A/N: Muggle AU assignment! Thank you Tris for beta-ing!
Hermione had just begun reading Harry's assessment. She had waited all morning, not too patiently, for the document because it concerned x-rays of a particularly challenging painting. She heard a message arrive and decidedly neglected it. A few minutes later, she heard another. Sighing, she woke her computer screen up.
HSlughorn: Hermione, are you at your desk?
HSlughorn: Would you please come to my office?
HGranger: What I wouldn't give to live in the 20th century, Horace.
HSlughorn: And how would the British Library survive without you?
HGranger: It would still have me. I want to change centuries, not jobs.
HSlughorn: Come see me today. It can't wait.
HGranger: Did we get the grant?
HSlughorn: It's complicated.
When Hermione arrived at Horace's office, he greeted her with his well-practiced joviality, but she could tell something was awry since he almost finished a whole box of crystalized pineapple before mid-day and his eyes had a certain shifty look to them.
"Good day, Hermione."
"Hi. Did the Studio get the grant or not?" She was ready to berate Horace if he gave her the wrong answer.
"Please sit," he asked, dodging her question.
She sat and raised her eyebrows expectantly; they had a civil relationship, but she never hid her suspicion of him in all the years they'd worked together.
Horace coughed, straightening his vest before he began. "You know how important you are to the British Library—"
"Where are you going with this?" Hermione asked, trying and failing to hold back her rising temper.
"We know you've had countless job offers since your first day here. It always tickles me that you choose to stay."
"I don't conserve art for the money. If I did, I'd be making six figures with a private firm."
"Yes, yes, of course," He agreed. "Let me get to the point, Hermione—the grant has stipulations."
Her eyes grew sharp, causing Horace to unconsciously reposition himself in his seat. "What stipulations?" she asked.
"The Delacour Foundation stipulated that we contract you to them for one year."
"I won't do it," she declared. "They call themselves a foundation when they sell art to rich people who hide it vaults!"
"They do give a lot to charity," he countered.
"You must be kidding. You know exactly what they do! This is outrageous!"
"Harry. Ginny. Ron. Luna," he said flatly.
"What about them?"
"They will lose their jobs if you don't work for the Delacour's."
It was now obvious that he didn't even attempt to defend the studio. "This is extortion!" she protested.
"This is The Arts in Recession," he contended, a sly smile rising from his lips.
"Don't you dare use my article to excuse your behavior! Dumbledore would have never let this happen."
Horace flinched at the name and his eyes grew cold. She knew it wasn't fair to mention Dumbledore. The memory of his gentle humanitarianism passed through her chest, leaving an ache in its wake.
"You must tell me by the end of the day," Horace warned, turning his chair from her.
Walking out, Hermione already knew she would accept the contract to protect her friends and the studio she had fallen in love with. She thought of Ron, with whom she had been slowly stumbling towards some sort of connection. Now she would have to let go of whatever potential it had. And Harry! He moved too fast; who's going to remind him to slow down and love the details of an investigation as much as the mystery? She would have to talk to Ginny about that. Then there was sweet Luna. The studio was her whole social life. At least she would still have the other three work friends. Unlike Luna, Hermione would have to completely start over.
...
...
Hermione's going away party was lovely, but her hangover was dreadful. She could barely look at the glass facade of the Delacour building without wanting to vomit. Of course, that could have stemmed from disgust rather than the after effects of alcohol. The Delacours' had been hounding her for ages, but Hermione always refused; they represented everything she hated about the art world. Now she was to be their tool for a whole year.
As she sat in the waiting lounge, Hermione vowed to keep her integrity at all costs. She stared at an oil painting of a woman kneading bread on a wooden block. Strands of hair fell in front of her face and neck; pots and pans hung all around her in the open shack she worked in. The female baker seemed thoughtful and strong.
"Toil and Love," a woman's French accented voice said.
"Exactly," Hermione replied before she remembered she was angry with Fleur Delacour. She turned to face the very person who had orchestrated the contract she loathed with every cell of her body. Hermione couldn't help but shake her head. She felt defeated, yet slightly in awe of Fleur's powers of manipulation. "You finally found a way," she said.
"You made me wait five years," Fleur answered, her eyes full of something Hermione couldn't interpret.
What did this woman really want from her? What made Fleur play such a long game? Hermione had lost count ages ago of how many social functions, lectures, symposiums, fund-raisers she had attended where someone from the Delacour Foundation approached her. She had to admit, the fact the she was finally caught in their net was remarkable—evil, but remarkable.
"Would you like my assistant to get you some coffee?" Fleur asked.
"Yes, please." Hermione didn't want to sound too grateful; but with her hangover, she really needed it.
"Adele, a coffee with light cream, please," Fleur said as she walked through her office doors.
Hermione watched the assistant nod and disappear.
"Are you coming?" Fleur called out, already in her office.
"Yeah." Hermione muttered, walking into the room slowly. It was full of gorgeous, powerful art. "How do you know how I take my coffee?"
"We sat together 3 weeks ago at the Children's Hospital's art fundraiser," Fleur reminded her.
Hermione remembered that she sat at a ten-person table, but she couldn't recall talking to Fleur. "Oh, I forgot," she mumbled, as her eyes roamed appreciably over the walls.
"Take your time. I'm glad you like my collection," Fleur said.
At the word 'collection', Hermione remembered all the private firms helped by the Delacour Foundation to continually out bid government-funded galleries for exorbitant private collections. The thought made her blood boil.
"What has you so suddenly sullen, Mademoiselle?" Fleur asked, noticing Hermione's expression change.
"You see the face of someone who hates everything your foundation stands for," Hermione explained.
"I hope in time you will change your mind, Hermione."
"I doubt it," she replied. Remarkably, Fleur seemed sincere, but Hermione didn't care; she was edgy and sad, thinking of the year she was going to lose. They stared at each other in silence until a soft knock on the door interrupted them.
"Come in," Fleur announced.
Adele brought Hermione's coffee. "Thank god...I mean thank you," Hermione said, smiling. She took the drink and sipped while Fleur watched her. The brunette, feeling slightly rejuvenated, restarted their conversation. "So, what will my position be? Will I be chained to my desk?"
"Nothing of the sort. Hermione, I know this foundation carries within it the worst of the art world. Yet, I believe in the end you will see that we also delicately hold and protect art as a public good as well."
"Time will tell." Hermione said skeptically. "What will you have me do, Fleur?" Admittedly, the question came out cold. Hermione's head hurt, her body ached, and she was ready to leave Fleur's beautifully decorated cage.
"Come back tomorrow when you feel better," Fleur insisted as she began walking to the door.
Hermione studied Fleur and saw her hold the doorknob for a contemplative moment before opening it. Leaving, Hermione was faced again with the female baker on the wall. A part of her heart lifted; at least art was still in her life.
...
...
Hermione was in Fleur's waiting room early the next morning. Her body felt better, but not her mind. In fact, she became depressed the moment she entered the building. Coffee was delivered to her as she waited. She let the caffeine and the baker keep her company. When Fleur opened her door, she didn't appear too happy either. She looked on Hermione with serious eyes.
"What's going on with you?" Hermione asked as she entered the room.
"I am angry," Fleur stated simply.
"Okay. Should I come back later when you aren't?"
"No, I need you here," Fleur replied. She walked to the desk and turned to lean against her arms, her long legs crossing in front of her.
Hermione lowered her brows. "Need me here for what exactly?"
"I didn't plan to introduce you to a project that is close to my heart so soon, but it can't wait; not after the news I heard last night."
Hermione finally noticed Fleur's desk was covered in pictures of sculptures and paintings. "Luc Caudet," she whispered, now even more confused.
"The scoundrel himself, yes," Fleur replied, her voice full of venom. She looked at her desk with disdain before her attention moved straight back to Hermione. Keeping her eyes glued to Hermione, she said, "The influential paintings by Caudet's apprentice carried her pain even though it was his name always in the corner."
"You read my article on Camilla Lapouge," Hermione faltered; this was puzzling. "Fleur, why are you are quoting my paper to me?"
"There is something I've wanted for years, Hermione, and I've needed you this whole time," Fleur confessed.
"First of all, that sounds very strange. What is it you need?"
"I want to find every single piece of Camilla's work and remove Caudet's name from each one."
"You could have come to me and asked me to be a consultant. Why—"
"I need more than just a consultant!" she interrupted, "I need you with me to pursue the most wealthy and wicked of the art world in the name of Camilla!"
Fleur's demanding tone sent Hermione into a rage. "This is ridiculous! You manipulate my whole life because I wrote one paper? Loads of people have written about her!"
"But those people aren't the greatest investigative conservationist in all of Europe—you are," Fleur declared.
Hermione's eyes widened. "I appreciate the compliment, but this is too much."
"Lapouge's emotional instability became less of a vague abstraction as the years passed, as obviously seen in Caudet's classic painting Mourning Time."
Hearing another of her quotes put Hermione further on edge. "Fleur, please stop," she pleaded. "This is madness."
"Maybe it is—but I need your brilliant mind. It sees what others can't," she asserted.
Fleur looked tired now and Hermione felt a flicker of unexpected compassion. The situation was confusing; the project sounded thrilling, but the fervor guiding Fleur's plan was what also led to the careless manipulation of Hermione's life. That pissed her off greatly. "I'm angry that you duped me into this. I don't trust you and need an incredibly good reason to work whole heartedly for this project after what you and Horace did."
"When our work is complete, Camilla Lapouge will have the international touring exhibition she always deserved—and it will be free to the public. Always."
Quickly and shocking herself, "I'll do it" fell out of Hermione's mouth.
Fleur smiled and to Hermione she seemed almost luminous in that moment.
"We leave tonight."