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Great-great-great Uncle Dulcis Malfoy had been dead for exactly three hundred and ninety-four years. Assuredly, there were many more “greats” to his title, but the last nephew he’d graced with his presence had died exactly three hundred and two years ago, so Dulcis never bothered to move past three “greats.”
In all that time, though, he had never once felt bored. It helped, of course, that Dulcis had never been the kind of man (or ghost!) to concern himself with boredom. In life, he’d busied himself with jam tarts and custards, warm bread rolls and lemon yoghurt cakes. He’d kept the kitchen of Malfoy Manor in a perpetual state of sweetness, filling the cold stone halls with the warm smells of butter and sugar.
When he died (rather unceremoniously), halfway through assembling a croquembouche to commemorate the untimely death of his secret muggleborn betrothed, Léchette, he carried on much the same. He floated, he sniffed, he gave unsolicited baking advice to his house elves, who politely ignored him. He roamed the Manor, watching the children he’d had with the pureblood wife he’d resigned himself to marry after the death of his beloved grow up. He did not loom, or groan, or rattle chains eerily - he had no unfinished revenge to seek. He’d never had the penchant for darkness that most other Malfoys had.
So when each generation grew progressively darker, he eventually confined himself to the kitchens, where no self-respecting Malfoy would ever find himself. When that crazy bald man with no nose moved in, he contented himself with knocking the occasional spoonful of senna into soup intended for the Duke of Darkness or whatever frivolous nickname he had chosen for himself. Senna, after all, caused violent diarrhea - the sort that had Lord Volde-whatsits excusing himself quite suddenly from Inner Circle meetings, clutching his stomach and leaving a pitiful parade of tiny farts echoing off the walls behind him.
And Uncle Dulcis was perfectly pleased to continue as he had until Draco Malfoy, that pasty, anxious great-great-great nephew of his, brought home Hermione Granger one stormy November night.
They weren’t together yet, he could tell. Draco had that twitchy look all Malfoy men had when they were horribly in love and loath to admit it. The girl herself was delightful - warm honey eyes, a sharp tongue, and wild hair clearly rioting against the humidity of the night. Her laugh, full and unrepentant, rang through the marble halls where other women had only ever giggled politely.
He knew at one: she was the one. The perfect echo of Léchette. Not in appearance nor in name, but in spirit. Sweetness wrapped in an effervescent blanket of hope and fierce kindness.
Dulcis had not been able to marry his muggleborn beloved, but by Merlin, Draco would if it was the last thing his spectral self ever accomplished.
Draco, of course, had other ideas.
“Uncle Dulcis, for the last time: I am NOT courting her,” Draco hissed into the empty air over his shoulder. It was late. He had gotten back from the office at nearly midnight and was in desperate need of tea and biscuits. He’d made a habit of finding refuge in the kitchens after the disaster that was his sixth year. It was the only place he would be left alone (well, no curses would come his way in here, anyway).
“Not courting?” Dulcis asked, drifting out of the pantry he had been doing inventory in, his robust form flickering in and out like a candle in the wind. “Then what do you call it when you bring a woman flowers of esteem and meaning, hmmm?”
Draco groaned, slapping an exasperated hand to his face. “They were potions ingredients.” He stirred his tea violently. “She needed gardenia and fresh myrtle sprigs for a potion and the Ministry greenhouses were out.”
“Gardenia and Myrtle? Secret love and marriage? Merlin’s bouncing bollocks, boy, you couldn’t be more obvious if you got down on your knees and shouted out your affections!” Dulcis beamed. He hovered so close that Draco’s hair stood on end from the cold. “You like her. And she accepted your courting gift – she likes you in return. So simple. Why must Malfoys make things so complicated?”
“Because!” Draco snapped. Then, softer, more miserable: “Because she’s Hermione Granger. She’s Hermione Granger, and I’m…” He gestured vaguely at himself, a worn grey jumper over pyjama bottoms, hair sticking up at odd angles. His family name, his family shame: all of it heavy on narrow shoulders. “She’d never want to be with me.”
Dulcis let out a long sigh. “Nonsense, my dear boy. Léchette did not care for family name nor reputation! She loved me, and I her, for no other reason than our souls made each others’ soar.”
“That’s– You can’t compare–” Draco scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Granger is a war hero who was tortured in my family home .”
“Well she survived, didn’t she?”
“Urgh that is NOT the point! Can’t you…can’t you find someone else to haunt? My mother perhaps? Theo’s here often enough, go bug him.”
“Why would I ever do that, great-great-great nephew!” Dulcis said brightly. “You really are my favorite Malfoy to haunt thus far. The others were all so dreary. Your father, your grandfather – dreadful company. No romance in their souls.”
“Go away,” Draco groaned, but Dulcis only drifted closer, peering into Draco’s empty teacup like he expected to find biscuits hidden there.
“I see a basket…yes. And a clover! There, at the top of the cup! Happiness and prosperity with…if I am remembering my divination correctly, a basket means a new addition to the family!” Dulcis waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “ Bonne chance, my boy, the fates are in your favour, it seems.”
Draco let out a strangled groan before grabbing a handful of biscuits and stalking out of the kitchen.
Dulcis chuckled to himself, hands on his rotund belly. “I’ll get to him yet.”
Draco had hoped, foolishly, that ignoring Uncle Dulcis would make him stop.
It did not.
If anything, Dulcis seemed only more determined and, much to Draco’s horror, bolder.
The first time Hermione encountered him was a Tuesday morning in January. She’d come by the Manor to collect a set of rare law books for a Ministry case they were working on. The snow falling heavily outside piled thick against the windows while the wind rattled the panes like bones in a box.
Draco met her in the foyer, half awake, hair still damp from a quick morning shower. He was halfway through mumbling something about the books being in the east library when he felt the sudden unnatural chill that always preceded an unwanted visit from the porkiest of the Malfoy ghosts.
Hermione was flicking stray snowflakes from her hair which were clinging stubbornly to the wild halo around her face. Her red peacoat brought out the pink in her cold flushed cheeks. Draco thought this might be his favorite color on her, despite the…Gryffindor-ness. And it was at that moment that Uncle Dulcis appeared behind Hermione’s shoulder like a conjured mist, beaming at Draco with a look that could only mean trouble.
“Why hello, dear girl!” Dulcis said brightly, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “You must be chilled through. Tea, perhaps? Or breakfast? A warm bed?”
Hermione jumped at the sudden intrusion and took several steps back before glancing at Draco, eyebrow arched.
“A warm bed?” she repeated.
Draco closed his eyes. “Uncle Dulcis…”
“Yes?” Dulcis said innocently. “I thought she might stay! It’s dreadful out, and this Manor is enormous. So many unused bedrooms… Or, if you prefer…” Here he shot Draco a scandalized look. “The Lord of the Manor’s room would suffice, I think. Very modern, comfortable.”
“For Merlin’s sake!” Draco half-choked. “Absolutely not!”
“Oh, my dear, but where are my manners? I am this pale one’s great-great-great, etc. Uncle Dulcis Malfoy. I have heard ever so much about you, and am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Dulcis tipped his head in a respectful bow.
Hermione laughed a bright, startled guffaw that bounced off the portraits lining the hall. Some of them woke up just to glare at her.
“Hermione Granger. Very pleased to meet you, sir.” She beamed, turning to one very red-faced Draco Malfoy. “Your uncle is charming,” she said, wiping a snowflake off her nose. “Is this the same one who left me that note about gardenia and myrtle during the Woodham case?”
Dulcis puffed up, preening. “Indeed! And I stand by every word. Gardenia for secret love! Myrtle for marriage! So romantic!” He drifted closer, running a finger through her windblown curls. “Perhaps we add orange blossoms next: fertility and fruitful unions, you know. The Malfoy line could use volume and wave in their hair, I think. Is your hair naturally this curly? Perhaps we can have some little ones with platinum blonde curls around here soon, hmm?”
Hermione laughed again, a light blush appearing on her cheeks. Draco thought he might actually collapse on the spot.
Draco cleared his throat, “Right, okay, we will be going to the East Library and will need to be undisturbed for our research. We will talk this afternoon, Uncle Dulcis. Good day.”
Hermione gave an small amused wave to Dulcis as Draco hurriedly ushered her down the hall.
A week later, Draco arrived at the Ministry archives, two coffees in hand. Hermione was already there, surrounded by stacks of well-read parchment, quill tapping at the corner of her mouth as she read.
“Morning,” Draco said, trying to sound casual as he set the coffees down and shrugged off his scarf.
Hermione looked up, her eyes bright. “Morning, Malfoy. Oh, thank Merlin you brought coffee…Lavender brewed the office’s this morning. I’m not entirely sure how she can make coffee taste like burnt bubotober pus, but she has that method down pat.”
He snorted softly and was just about to settle opposite her when the flutter of wings filled the quiet reading room. A large grey eagle owl swooped through the half-open window, nearly knocking over a stack of old ledgers.
It dropped a wicker basket squarely in the middle of their table with a faint thud. Tied to the handle was a satin blue ribbon and a little handwritten card that Draco recognized immediately. The owl hooted once, very smugly, he thought, and fluffed its feathers before taking off again, scattering stray parchment in its wake.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Expecting a delivery?”
Draco furrowed his eyebrows, examining the basket. “No, I don’t believe so.”
Hermione reached for the card first, her fingers gently turning it over. She read aloud, amusement curling her voice:
Good day, love birds.
I had the Manor elves prepare a wonderfully romantic morning picnic for the two of you. My beloved Léchette adored canellés and elven Sauternes. I have also included the highest quality oysters so you may begin working on the platinum blonde curly haired children.
With love and hope,
Uncle Dulcis
“I didn’t–” Draco began helplessly. “I absolutely did not– What?!”
But Hermione was already opening the basket. Inside: delicate cannelés, tiny fruit tarts dusted with sugar, an admittedly very large container of oysters, and a small bouquet of red tulips tucked neatly among the napkins.
She laughed and pulled out a pastry, breaking it in half. “Well, if you’re going to be haunted by a ghost, at least he feeds you well.”
Draco buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Hermione popped a piece of tart into her mouth, eyes dancing. “Don’t be. I quite like him.” She nudged the basket closer to him. “He does know I’m a muggleborn, though, doesn’t he? I’m not sure he’d be so fond of me if he knew.”
“His first love was a muggleborn, actually. Léchette. He talks about her all the time. They had a secret love affair for quite some time. They were engaged at one point, but she died of dragon pox before they could be married.” He sighed, “One of the few good Malfoys.”
Hermione placed one hand gently over his. “You’re one of the good Malfoys, too, you know.” She smiled at him and squeezed gently on his hand. "From what I gather, Dulcis isn’t a fan of your father, or his father.”
“Hah, no…he said they were dreadful. Dark. Boring.” Draco perked up. “You know he used to spike Voldie’s food when he stayed at the Manor? During the first AND second wars… I didn’t find out until after my house arrest ended. My father always assumed Voldemort just had GI issues from the amount of dark magic he performed daily. But nope,” he said, with a hard pop at the end of the word. “Uncle Dulcis put senna in his meals every so often.” Draco chuckled. “Lord Voldemort had terrible diarrhea.”
Another month passed. The basket stunt had done its damage, Draco could feel it every time Hermione looked at him over a file, a devious smile and a knowing glint in her eye. She teased him mercilessly. She stayed longer at the Manor each visit, wandering the halls with a cup of tea in hand like she belonged there. Dulcis, meanwhile, had grown downright gregarious.
He’d taken to floating around Hermione as she conducted her research in the library, humming love songs from an era no living soul remembered. Once, Hermione caught him trying to spread rose petals around the settee in the library where she and Draco would read together. He claimed they were for “atmosphere.”
Draco found him one night trying to drag the ancient Malfoy wedding cloak, pure white silk, embroidered with a thousand family runes in platinum thread, out of the attic and into the guest bedroom that had become unofficially Hermione’s as she spent longer and longer nights in the Malfoy library researching..
“Absolutely not,” Draco hissed, arms crossed as Dulcis struggled with the heavy fabric. “Put that back this instant.”
“But think how dashing you’ll look!” Dulcis wailed, the cloak trailing behind him like a shimmering fog. “Léchette would have loved this. Hermione will too!”
“WHY can you pick things up now?! Are you a poltergeist? No cloaks. No petals. Go haunt someone else. Theo is desperately in love with a half-blood – is that close enough? Go meddle elsewhere, she doesn’t want me .”
But Dulcis only grinned, letting the cloak fall onto the floorboards. “Too late, my boy. The house has already accepted her as Mistress. She’s already family.”
“What do you mean by that?” Malfoy cried.
Dulcis gave him a look so smug Draco wanted to throw something straight through him. The ghost drifted backwards, hands folded over his belly, and vanished through the floor with a soft, satisfied hum.
“Dulcis!” Draco hissed at the empty space. “Get back here! What do you mean?”
The Manor only creaked in reply.
He didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. By the third evening, he wasn’t sure he even remembered what rest felt like. He stumbled into the library to find Hermione exactly where she always was now: curled into a fortress of pillows and open books, quill tapping against her bottom lip.
“Find anything?” he asked wearily, dropping onto the couch beside her.
“A few things.” She didn’t look up, just scribbled a note in the margin of an ancient law book.
Draco sighed and let his head fall back against the cushions.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Just tired.” Draco replied, dragging a hand down his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of silver and deep blue on Hermione’s right hand. He blinked. Squinted. Sat bolt upright.
“Where did you get that ?”
Hermione looked up, frowning at him over her reading glasses. “Hm? This?” She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers, the two-carat sapphire winking under the lamplight. “Mipsy gave it to me a few days ago. Presented it to me on this adorable tiny pillow and said it was made just for me. I assumed you or your ghost uncle told her to give me a gift.”
Draco made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a strangled groan. Of course. He burst out laughing and Hermione stared at him like he’d sprouted feathers.
“Mipsy!” Draco called. There was a soft pop and the little elf appeared in front of him, bowing low.
“Master Draco. Mistress Hermione. How may Mipsy serve you?”
“Mistress?!” Hermione squeaked, eyes wide staring at the elf like it had grown a second head.
Draco pressed a palm to his forehead. “Did you give Hermione this ring?”
“Yes, Master Draco.”
“Who told you to give it to her?”
Mipsy tilted her head in confusion. “No one, sir.”
“No one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why?”
Mipsy beamed. “It was hers. The house magic knew. It was time.”
Hermione let out a shaky laugh, waving her hand like the ring might burn her. “So the house magic recognizes me? Did this ring… Are we married?!”
Draco startled. “What? No! Merlin, no. It’s just the Malfoy betrothal ring. It’s symbolic. It signals the family magic to check for our compatibility. If there is poor compatibility, the ring would fall off. I could take it off you right now if you wanted.”
Hermione stared at the sapphire, then at him, her cheeks pink. “Do you want to?”
He froze, heart hammering in his chest. “Do I want to…take it off?,” he asked hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Not if you don’t.”
Silence. Then Hermione’s face broke into a wide smile and she scooted closer to him.
“Well then,” she replied softly. “Since we’re apparently almost engaged, you might as well ask me on a proper date, Draco.”
Draco laughed, the sound rough and surprised, because for some godsforsaken reason, she wanted him. She wanted him!
He took her hand, ring and all, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Have dinner with me?” he murmured. “A real date. At a restaurant.” He glanced around, looking for Uncle Dulcis. “Outside the manor.”
Hermione’s grin softened. “About time.”
A year later, the Manor bloomed under pale spring light. The long gallery gleamed with fresh garlands, the house-elves fussed over silver trays, and the ancient stones seemed to hum with warmth so great it was hard to remember the Manor as a dark, evil place.
In the greenhouse, Draco stood at the altar, his sweaty hands fidgeting in white gloves Narcissa had insisted were only proper. The tall green glass doors opened as a quartet played a tune, and Hermione stepped out in a shimmering white silk ball gown flanked on either side by Roger and Jean Granger. Draco wondered how he’d ever gotten so lucky.
High in the shadows of the carved beams, Dulcis drifted in gentle loops through the ivy that had grown up to the ceiling of the centuries old greenhouse. He watched Draco reach for Hermione’s hand, watched him place the sapphire ring back where it belonged, for good this time.
And when the vows were spoken, the rituals completed, when the guests rose and cheered, Dulcis felt a whisper-soft touch at his side.
He turned. There she was: Léchette. Her smile was young as it had ever been, dark wavy hair cascading down her back. She held out her hand, and Dulcis, who had waited nearly four centuries to see a Malfoy choose love over legacy, drifted into her warmth at last.
Together, they faded into the Manor’s lush gardens, leaving nothing behind but laughter, the sweet scent of wedding cake, and the promise that love will always win.
FIN
