Author's Note: I've been dying to write a You've Got Mail AU since the moment I entered the Dramione fandom, so I couldn't be more excited for this story to finally come into existence! Much thanks to QuinTalon and NuclearNik for organizing the Dramiome RomCom fest and to mcal for being the most supportive person in the universe. This piece is un-betaed, so all errors are my own. Hope you enjoy!
The fresh scent of scarcely handled books mingled with the leathery fragrance of their well-worn counterparts. Most people preferred the aroma of brewed coffee in the morning. Its earthy wisps could curl into nostrils and perk a person wide awake before a single sip disappeared past their lips. But not Hermione Granger. To her, the first step into the bookstore was daybreak's greatest delight.
After strolling past the shelves of Wizarding and Muggle children's books, Hermione twisted a key, then welcomed herself into the office. She made sure everything was in order before settling into her desk chair and unfolding a copy of the Daily Prophet.
With Voldemort long defeated, news was slower nowadays, with hardly anything grave or critical hitting the front page. That didn't stop Hermione from frowning when she read the headline.
Malfoy Corporation Secures Thirty Per Cent Ownership of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop
It was no secret that Scrivenshaft's had been struggling financially. Years after the war, some shops still hadn't fully recovered. As a fellow small business owner, she should be happy to learn that the shop was spared from imminent closure. And perhaps she would be if this wasn't the fourth near-identical article she'd read in the past year — all about small businesses conveniently saved by the deep pockets of one particular pasty pureblood.
Hermione read the article then tossed aside the paper. At his current rate, Draco Malfoy would have partial ownership of every shop in Hogsmeade by the end of the decade. She shuddered to imagine how his selfish hands planned to tarnish the charm and integrity of those stores when they didn't return on his investment fast enough.
She took in a deep breath and let the scent of her personal book collection flood her senses. The tension building in her shoulders slackened. Thoughts of Malfoy would not ruin her morning.
Hermione crossed the length of the office, intending to check the ledger to see how many more sales they needed that month to meet their third-quarter goals, when a tapping against the window pulled her attention in the opposite direction. Her heart lifted. She hadn't expected a response so early in the day.
The taps continued, even after Hermione reached the window and started to push the pane open. As soon as the clearing was large enough, the folded aeroplane zipped into Hermione's office. It glided through the air, momentarily sweeping around Hermione's head, until it landed in the centre of the desk.
A jolt of anticipation rolled through Hermione's veins. Barely a second passed before she reached for the parchment and pressed out the creases to reveal the familiar handwriting. A blossom of warmth bloomed inside her chest upon his very first word.
Dearest friend,
While I understand your assessment of Greheimer's work, I must disagree. I concede that untransfigurations are a fundamental part of transfiguration and should be considered a foundational skill, yet I still see no reason why it should be its own separate branch. Untransfigurations are mere reverses of transfigurations. The rules to the magic for transfiguring and untransifguring are not inherent inverses like they are with vanishing and conjuring. For simplicity sake, three branches of transfiguration would make more sense than four. Though I assume you will argue otherwise. I already anticipate your forthcoming essay detailing every reason why I'm wrong. Try not to waste all weekend writing it. The fall weather is much too nice for you to spoil your days with that. Now that the pre-Hogwarts crowds have finally disappeared, I'll be spending the day shopping with my son. May your Saturday be just as enjoyable.
Yours.
The edges of Hermione's upper teeth dug into her lower lip, gently biting the soft flesh while the curve of a smile teased the corners. It didn't surprise her that he knew her well enough to predict her immediate impulse. If the store wasn't opening in a few minutes, she'd start penning her response that very moment. But he couldn't know the reason for her delay; he still didn't know her occupation.
"And just who has you blushing like that?"
Curls whipped over Hermione's shoulder as her startled gaze fell to the space beyond the doorframe where Penelope Clearwater stood. Only then did Hermione notice the heat that had been prickling her cheeks.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"I didn't hear an answer."
A new wave of heat pulsed in her cheeks and travelled to the tips of her ears. "I can't tell you," Hermione said, not entirely lying as she slid the letter to the bottom of a stack of parchments.
Intrigue etched across Penelope's face. "Can't or won't?"
"Can't," Hermione answered more resolutely. She got to her feet and pushed past Penelope into the main part of the store.
The sound of Penelope's steps followed Hermione's path, echoing close behind. "In other words, it's your pen pal."
A momentary startle froze Hermione's footsteps. She grabbed an assortment of books from a table display in a lame attempt to justify the pause, then continued towards the front register.
"If you must know, then yes," Hermione admitted. A short stack of small parchments drifted across the counter and stopped in front of her. She grabbed the top piece and wrote the name of a fake customer for a fake hold and slipped it under one of the book covers. "Nothing out of the ordinary. He was only responding to my note from last night."
Penelope lifted an eyebrow. "Note or fully scripted letter? Because from my experience, simple notes don't necessitate you writing more than eight inches."
The quill in Hermione's hand froze as the heat returned to her cheeks. "I thought you left right after close."
"I forgot my cloak," she said with a playful grin.
Hermione finished labelling the fake holds then swished her wand so the books joined the alphabetized stacks behind the counter. She made a mental note to pull those books and return them to their proper spot when Penelope wasn't looking.
In the distance, the striking of the nine consecutive bells at the intersection of Diagon and Knockturn rang down the alley. Hermione spelled the sign on the door to flip to the "Open" side and unlocked the entrance. She moved past the counter, preparing for the arrival of customers, but Penelope remained close behind.
"You must admit that it's unusual that you two are still exchanging letters," Penelope contended. "That pen pal program fizzled out."
Hermione sucked in a breath, then let out a short sigh. "It's not as though we've been in communication the entire time," she said, allowing Penelope this small tidbit of information in hope that it would placate her prying. "There were three years in the middle that I didn't hear from him."
The chime of the front door tinkled, and the first customer of the day stepped in. Hermione and Penelope both greeted them before Penelope returned her attention to Hermione.
"Even so, it's been at least a year since you two have resumed. After so long, aren't you the least bit interested in knowing who he is?"
"It doesn't matter," she answered, perhaps too quickly. "The intention of the post-war pen pal program was to forge friendships inside the wizarding world without judgment or bias. To show that anyone could connect, regardless of background."
Penelope seemed sceptical. "If you're still writing each other, I think you've more than proved that. And it's not as though all those people remained anonymous. My friend Eliza met hers."
Hermione flitted her vision towards the floorboards, feeling a knot form in the base of her stomach. "Maybe it's just nice to communicate with someone who doesn't know me as Hermione Granger."
A customer approached them, asking for assistance, and Penelope went to help. When she was far enough away, Hermione closed her eyes and sagged against a nearby bookshelf.
While she hadn't lied to Penelope, she hadn't been entirely honest either. Truth was, she was aching to know his identity. Years of countless correspondence had accumulated from a snowflake of intrigue into a massive snowball that rolled through the slopes of her mind at an unstoppable speed. Every personal snippet he had ever shared was neatly filed in her memory, though that didn't amount to much considering that the charmed pen pal parchment absorbed anything it deemed too revealing.
It started innocently. In her final year at Hogwarts, Hermione had been eager to fill her newfound free time reading and responding to the letters, especially since Harry and Ron had opted not to return. At her peak, she'd had over half a dozen pen pals. Yet one had always captured her attention more than the others.
Every meal, she had scanned the Great Hall, mind churning with curiosity as she wondered if her favourite pen pal sat within the space. From the little he revealed, they sounded similar in age. It didn't take long for her to try to piece together the rest of the few puzzle pieces she had, even if those efforts ultimately proved fruitless.
After graduation, her heart still soared with anticipation whenever a note in his handwriting arrived. He was the steady constant in her life during the bumpy transition from school to working under George to gain business experience. She shared pieces of her she hadn't shared with anyone else — even if the context was vague. It felt like he did the same. She had hoped to soon broach the subject of meeting each other. Face to face. To see if the stir inside her chest was a product of her intrigue or the potential for something more.
Until he stopped responding.
But that had been years ago. They were older now. She was dedicated to the bookstore. He had a son. Any emotions or feelings she had once felt for him had long since been tucked away, alongside the boxes of their original letters. She was simply grateful to have communication with him restored. Like a long-lost friend returned to her life.
Yet, as Hermione swept her gaze across the growing number of customers, she couldn't help but wonder if — and perhaps slightly hope — her pen pal and his son would step into her shop that day.
...
Intermittent tinkles continued to ring through the space as a steady stream of customers patronised the store. By the time noon struck, Hermione's mental calculations determined that they had already reached their daily sales target, so they were still on pace to meet their quarterly goal. Weekends were always busier than weekdays, especially when they hosted a storybook hour to pull in an additional crowd.
Now that Penelope had finished that day's read aloud, flocks of children, all under the age of eleven, were scattered throughout the store. Giggles erupted from two girls playing with a book that billowed with bubbles whenever they cracked it open, while an older boy had a stack of novels so high, it reached his freckled nose. Hermione beamed at the sight. She hoped she would never tire of witnessing the delight on their faces.
She weaved through the store, checking with customers if they needed help, until she spotted an adorable sandy-haired boy no older than three sitting alone with a book in front of him. His legs were folded criss-cross as he spoke to himself and pointed to different pictures on the opened page.
Hermione lowered to her knees and met the young boy at eye level. "Are you enjoying that book?"
He looked up at her with bright blue eyes, speckled with grey, and nodded fervently. "I like stars," he said, gaze twinkling like the charmed constellations in the illustration.
Hermione smiled. "If you ask nicely, maybe your mummy will buy it for you."
"No mummy," the boy stated simply. "Just a daddy."
He returned his attention to the book, and Hermione felt the flush of foolishness emblazon her cheeks. She knew better than to make assumptions like that. Many children had lost a parent during the war — even if this particular child was too young for that to be his circumstance.
A blink later, though, a different thought crossed her mind, stirring a swarm of pixies inside her stomach.
A young boy with just a father.
Hermione searched the surrounding area, heart indecisive about whether it wanted to stay lodged in her throat or leap out her ribcage. He could be here. Right now. After years of anticipation, she could be seconds away from seeing his face.
But no one seemed to notice Hermione talking with the boy. Or at least, no one approached. Not yet.
Hermione stayed with the boy, watching him carefully as the prospect of meeting her pen pal tingled every inch of her body. She took small solace in the fact that her mishap didn't seem to have upset him. He was back to pointing to the different constellations.
"Leo," he said, fingertip pressed against the outline of a lion. He moved his finger to the swan. "Cygnus."
Hermione gasped. "That is amazing," she said with sincere surprise. "You can name those constellations?" She pointed to the bear. "Can you name this one?"
"Ursa Major!"
She slid her finger to another image. "And this one?"
"Orion!"
"What about this one?"
"Draco."
At the sound of the drawl behind her, Hermione's pixies vanished, replaced by a sinking feeling and the spikes of hairs on the back of her neck. She barely had time to register what had happened before the boy lit up, and Hermione's finger fell off the drawing of a dragon.
"Daddy!" the boy exclaimed.
A frown crossed Hermione's lips as she stood to face the wizard who most undoubtedly, without question, was not her pen pal. Somehow, she had avoided seeing him since the newspaper articles had announced his return to England. It appeared her luck had run out.
Draco Malfoy didn't spare her a glance. "I thought I told you to stay where I could see you."
"But I found star book," the little boy said, his excitement impervious to his father's clipped remark. He tugged on Malfoy's robes with one hand while he stood on his tiptoes so the book was closer to his father's face. "Look, Daddy. It has all the stars."
Malfoy's stern concern waned, and a faint smile perked his lips. Not a cruel one like Hermione was accustomed to seeing. Genuine.
"Did you find your constellation?"
The boy nodded, then flipped through the book until he landed on the same page as before. "Here. Scorpius!"
Hermione knew she was staring. She couldn't help it. It was too unbelievable to see Malfoy interacting with this boy — his son — like he wasn't the egotistical, arrogant, stuck-up, pain-in-the-arse prat she knew him to be. A hundred years couldn't change him that much. He may maintain this facade in front of his child, but that morning's Prophet article assured Hermione that Malfoy's true colours hadn't shifted far from Slytherin green.
Scorpius, Hermione inferred, continued to bounce with enthusiasm, yet Malfoy's attention was no longer set solely on him. His gaze flickered to Hermione, and the pierce of his slate grey stare jolted her back to the last time she had seen him. Six years ago. At Hogwarts. The morning after the final battle. When their eyes had locked across the Great Hall in a similar fashion. Before his family had disappeared to the French countryside without any consequences for their role in the war.
"Can we buy it? Please?"
The momentary tension between her and Malfoy melted — if only temporarily — as he looked back at Scorpius.
"If that's the one you want," Malfoy said, bending on one knee to meet his son more directly. He reached out and fixed a few strands of sandy blond hair. "Unless you want to go pick out three more?"
Scorpius' little eyes grew wide. He flung his arms over Malfoy's shoulders and gave his father a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he squealed before scampering off in the direction of the animal books.
"Stay where I can see you this time!" Malfoy shouted after him, but it appeared too late. Scorpius was already lost in his delight.
A familiar fondness spread through Hermione at the sight of Scorpius pulling out books and inspecting their covers — until she remembered who she was standing next to.
Hermione straightened her spine, forcing her frame upright so Malfoy didn't tower over her as much as his stature naturally commanded. She wouldn't let him make her feel small like he had for so much of their youth.
Malfoy gave her a short look over, and Hermione folded her arms against her chest under the weight of his assessment.
"How predictable," he said, voice devoid of all the fatherly warmth it had held just a few seconds earlier. "Let me guess. You work here?"
Hermione huffed. "I own here," she corrected, jutting her chin up half an inch. "I'm surprised you don't know that considering you seem intent on buying every struggling small business in Wizarding Britain."
The lines of Malfoy's scowl deepened, but Hermione didn't look long enough to see much else. She bent down to collect the books some child had left on the floor and paced towards the appropriate shelf. Malfoy followed.
"It doesn't appear to me that you're struggling," his voice carried from behind. "Judging the size of your store and the general patronage on a Saturday afternoon, I assume you bring in 40,000 Galleons a year? 45?"
Hermione's movements staggered. If she wasn't annoyed by how accurate his estimate was, she'd almost be impressed.
Instead, she whipped around to glare at him. "Then you must also know I'm doing fine on my own, so if you came here to find the next victim to whatever financial manipulation you're planning over these vulnerable business owners, you'll have to look elsewhere. I don't need your tainted wealth."
Hermione turned and released one of the books close enough to the shelf so the surrounding magic carried it to the proper spot. All the while, she could feel Malfoy's pointed stare digging into her.
"I am here because my son wanted new books, and I heard that this is the best children's bookstore in Wizarding London," he said, tone growing harsher. "I didn't come to spy on your store and one day make a business venture. I needn't play such games. Or have you forgotten that if I wanted to buy you, or any other shop, on this alley, I could? I'm sure I could name a tempting enough price."
Anger boiled beneath Hermione's surface. "That alone proves how little you've changed. You're still the same boy who will use money to get whatever he wants," she snarled. "Is that also how you buy your son's affection? The green apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Malfoy's eyes flared in outrage, turning the slate grey into molten silver. She had only seen such intense ire from him once before. It was almost like they were back on the Quidditch pitch and he was about to hurl the cruellest insult he could fathom.
"I got more books!"
At the sound of Scorpius' innocent glee, Malfoy and Hermione backed away from each other. All signs of animosity vanished from Malfoy's body, and he promptly reverted into father mode. He listened with interest as Scorpius showed off the new books, including a Muggle children's book about dinosaurs.
To her surprise, Malfoy didn't comment. No command that Scorpius exchange the Muggle book for something magical. Not even a glower.
He merely conjured a bag and put the four books inside before casting a Feather Light Charm so Scorpius could carry it like the boy begged. He then dug his hand into his pocket and placed a handful of coins on a table.
"Keep the change," he hissed low enough for only Hermione to hear.
She watched in frozen wonder, incapable of processing how Malfoy could switch from seething wizard to doting father in a matter of heartbeats, as he scooped Scorpius into his arms.
"What now, Scorp? Should we get ice cream?"
Scorpius nodded, smile beaming. "Yes, please."
Malfoy proceeded to the door without another word. Her only form of goodbye came from Scorpius waving over his father's shoulder.
"Bye, bye Book Lady."
Hermione waved back. It wasn't his fault his father was a complete and total arse.
By the time the door closed behind them, Penelope was at Hermione's side, glancing at her in surprise.
"Was that Draco Malfoy?"
Hermione grimaced. "It was."
Penelope's gaze tracked them through the front window. "I didn't know he had a son."
"Me neither."
Hermione set down the remaining books from the floor and collected the pile of Galleons. It was at least double what the books actually cost.
Wealthy wanker.
She closed her eyes and inhaled, allowing a massive breath to expand her lungs. Not even the smell of books could restore her peace. Echoes of the past rang inside her chest, with murmurs of resentful words never quite forgotten. Of all the people to walk into her store that day, it just had to be him.
Hermione sucked in another deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"You okay?"
Hermione reopened her eyes and was met with Penelope's concerned gaze.
"I'm fine," she voiced, refusing to let Draco Malfoy affect her any longer. "I just wasn't expecting to see him."
They both returned to work, but Hermione's head remained elsewhere. It wasn't just the fact that she hadn't expected to see Malfoy; it was the fact that, when she had turned to face that boy's father, Hermione had expected to see someone — anyone — else. Disappointment was a cruel torment, even if that hope had been built on a foundation of unlikely circumstances. The Wizarding World was big. The probability of running into her pen pal must be small.
Yet Hermione didn't give up hope. It was quite quixotic, but on the off chance that they ever did run into each other, she had a feeling she would simply know it was him. He was clever. Considerate. Charming. All the things she admired in a wizard — and everything Draco Malfoy was not.