A/N:
In response to a prompt by hereThereBeDraugr in the CoronaChallenge collection on AO3.
Prompt: You've got mail AU.
this was a joy to write, thank you for draugr for prompting it! hope you all enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it.
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You've Got Owl Post
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Harry had nurtured the dream of running his parents' bookstore ever since he'd been a small child.
After graduating Hogwarts, he had moved right into the flat above the shop, where he knew he would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his days.
Harry ran Little Godric's Bookshop in Hogsmeade with his two employees—Remus Lupin, who was one of his parents' oldest friends, and a girl named Astoria Greengrass, who was in her seventh year at Hogwarts. The shop did good business, and Harry was friendly with all the locals, most of whom had known his parents since they had been Hogwarts students.
Just last month, Harry had learned that a competitor shop was going to open up on the other side of the quaint, close-knit village.
Gaunt Books. A shiny bookstore that was part of a larger chain. Gaunt Books had locations that spanned across most of Europe, and they were well-known for their wide selection and affordable prices.
It annoyed Harry to no end. Those rich jerks with their inflated Gringotts accounts and stuffy, inbred bloodlines didn't know the value of a good old-fashioned bookstore. Harry's parents had created this place out of love; love for books, and love for each other.
So Harry wasn't about to roll over to a—to a bookish version of Draco Malfoy, of all things.
He just had to stick to the values his parents had raised him on. Being honest, being kind. Working to create an atmosphere that felt real, not manufactured.
His mother had held a dual degree: a Charms mastery and a Muggle degree in economics. So Harry was familiar with the severities of business, with the pitfalls of greed and capitalism, and he swore he would never succumb to the tempting glint of a quick Galleon.
It was real people who were on the other side of the counter, and so long as they had a desire to buy books, Harry would do his best to provide for them.
Some time ago, Fred and George had given Harry one of their latest inventions—an enchanted piece of parchment that you could use to communicate anonymously with others. The official name of the product was Powwow Parchment, and its purpose, according to the twins, was to mimic the online matchmaking forums of the Muggle world.
The product had its basis with the Protean Charm, but it was layered with additional spells that could separate and direct conversations to specific people if you wished.
Harry's parchment was a beta version whose release was limited to friends, investors, and select testing participants. It wasn't the kind of item Harry had ever imagined purchasing for himself, but he owed it to the twins to give them a fair review of their product. So he'd dumped in a nickname—Prongslet—and given it a go, not expecting much.
The first few people he'd met were either awkward, boring, or downright offensive. Harry was fairly sure at one point he had come across Cormac McLaggen, but he couldn't be sure. Still, Harry had kept at it, just to see if the parchment would continue to provide new people to talk to.
It had been a surprise when Harry met someone he actually liked talking to.
Harry and 'Voldemort' had been going back and forth with messages for some time now. The one condition Voldemort had stressed was that he wished for them to maintain their anonymity. And that was fine with Harry, because he didn't care to talk about his personal life with a stranger.
Harry had a good life, a simple one; he didn't want or need pity from the mysterious man on the other end of the parchment connection.
Because Harry did get pity from other people a lot. They didn't get that he didn't need to be coddled or looked after just because his parents had died. Some of them even thought he was wasting his time and talents running a bookshop, and Harry had grown tired of explaining over and over how much keeping his parents' dream alive meant to him.
Voldemort wasn't like that. He never pried, and he was always so genuine and witty and empathetic. Harry found himself growing quickly attached, wondering where on earth such an incredible person existed, hoping that Voldemort found Harry's companionship to be equally rewarding.
But Voldemort must have, because their conversations often stretched late into the evenings; Harry ended up running on coffee to keep himself awake and upright in the mornings following their lengthy talks.
The only personal question Harry had ever asked Voldemort was about the origin of his nickname—to which Harry had received a facetious but firm rebuff.
So Harry had let the matter drop immediately. He liked Voldemort a lot, and it wasn't worth troubling their friendship over such trivial matters.
The bell of Little Godric's Bookshop rang with a soft tinkle. Harry had been in the middle of reshelving some books, but he set them aside to greet the new customer.
A tall man wearing a bespoke charcoal grey coat had drifted into the store. If not for the fact that his coat was Muggle, Harry would have pinned him as a Pureblood. The man walked with aristocratic airs, and he had the look of an aristocrat, too: high cheekbones, straight nose, sharp brows. Handsome features that even the plainest of outfits could never disguise.
Harry walked over to him. "Hey there, I'm Harry. Do you mind if I ask what brought you in today?"
The man turned his attention away from the bookshelf he'd been eyeing. "Nothing in particular. Just spotted your quaint little shop while walking by. I thought I'd come in and take a look."
"Well, we're sure to have something that tickles your fancy," Harry said with a smile. "So you've come to the right place. Let me see… fiction? Nonfiction? You strike me as a bit of a nonfiction bloke, but maybe you're about to prove me wrong?"
That prompted a half-smile. "I've been known to dabble in both."
"Any particular genres?"
"I'm not bothered about that," the man said with a dismissive gesture. "I'll read any genre if the mood strikes me."
Harry's grin grew wider. "A man after my own heart, then. Why don't you let me show you a few of my favourite titles?"
The man raised a brow. "Then by all means, lead the way. Impress me, Harry."
"I will," Harry decided. "I'm not afraid of a challenge."
The customer—Tom, he said his name was—unfortunately didn't end up buying anything Harry suggested, choosing instead to purchase, for some unfathomable reason, Gilderoy Lockhart's newest novel.
But the friendly rapport they had struck up left Harry with the impression that Tom would be returning soon enough, if only to complain about the book he'd bought being geared towards middle-aged witches.
Magical Moral Perspective. Thoughts?
Harry was sat in his favourite chair by the fire, parchment laid out on the floating writing board he normally used for penning owl letters or scribbling his own silly book ideas. Upon seeing the latest message from Voldemort, he eagerly summoned his quill and inkwell to respond.
One of the best books I've ever read, Harry wrote. The juxtaposition of magical and Muggle perspectives was absolutely fascinating. I spent a solid week thinking about it after I finished it, and I kept getting all these ideas for stories based off of it—it just wouldn't leave my head. I'd say it's definitely a top ten of mine. I recommend it to everyone.
I've just read the first chapter, was the reply.
Harry wet his lips. So what do you think so far?
There was no response for a few seconds, and eventually Harry's words faded away.
Harry wasn't too worried. Voldemort never left in the middle of conversation. Even when he was called away, he always made sure to write down saying he had to go.
Voldemort was, however, very picky. Though maybe that was putting it lightly. Harry had no doubt that Voldemort would refer to his pickiness as having 'refined tastes'. But surely a book such as this would impress even Voldemort, who had grudgingly conceded Harry's affection for fairytales as 'not completely useless' after Harry spent hours spouting literary analysis at him.
It is... interesting, Voldemort wrote back. I find I disagree with many of the author's points so far. Makes one wonder if the rest is worth reading.
All books have value, Harry scrawled across the page. Even if you disagree.
There was another pause, and then—
If you insist.
Oh, come on! That wouldn't do. Harry was going to have to wrangle a proper response out of him. No one read a book like this, even if it was only the first chapter, and came back with 'it's interesting'. Voldemort just needed to get off his high and mighty horse and admit that it was a really great book.
Harry put his quill to parchment and began to write. He'd make Voldemort change his mind even if it took all night.
The next time Tom came by the shop, he had a little girl with him. Puffy coat and frilly skirts; black hair done up into curly pigtails. She took to Remus almost immediately, demanding that the older man pick her up and read to her from all of the storybooks.
Tom seemed to find this predicament amusing, and so he and Harry were content to watch as the girl spoke animatedly to Remus about her favourite stuffed animals and their adventures.
"She yours?" Harry couldn't help but ask. Tom didn't wear a wedding band, but that didn't mean he wasn't attached.
"A friend's child," Tom said. "Entrusted to my care for the day. Her name is Delphini."
"So you decided to pawn her off here, then," Harry said jokingly. "I don't think Remus minds, funnily enough."
"He's a kind man," Tom acknowledged.
Remus now had Delphini perched on his shoulders so she could grab at the books on the top shelf. They were aiming for the ones with the 'pretty colours', according to her. The pair of them went from wall to wall as Delphini plucked books from the shelves and dumped them into the floating basket that accompanied her.
"Did you like the book you bought last time you were here?" Harry asked.
Tom shrugged a careless shoulder. "Contrived, but the main purpose carried well enough. The quality of the writing, however, leaves something to be desired."
Harry snorted. "You sound like a friend of mine. He's always going on about the books he reads and doesn't like."
"There's nothing condemnable about being a critic."
"There is when it's all you do," Harry pointed out. "Some people like to read for enjoyment, you know. Not for picking everything in it to death."
"If I'm buying a book," Tom said crossly, "I'm paying for quality, not for frivolous ideas of good writing."
"None of that," Harry scolded in a light tone. "Not in this bookshop. All books have value. Maybe take it across the village to that new bookshop once it opens if you want to start that kind of conversation up."
Harry had expected Tom to crack a smile at the joke, but a beat of silence fell between them instead. Tom glanced out the window, then back at Delphini, who was now sitting in the large wooden rocking chair while she read aloud to Remus from 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard'.
"The bookshop across the village," Tom said slowly. "What do you know about it?"
The pointed question sent a spike of anxiety through Harry. His friends had been asking him about this, about what he was going to do. As part of a larger bookchain, Gaunt Books would offer much lower prices than Harry could.
"Honestly?" Harry said. "I'm worried. And I know everyone else is worried about me, too. Everyone knows what a larger bookchain like that means. People might say they care about the friendliness of a local shop but, at the end of the day, a lot of them will go for the lower price."
Tom paused again, as though to consider his words before speaking. "That's very candid of you, Harry. I do admire your shop. At first I thought it too pedestrian for my tastes, but it has grown on me in ways I hadn't expected. Have you thought of what you'll do if things don't work out?"
Now it was Harry's turn to glance out the window. "I'm not sure, to be honest? I waited my whole life to run this store. It's the only thing I really have, besides reading books."
"You must have other hobbies. You enjoy reading; what about writing?"
"I mean…" Harry bit his lip. "I did once think about writing stories. Children's books, maybe. But it's just something I do for fun."
"I'm sure your ideas are wonderful, Harry." Tom smiled, his head tipping to the side, and Harry noted just how warm his eyes were. "I couldn't imagine you writing anything less than perfection."
Harry wasn't sure what about this response tugged the floodgate inside of him open, but suddenly all of his thoughts and feelings were pouring out to this man who was little more than a stranger to him.
"This bookshop—it was my mum and dad's dream come true," Harry said softly. "When they passed, they left it to me. It was so important to them, and there's so much love that went into this place. I just—I'm not sure if I can bear to lose it, you know?"
Tom shifted, his head turning away again. "That is… very unfortunate. A legacy is a difficult thing to live up to."
Delphini shrieked just then, barrelling over. "Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom! Pick me up now!"
Tom swept her off her feet as she giggled. "I think we ought to be taking our leave," Tom said suddenly. "You, dear girl, are expected home by your mother and father."
"Noo," Delphini said, now attempting to wiggle out of Tom's grasp. "Don't wanna."
Tom withdrew a pouch from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it to a befuddled Remus. "This ought to cover everything she's picked out."
Remus didn't open the pouch; he seemed surprised by the weight of it. "Did you want to take them with you? I can wrap them—"
"Just have it wrapped for 'Delphini Lestrange'," Tom said, tone brisk, "and I will send someone by to pick it up tomorrow."
And so Harry could only watch as the two left the shop in a hurry, feeling strangely bereft. Although he didn't know Tom that well just yet, he thought they got on alright. Hopefully, they would see each other again soon.
I concede your point. Some of these ideas… do have their merits. But I will say that anyone would be foolish to subscribe to the ideal of a permanent afterlife.
Harry sighed aloud at this. And why not? Isn't it nice to give people something to hope for?
Knowing there exists an afterlife doesn't make the end any more enjoyable, does it? The people you leave behind won't thank you for burdening them.
The last sentence struck hard for some reason. Harry straightened, blinking as he leant back from the parchment.
Voldemort's words faded from the page, and then more ink appeared.
My apologies. That came across harsher than I intended. I have personal reasons for my beliefs, and I will not press you further on yours. I will say, however, that many let their fear restrain them from achieving their dreams. You are an intelligent man with great talent and strong character. I would hate to see you reach anything less than your full potential.
The kindness made the corners of his eyes prickle. Harry picked his quill back up and penned a shaky reply.
It's fine. I understand what you meant. Thank you. It just hit me harder than I expected. I think I'm going to head to bed early tonight. Sorry.
The reply was instant.
No apology necessary. Please take care of yourself. Same time tomorrow?
Yes, Harry wrote. Good night.
He didn't wait for a response; he left the parchment on the desk and blew out his candles before tucking himself into his bed for the night. There were other, more important problems for him to deal with than his confused feelings for Voldemort.
One more week until Gaunt Books opened, and Harry still had no idea what he was going to do.
"Come on, Harry." Astoria tugged at his sleeve. "This can be fun if you let it be."
Harry shrugged. He wasn't much for fancy events, but there would be many important people here for the Publishers Gala tonight, publishers and authors alike, and he needed to make a good impression. The word 'nervous' didn't cover it. Maybe if there were a hundred synonyms to describe his current level of anxiety, then that would be a good start.
"I'll get through it," Harry said amicably. "That's what matters. I don't need to enjoy myself."
Astoria sighed. "You need to get out more. Find someone cute to shag."
Harry choked on air. "You're too young to be telling me that!"
"I'm not that young," she said crossly. "I'm of age."
Harry shook his head as they drew closer to the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic. How the Ministry ballroom had been secured as a venue for this event, Harry had no idea. Someone must have pulled a lot of strings.
As they walked through the Atrium, they ran into Hermione Granger, who chattered about her latest research and how she planned to draft a new textbook for third-year Transfiguration classes by the autumn's end.
"And I heard the owner of Gaunt Books will be here tonight," Hermione finished primly, having hardly paused for breath the entire time. "He's sponsored the event."
"Oh?" Astoria asked shrewdly. "We don't know much about him, do we? Not since the first owner passed a few years back. Then the whole company rebranded and those bloody shops started popping up everywhere—"
"Language," Harry scolded her. "Not here, Astoria."
Astoria stuck her tongue out at him, then continued, "Anyways, I hope he falls down some stairs. Would serve him right."
Harry was glad he had brought Astoria with him. She had asked to come along because she had aspirations of becoming an editor someday, but she already seemed to know a great many people as they milled about the large ballroom. Harry sang her praises to everyone they talked to, hoping it would help. He wanted her to have options after graduation—especially if he had to cut back hours.
But things were going reasonably well, at least from Harry's limited perspective. They had wined and dined, and now they were mingling. Harry had just been thinking of turning in early, and that was when he'd spotted Tom.
High-collared black robes, stiff white shirt underneath. Curled hair and pale skin. Those long legs encased in tailored trousers. What was Tom doing here?
Curiosity peaked, Harry walked over to him.
"Tom?" he asked.
Tom glanced over, his dark eyes roaming Harry's form. "Harry," he said, sounding surprised. "What a pleasure to see you here. I didn't know you were attending."
"I'm the one with the bookstore," Harry said, laughing a little. "Why are you here?"
Maybe Tom was a book critic? That would make sense, seeing as he had so many opinions. Harry had often wondered if Voldemort was a critic, or if the man simply had a great appreciation for all the various forms of literature.
Tom averted his gaze a moment, two faint splotches of colour appearing on his cheeks. "I—"
"Ah, Tom Riddle!"
Both of them turned to see Horace Slughorn waddling over. Given the circumference of the man's waistband, Harry was rather impressed at the speed with which the aging publisher could move at.
"And Harry Potter!" Slughorn boomed, his voice continuing to rise despite the fact that he was now much closer. "Such fine young gentlemen to be in the company of. How are you, Tom? I haven't seen you in such a long time. I know you've been very busy lately—"
"I'm well, Horace," Tom interjected smoothly, "thank you for asking after me. Why, I was just telling Cornelius how your advice has been invaluable over the years."
"You speak too highly of me, Tom," Slughorn said, waving it off. "It's an old man's job to mentor the young and sprightly." He beamed at the two of them, then asked, "And how do the two of you know each other?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer, only Tom spoke first, beating him to it.
"I dropped by Harry's bookstore on a whim. We struck up a conversation about Lockhart's latest."
"Gilderoy is a scholar and a marvel," Slughorn said, enthusiastic as he clapped his hands together in delight. "Everything he writes turns to pure Galleons!"
Tom's charming smile strained around the edges. Harry knew Tom thought very little of Lockhart's ability to write, only now he couldn't say so without offending Slughorn. It was amusing to watch the way Tom's face contorted as he struggled to hold back his distaste.
"But you would know well enough about that, wouldn't you Tom? A surprise inheritance, if you can believe it," Slughorn said, now talking to Harry. "An entire empire at your fingertips! Could you imagine?"
"No," Harry said honestly, "I couldn't." He looked over at Tom, whose mouth had pressed shut, his face more dour than usual.
"I don't think Harry needs to hear all the sordid details," Tom said stiffly. "Especially about family."
Harry bristled. He wasn't some fragile flower! He could talk about other people's families without dissolving into a pool of tears; Tom ought to know better than to try and butt in like that.
"I always knew Tom was destined for greatness," Slughorn continued, heedless of the way Tom was now glaring at him, "and what better proof than to discover his true heritage? The Gaunt line was thought to have ended with Morfin when he passed, may he rest in peace, but then to receive the shocking news of our young Tom Riddle as the new heir! The stuff of stories, if you ask me."
"I'm sorry," Harry said, not quite believing what he'd just heard. "Did you just say Gaunt?"
A/N:
part two will be tom's POV :)
thank you for reading, please leave your thoughts below!