Author's Note: Hello! This is my You've Got Mail-inspired Dramione fanfic that I've talked about for a few years! I'm so glad to finally share it with you. To clarify, this is Dramione, but it is inspired by the movie You've Got Mail, which in itself is an adaptation of the film The Shop Around The Corner, which in itself is based on a play. This is not going to be a word-for-word retelling of YGM, so it is not necessary to know the film, but there will be small call-outs to it. I will be updating weekly this summer, probably on Sundays. This fic is not beta'd so all mistakes are mine!

And in case you haven't heard, I am now a published author now! If you'd like to find out more about my debut novel FORGET ME NOT, out July 2023, and upcoming chances to meet me in person on book tour, check my Instagram JulieSotoWrites or other my other socials under the same name. I am so so proud of this book and NikitaJobson's work on the US edition's cover art!

Enjoy!

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Subject: Do you believe in fate?

Dear Jane,

Sometimes I think I do. There are dozens of moments in my life that didn't seem probable, but more likely tied together by fate. Or destiny, or what have you. There are moments in my childhood that shaped me — where another choice, another handshake could have sent me down a different path altogether. I've warred with the idea of "fate," perhaps because I don't like thinking that I was always supposed to be this. This exact thing that I am. That the reasons people dislike me were set in stone. That the reasons friends love me were decided long before I was born.

I think it odd that I went searching for a pen friend on the same day you did, and that we found ourselves in the same chat room. Is that fate? I suppose it would be more fate-like if you ended up murdering me, so perhaps I shall stop this train of thought, but still leave this breadcrumb for the local authorities to find in several years.

Fatedly yours,

Nick


Subject: Re: Do you believe in fate?

Dear Nick (and the local authorities),

I'd like to think that if you were murdered, even after the mention of such a thing in writing several years before, that the prestigious police of London would overlook such a jest and treat me fairly, seeing as you were the person to make the joke.

Do I believe in fate? It's hard for me to say. Growing up, I watched a friend struggle with the idea of choice versus destiny quite a bit. He thrived through pure luck so often that I decided to believe it was fate, lest I batter my own ego with the thought that the work I put into things was pointless.

I suppose I am open to the universe bringing me where it wants me to go, as long as I get a say. Does that answer it? We'll have to see. Fate has a way of sneaking up on us, I suppose.

Optionally yours,

Jane

P.S. I saw someone on the tube yesterday that matched the description I have of you in my head. You have a large mustache, thin hair, rounded shoulders, and are about eighty-seven… yes?


A smile tickled the corners of Hermione's mouth as she clicked Send. She listened to the whoosh of the message and then turned off her computer.

When the ping! had come in, she'd had one foot half-out the door of her flat. She'd dropped her coat, keys, and satchel full of the most important documents she'd ever carried straight onto the entry floor and had darted for her computer desk, a wide grin blossoming at her inbox.

You've Got Mail

Even now, as she hurried to retrieve her forgotten life from the floor, Hermione couldn't help but chuckle at the idea of Nick's face as he read and responded.

Not that she knew what his face looked like, but she imagined it nonetheless.

She had surmised that Nick was in his twenties by certain aspects of his emails, such as dating anecdotes, co-worker gripes, and observations only someone in their physical prime would make. But then there were other times where he would be so entirely lost in one of their conversations that she wondered if Nick wasn't much older and much more out of touch.

He'd asked her how she'd managed to send along the picture she'd snapped of a butterfly that had fluttered onto the train. When she'd explained she simply attached it, he'd gone quiet on the subject. He'd also wanted more information on iPods, camera phones, and MySpace when they came up in conversation, and he'd questioned her thoroughly on what a PlayStation was. (Not that she owned one. Ron and Harry had just procured one, and she'd complained that her friends had stood her up for lunch because of it.)

Hermione skipped down the stairs and walked to her Apparition point, trying to center her mind. Nick always had a way of throwing her entire morning for a loop, in the best way possible. He managed to double her heartbeat and bring a flush to her cheeks with even the most mundane of conversations. But that did mean that she often found herself leaving later in the morning, if he'd sent a message. Like today.

She wasn't late by any means — Hermione Granger was never late — but it had been her intention to leave ten minutes ago.

Because today was the first day of the rest of her life.

She felt the warm summer air fill her lungs.

Today, Hermione Granger became a business owner. Today, she got the final stamp of approval on Foxglove and Belladonna, a new apothecary in Diagon Alley and the idea that had consumed her every waking moment. She'd been working at the Ministry in House-Elf Relations from the moment the war ended five years ago until January of this year, but her dream of opening a commercial apothecary with franchise potential had started during that time.

Ron hadn't really understood. "You want to open an apothecary?" he'd asked. His forehead was knit together, trying to understand.

"Not just an apothecary, Ronald," she'd replied. "It's a commercial endeavor designed to save consumers money and make their potion-making easier. Besides, it will help Muggle-borns as they enter wizarding society."

Ron hadn't cared much about that side of it, arguing that Muggle-borns learn about potions at school, so shouldn't Hermione take a position at Hogwarts if she wanted to teach potions to Muggle-borns? Hermione had reminded him that even though he had never taken a potions class at eleven, he had known the ingredients to First Year-level potions. He had known that potions existed — that magic existed.

Ron had turned back to the Playstation then. She had decided they were better off as friends right then and there.

Hermione Apparated to the alley around the corner from the Ministry. Ginny was standing there with two cups of coffee in her hands and a wide grin on her face.

"Today's the day!"

"Today is the day. Thank you," Hermione said, reaching for one of the coffees.

"Get your own," Ginny teased. "I have six deadlines this week."

Ginny was an independent journalist, writing for all sorts of periodicals from The Daily Prophet to The Quibbler to several Quidditch magazines.

The redhead handed over one of the coffees anyway and fell into step with her. "Are you nervous? Do you need a pep talk?"

Hermione shook her head, nerves jangling like keys in her stomach. "No, not at all. The hard part is over. I don't need any other approvals, I just need to turn in the final documents."

She'd done a fantastic job at her application hearing. She hadn't imagined anyone would object to a commercial endeavor that would help Muggle-borns and Squibs — not in this day and age, at least — but it was still a relief to hear unanimous approval from not only the Ministry but also the Diagon Alley Historical Society.

There had only been one question about competing storefront issues, but Hermione had skated over it easily.

"I can't help but notice that your location is directly across the street from… from a similar business," an older witch with dark skin had asked her on the day of her hearing. She left the rest unsaid, but Hermione jumped to respond.

"I don't see Foxglove and Belladonna being in direct competition with Black Apothecary, and here's why. Black Apothecary, along with Olde Apothecary on the north side of the alley, has always been and will always be a shop for magical folk. Specifically, magical folk who were raised in the wizarding world and who are proficient potioneers or are studying potion-making at their school. Black Apothecary sells ingredients." Hermione had taken a deep, self-satisfied breath. "Foxglove and Belladonna, on the other hand, is much more than an apothecary. We will have fresh potions, brewed daily, available for purchase by the bottle. There will be monthly events with guest speakers, such as herbologists and potioneers in the forefront of the craft. We will package our ingredients by the potion, thereby driving down costs to the customer. No more purchasing an entire pound of Dandelion root when we all know that it will expire before the bag is done."

The room had chuckled, and Hermione had felt her ego bloom.

"What Foxglove and Belladonna can do for those born outside the walls of the wizarding world is tremendous," she'd continued. "As a Muggle-born myself, I know I was lost when visiting the Olde Apothecary for the first time. I hope to work directly with Hogwarts for outreach to the Muggle-born students during the month of August, making their transition into our world as seamless as possible. I also hope the Squib community will be positively affected, for there are several healing potions that can be brewed without magic, if only one had access to the ingredients and instructions."

It had been a smashing success. The only small hesitation was from someone in the Diagon Alley Historical Society — a short, stern-looking woman with a pinched mouth. "I think we'd be remiss if we didn't mention the possible… community tensions Foxglove and Belladonna would create," she'd said. "You quite famously do not get on with the owner of Black Apothecary."

Hermione's molars had ground together. Say one little thing to The Prophet and it's all anyone can talk about for years to come…

She'd grinned, straightened her robes, and said, "I'll play nice if he will."

She'd been approved that very day.

Now, two months later, she was on her way to file the final paperwork. Renovations could begin that afternoon, if she wanted.

"Celebratory drinks tonight?" Ginny asked as she stepped into the toilets that would lead them to the Ministry.

"Maybe," Hermione said, once they were in the Atrium. "Neville and I are meeting with Horace at the storefront this evening to finish paperwork"

"Oh, do you need Harry there?"

Ginny was being helpful, but Hermione had to bite back her irritation. Harry had done all the initial contact with Horace Slughorn for her, so it wasn't that Ginny thought she was incompetent.

Getting Slughorn to agree to be their Master Potioneer for Foxglove and Belladonna had been a crucial selling point. In order to sell pre-brewed and bottled potions at the store — a key part of her business plan — she needed to contract a Ministry-licensed Master Potioneer. When she first had the idea for this aspect of Foxglove and Belladonna several years ago, Hermione had quickly joined the program to become a Master Potioneer herself, assuming that she would do all the brewing and run the store, seeing as it was impossible to find a Master Potioneer without a full-time position already. It was a four-year program that she'd turned into a two-year program from sheer will power alone, but as the demands of setting up the shop became more involved, she had started slacking on her studies. Slughorn's retirement from Hogwarts was kismet. Hermione could focus on running the store if Slughorn could take on the majority of the brewing. She'd asked Harry to start the conversation, because they both knew that was more likely to work.

But now that she and Slughorn had a handshake agreement, Harry's starpower surely wasn't necessary any longer. She was Hermione Granger after all.

"I don't need to bother Harry," Hermione said. "Horace just requested to see the space before he signed the paperwork. He'll be working from home, so I assume it's just a formality."

"Alright, well, let's meet at the Leaky afterwards. Say, six? And if Slughorn gives you any trouble, you can invite him along so Harry can give him one final push." Ginny winked at her, and gave a little wave as she jumped in a lift headed for the Wizengamot hearing she was covering today.

Hermione frowned down at her shoes. She wouldn't need Harry. She wouldn't. She repeated that mantra as she waited for the next lift for Level 1.

The maintenance crew was directing people away from one of the lifts that had been hexed the week before with no known counter-curse, so she stepped around them and into the furthest doors.

A pair of dragon leather shoes stepped in after her, and Hermione's gaze followed them up long legs in well-pressed trousers, a trim waist, a long torso, a pale regal neck, a strong pointed jaw, and finally to a pair of cold grey eyes staring forward, away from her.

Hermione's stomach twisted in shock. She'd been prepared to see Draco Malfoy again — possibly often — but he was completely out of place in her mind. What brought him into the Ministry?

He said nothing to her, but she knew the scowl on his face meant he knew who was sharing a lift with him. She followed his lead and said nothing in return.

When the lift bypassed all other stops and landed at Level 1, she had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly what brought him into the Ministry today.

As the doors opened, she stepped forward, trying to beat him out of the lift. She saw his aristocratic manners war with his mission as his legs stuttered forward before stopping and allowing the lady to go first. She didn't pause long enough to thank him. She bolted.

Her legs pumped quickly down the hallways, heading for the Magical Business License Office, and she heard the soft thump of dragon leather behind her. He overtook her around a corner, his long legs striding easily. She broke into a jog, wishing she had on her Muggle trainers.

Heads turned in curiosity as her footsteps clapped on the tiles, announcing that someone was running in the Ministry — historically, never good.

Malfoy managed to keep a steady quick pace without running, so Hermione was left looking like a child trying to keep up in physical education class.

They turned the final corner, and he put on a burst of speed. Hermione huffed, breaking into a full run, but she wasn't fast enough.

The door was open to Mr. Godfrey Gumpty's office — the head of the Licensing committee and the person with whom she had a nine a.m. appointment. Malfoy got there first, slipping inside with a "Mr. Gumpty, I was hoping to have a quick word" and pushing the door shut on Hermione's shoulder as she shoved through.

"Godfrey, how are you?" she yelped in a rush. "I have an appointment—"

"It should only take a minute, Mr. Gumpty—"

"Then, Mr. Malfoy can schedule his minute after my appointment."

"I'm afraid that's not going to work, Mr. Gumpty and I'll tell you why—"

"I'm dropping my paperwork for your stamp, Godfrey, so if perhaps you could just—just plop a signature on this"—she waved her file—"then I can be on my way!"

"I need a minute first—"

Mr. Gumpty, who had been shocked into silence by the burst of aggressive noise in his morning routine, held up two hands to pause them. "Mr. Malfoy, I do have an appointment with Miss Granger at nine, but as she is four minutes early, I suppose I can squeeze you in."

Hermione huffed in indignation, sputtering.

"Excellent," Malfoy said, stepping forward. "I won't beat around the bush, sir. I am asking you to reconsider granting approval for Granger's new apothecary. I won't waste your time by pointing out the many reasons this is a bad idea. I only wish to say that I think there will be unforeseen consequences to having competing businesses on the same street in Diagon Alley."

"Mr. Malfoy clearly hasn't read my business plan," Hermione jumped in, "or else he'd know that our businesses would not be in competition at all."

"With all due respect, sir," Malfoy said, "Miss Granger is clearly an idiot for thinking so."

She gasped, heat flooding her cheeks. "How dare—"

"Black Apothecary has been a part of Diagon Alley for three hundred years. As you know, it is older than the ironically named Olde Apothecary and has had to fight for years to stay relevant with just that competition. Adding a third apothecary in Diagon Alley would be a death sentence for an historical neighborhood treasure—"

Hermione snorted. "A treasure for purebloods maybe. A treasure for the upper classes."

He ignored her, speaking directly to an overwhelmed Mr. Gumpty. "Black Apothecary has always been open to any customers. When I took over from my grandfather's family three years ago, I made great strides to rid the reputation my family had given the establishment, despite all sorts of slander printed in the newspapers."

Hermione's voice cut off in her throat. Her cheeks burned hot.

"Mr. Malfoy," Gumpty said, "I understand your concerns, I do. But Miss Granger has a compelling business plan that the Ministry has decided to approve. We believe your businesses will serve two different types of customers."

Hermione found her voice and her confidence. "Muggle-borns and Squibs will have much more of a place at Foxglove and Belladonna—"

Malfoy scoffed and muttered, "Two poisonous plants. Brilliant."

"We are selling pre-brewed potions and packaged ingredients—"

Malfoy spun, eyes connecting with hers for the first time all morning. "You can't do that. You need a licensed Master Potioneer on staff—"

"We can. We do."

Malfoy gaped at her. She thought it was perhaps the same expression he'd worn when she'd slapped him ten years ago. A self-satisfied smile burst over her face. She knew he was dying to ask who it was.

Hermione turned back to Mr. Gumpty. "As previously stated in the proposal that has already received approval, Foxglove and Belladonna is much more than a place to buy ingredients. We plan to work with the Ministry for programs to help Muggle-borns acclimate and help Squibs live their best lives in the magical world."

Malfoy was silent next to her. She knew she had a different product than him, and now he knew it too.

"Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger," said Gumpty. "I thank you both for your passion… at nine in the morning." He rubbed his brow. "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger's proposal has already been approved by the Diagon Alley Historical Society and by the Ministry. Her appearance today is just a formality, and I am ready to stamp her paperwork."

He extended a hand, asking for her file. Hermione's heart leapt, pounding fast. She'd won. She'd won in front of Draco Malfoy.

She gave over the paperwork, feeling light as air. Gumpty opened the folder and reached for his stamp.

The swirl of air to her left told her that Malfoy had turned on his heel, exiting in a hurry.

But Hermione didn't care. She smiled as the stamp thumped down, declaring her a business owner.


Subject: Re: Re: Do you believe in fate?

Dear Nick,

The more I consider it, I don't think I do believe. I believe in choices and decisions. I believe in working hard and not waiting for the universe to repay you.

I had an excellent morning, and I know you haven't responded yet, but I was buzzing just thinking about telling you. I think fate has little to do with me. I think I've worked too hard for too long to allow fate to take credit. What do you think?

Also, I can't help but notice that you usually reply to me around lunch time, so please let me know if you have indeed been murdered so I can get my affairs in order. I have some emails to delete. Some sharp weapons to hide.

Decidedly yours,

Jane


Subject: Re: Re: Re: Do you believe in fate?

My, my. We have a lot to say on the subject, don't we? Glad to know you feel like our friendship is by "choice." I will still "choose" to believe that there was some sort of luck that matched us. I hadn't had any high hopes when I looked for a pen friend, but here we are a year later. Still chatting. Still sharing. That certainly was luck, if not fate.

I was not murdered. (Or was I? Perhaps the next email shall be Do You Believe In Ghosts?) I just had a spectacularly bad morning to complement your wonderful one, I suppose. But I thank you for the pleasant surprise of TWO letters in my inbox when I finally got around to opening the computer.

Lucky to be yours,

Nick


Hermione stared at the words Lucky to be yours for longer than she cared to admit. She felt it warm her stomach the same way a perfect compliment from a handsome bloke would.

He was right about luck. She'd been curious about how the internet worked after so many years in the wizarding world, so she had tried something called "chat rooms." And — it could be said — she was lonely.

Harry and Ginny had been happily together since the end of the war. Ron had been busy running the joke shop with George and dating several women, none of whom liked him staying in touch with his "ex." And she missed talking to people.

Her mother had always had pen friends in different countries, some of them she even traveled to meet. And one day when Hermione was feeling particularly low about the lack of progress in retrieving her parents' memories, she'd decided a pen friend might help.

She'd started off in a chat room dedicated to meeting pen friends based in the U.K. Nick had been awkward in the chat room. He was clearly uncomfortable on the internet, but was doing his best. She'd messaged him, taking pity on him. And he'd become far more friendly one-on-one.

They didn't know anything about each other in specific terms — she hadn't even wanted to give her real name — but she knew he lived in London somewhere and that he ran a grocery store that had been passed down through his family. He knew that she also lived in London, but they had an unspoken agreement not to ask for more location details.

And Hermione found that details were unnecessary. Sometimes, talking about the world and the people in it with a complete stranger was very satisfying. He delighted her in many ways, and she loved surprising him.

The fact that Nick mentioned anything about having a bad day was new. They kept things very light, usually.

Hermione wrote back to him, asking if there was anything he wanted to talk about. They wouldn't share personal details, but they could still share themselves. To be honest, she'd love to know more about him. She'd love to know everything about him, but that meant she'd have to share everything about herself. And opening up about a magical world and a war… it just seemed like a lot of extra baggage for one person to take on over the internet.

She turned off her computer, ready to go admire her brand new storefront. Slughorn would be there in an hour.

Hermione Apparated into Diagon Alley, and a feeling of belonging warmed her. This was her street now. She would contribute to this bustling, lovely place that had been her first introduction to the wizarding world. And she would be that introduction for other Muggle-born children.

She pulled the keys from her pocket, passing the bookstore on the corner with the lopsided door, and turning onto Horizont Alley. Her alley.

Hers was the first storefront on the bookshop side of the street. She kept her head up high, happily jangling her keys and steadfastly ignoring the shops on the other side of the street.

"Hullo."

She looked up, and Neville was walking toward her with a wave. She smiled back at him.

Hermione had been so relieved when Neville had signed on to help her at the store. After completing his herbologist training in the States, he'd returned in need of a job. Having a trained herbologist on staff would only add value to the store, and Neville was excited to talk plants to anyone who would listen.

"Ready to see the place?" she asked, giving him a hug.

"Looking forward to it! I can't believe the day is here."

"Well, it may be a bit of a mess, but we'll get it there in no time." Hermione plucked the key from her ring and opened the door. "After you."

Neville entered before her, stepping carefully over the floorboards and batting away cobwebs. Hermione felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Across the street, in the doorway of Black Apothecary, Draco Malfoy leaned against the frame, arms crossed. He scowled at her with stormy eyes.

Hermione held his stare. He was wrong. She not only was competent, she was also ready. They wouldn't be in direct competition with each other — unless he wanted it that way.

A slow catlike smile crossed her face. She raised a hand and waved, cheekily. "Good afternoon, neighbor."

She watched his jaw clench. Smirking back at him, she slipped inside and let the door close with a resounding thud.


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Updates on Sundays.