."

It wasn't until four hours later that Draco finally killed not-Potter, before vanishing the body. He wasted no time in scourgifying himself, before taking a shower as well, to get the filthy muggle blood off of himself. His anger finally sufficiently abated, Draco snuck into Hermione's room, and laid down, pulling her sleeping form into his chest.

"I don't know how you lived amongst such filth for so long, darling," Draco whispered into her hair. "You should've always been here, with me. Where you've always belonged." He kissed the top of her head. "I have a surprise for you tomorrow. A gift, for how well you've been doing. I know that this isn't easy for you, but I promise it'll all be worth it in the end. Everything will be just the way that it should've been all along."