NOTE:
This collection of fics was originally posted on my lj as part of my Pick a Fic: Round II, in which posters could pick a plot bunny and prompt for me to write. The response was… more than I expected. None of these one-shots is connected to the previous in any way (except for Regarding Hair as a short follow-up to Love & War), and I experimented with different styles and tones throughout. I don't think it worked out too well, but... I don't think it particularly bothers me anymore either.

Mother Malfoy
astarvingwriter

Standard Disclaimer Applies
Author's Plea: Originally as part of Pick a Fic: Round II on my lj for the prompts picked by phaet:
Bunny #53 Abraxas Malfoy may be dead but his wife is still every bit as codgy and controlling. Mother Malfoy takes it upon herself to find her 'wayward' son a new wife. with Prompt 083. And
As always, enjoy if you can.

Lucius Malfoy liked to think that his mother was dead. All contact with the strange and dour woman had been severed long ago, and he hadn't even bothered to inform her of Draco's birth.

He even went so far as telling other people that she had died near the same time as his father, a lie that was aided by her self imposed seclusion after Abraxas was entombed. It also helped that she had never been a particularly friendly woman and therefore suffered no great number of acquaintances --acquaintances who accepted Lucius' statement of her death with little more than a sigh of relief. He very much mirrored their relief –his mother was demanding and eccentric, two traits that never bode well. The world was much better off without her.

Lucius Malfoy was so fond of thinking his mother was dead that he actually came to believe it a bit himself. After all, as they hadn't communicated in three decades, she might very well be.

Thus it was a grand surprise when Lucius entered his parlour Christmas evening to find the witch in all her outdated finery sitting in his favourite chair.

"Son," she stated without a hint of preposition.

"Mother," he responded tersely once he had stilled his frightened heart.

"If dear Abraxas was alive… The curtains are atrocious, and your cravat is crooked. Surely that woman knows better."

"That woman was my wife."

"And a right terrible one at that, I always tell him. Always leaving the elves to tend to you. So lax in her duties and too focused on herself. And the worst sense of style of anyone short of a Mudblood. Really, yellow with her colouring?"

"It hardly matters now. Narcissa has... left."

"Always suspected she would. That one always had her eyes open. Only a matter of time."

"She is not discrediting herself with another man, mother. She is merely spending time with her sister Andromeda and attempting to distance herself as much from her past life and misdeeds as possible."

"She is discrediting you all the same by not staying. You need a true wife, my son, and not some flouncy aristocrat."

"Has it escaped your notice that you are an aristocrat?"

"Not where it mattered. I could tie a cravat, even while wearing a petticoat. She could not say the same. She had no care for details other than those embroidered on her hem. She was not a wife."

Lucius could only close his eyes with weariness as his mother took up the old argument right where they had left it off. This time he could not even argue with her. Narcissa was a beautiful woman and very useful indeed, but her command of the house elves only extended to her interests, leaving him with unpolished shoes a good deal. It was annoying at best and downright sulk-worthy at worst.

"Very well, mother. What would you have me do?"

"I would have you find a new wife. However, as I see you are incapable, I shall have to lend my own hand."

And at that moment, despite his associations with Voldemort --twice even!--, despite his capture at the hands of fools and children, despite his short residence in Azkaban, Lucius felt cold despair for the first time.

His mother had been busy during her seclusion. She had still received and thoroughly read the Daily Prophet with precision that was to be envied or pitied. Through its pages, she had been able to keep up with the goings on in the world outside, even if it took a bit of inferring from what the text actually stated. She well knew his disgrace and punishment and subsequent escape from justice.

She knew everything and told him as such plainly and with no little amount of disappointment. He was astonished to find he could still feel hurt by that tone of voice.

Unfortunately, she had kept abreast with more than just events and politics. His mother had also composed quite a collection of folders regarding important witches, one of whom she hoped might make a better wife for him. The selection was varied and more than once he had to surreptitiously toss a folder and its contents into the fire in fear she might actually be considering the candidate. He was able to burn quite a few before his mother wizened up and made the folders inflammable.

In the end, after several days of arguing and threatening, his mother had the field narrowed down to 15 candidates from which he could select. He still argued that none among them was worthy.

"Mother, I have never even acknowledged half of these witches," he stated in a tone of voice far closer to an unruly teenager than a full grown man.

"Then you will acknowledge them at the Minister's New Year's Ball this Friday."

"Surely you jest."

"I do no such thing."

"I will not attend."

"We will attend, and that is all that will be said."

And she remained silent for the remaining days leading up to the event, something for which he was both gracious and cautious. After all, one could never tell what the old woman was plotting.

It was only as he grudgingly prepared for his first public appearance since the end of the war that she bothered speaking again.

"Your cravat is still crooked. You simply must find a wife tonight if you are to continue leading a life worth living."

At that, he could only sneer and hold still as she fussed about the state of his dress robes. By the time they were ready to Apparate, he was in pristine condition.

His pristine condition, he found as soon as they arrived at the Ball, was all but a joke. Wizarding fashion had apparently changed quite a bit since he had last made an effort at civilized conversation. The younger wizards around were quite simply and terribly attired, and the witches were absolutely scandalous. The only people properly dressed with a modicum of decency were himself, his mother, and a quiet young witch who sat at a table with a book and glass of wine.

His mother's attention was immediately caught, whether it was her respectable appearance, or the fineness with which she held her wine glass, or the care with which she pressed each page of her book smooth it was uncertain. All the social niceties were followed quickly, despite his attempts to drag out conversation, before he was not so much steered as pushed towards the reading woman.

Luckily, propriety forbid them from interrupting the woman at her activity. Instead, they could follow the tried and true rule: they conversed just loud enough to entice the woman to join them.

"I daresay Abraxas would have enjoyed this ball," his mother began in a voice intended to be overheard. "So many deluded souls to flatter and deceive."

"Mother, perhaps father's penchant for deception is not an appropriate topic."

"Would you rather I speak of his penchant for domesticating pigeons?"

"That was your hobby, Mother. Father preferred historically inaccurate accounts of Goblin wars."

A quick glance at the young woman showed her still staring fixedly at her book. However, all signs seemed to indicate that she was not actually reading it, instead paying attention to his conversation. He almost smirked at the sure win.

"He did enjoy his books, did he not? They were still in the library when I left."

"They remain still. I hardly wished to sully his memory."

"Oh, but Lucius, do you not remember your own hobby?"

He paled, becoming less a man of substance and more like a ghost.

"Perhaps now is not the proper time to speak of such things, Mother."

"Foolishness! I never saw such a hobby!"

"Mother, I have no qualms in hexing you should you continue this subject."

"But, the dolls! The porcelain dolls. Oh, the finery you would adorn them in! Such pretty things."

"Mother, please--"

"You were always so concerned about those dolls. Especially the little brown haired one. Abraxas always thought it strange, thought you were a bit flouncy."

"Mother--"

"Do you remember when he attempted to burn them? That was your first major display of magic, son. His wand flew right out of his hand and the dolls went safely behind the chaise. You did not even notice what you had done, too concerned were you about the dolls."

Lucius was near ready to explode with his embarrassed fury. His hand itched to take his wand and make certain the woman truly was dead this time. The only thing that stopped him was the stifled giggle that quickly became a hearty chuckle from the forgotten other occupant of the table.

"And what do you find so amusing, Miss?" he said sharply with no small bit of threat.

"Dolls? The great, despicable Lucius Malfoy played with dolls?"

His eyes flashed with rage as he struggled to keep from doing something stupid. After all, there were witnesses here.

"I hardly find that laughable," he ground out.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Still, quite unexpected. I believe you have just made my night entertaining. Now, if you excuse me, I believe the Under Secretary is requesting my presence."

And with a happy smile, she rose from her seat and set off towards the dance floor.

He was almost rid of the woman, and hopefully the experience was enough to convince his mother of the uselessness of her project. Whether he needed a wife or not was immaterial. There simply were no worthy candidates.

In fact, he was quite happily plotting the rest of his life, hopefully mother-free, when the young woman turned back to face him with her wand raised. His eyes widened in surprise even as she flicked it.

"My apologies, Mr. Malfoy. Your cravat was crooked. It was bothersome."

And with a happy little grin, she turned again and resumed her journey to the Under Secretary. It wasn't until after several long minutes of watching the young woman interact with the political attendees that he chanced a glance at his mother. The old woman was smiling quite victoriously.

"My son, I do believe we have found a wife for you."

The remainder of the evening and the following days were filled with his argument against the notion. However, even the woman's identity, when he finally learned it, was not enough to dissuade his mother. Hermione Granger was intelligent, articulate, and particular. Though she was more lax with her own everyday appearance, she was more than conscious of the shortcomings of others. In short, she was perfect.

Despite her heritage, or maybe even because of it, Hermione Granger soon became the focus of his mother's wooing on his behalf. They both fought the idea, but it mattered little. Two years saw them married and happily ensconced in the redecorated parlour of the Manor.

When Mother Malfoy, as she had been dubbed by Hermione, last looked in on them, it was a scene of domestic bliss. Lucius read the paper, and his new wife read her book while slowly stroking his arm. The yellow curtains had long since been replaced by a deep blue that flattered Lucius' colouring. His cravat was perfectly arranged.

He looked comfortable. He looked happy.

And really, she thought as she Apparated away, that was all she had ever wanted.