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The most common use for Ashwinder eggs are in potions meant to simulate and instigate the effects of love in the imbiber. It is for this reason, as well as its extreme flammability, that Ashwinder eggs are considered—
"Screw this!" The lanky blond boy, previously hunched over a book, hurled said book across his room in frustration. Growling, he pushed himself out of the chair and began pacing his gilded cage rapidly. It was a luxurious room, by all means. He'd grown up in this room, with its enormous bed and marble bathroom attached. But right now, it was his prison and he wanted out. Stalking over to the windows, he yanked open the curtains and peered out. When he'd been a young boy and his parents had been arguing again, loudly and bitterly, he'd squeezed out of his bedroom window clutching his broom and launched himself out carelessly to the winds. Now, Draco Malfoy could only press his forehead helplessly against the windows the Aurors had sealed shut magically and stare fiercely at the burnished-blue sky that mocked him.
I should be pitifully happy right now. In fact, if I were Pettigrew, I'd be groveling at Potter's feet. After all, it was Potter who spoke up for Mother and I. If he hadn't, we'd be in Azkaban like Father, and I don't think either of us are cut out for life in a real prison. No, Draco knew that Potter—however much he hated the boy who had torn apart his life—had saved his life during the Battle of Hogwarts, and most probably saved him from slowly dying in Azkaban. His mother would have gone even quicker in that environment. Lucius was made of stronger stuff. He'd survive, at least until they took him to the Dementors. That announcement, the unanimous decision of the Wizgamot, had arrived yesterday. Lucius Malfoy, sentenced to be Kissed in two weeks. His mother had not stopped crying since then. Draco only felt cold, cold until he could barely move, his hands and feet numb with some queer ailment or other.
Mother looks wrong somehow without Father next to her, he'd thought randomly when they told him of his father's verdict. She'd been acquitted and only heavily fined for "fraternizing with the enemy" because she'd never borne the mark and because she'd helped Potter at the crucial moment, disguising his return to life. He didn't think she'd survive his father.
They'd been under house arrest for a month, he and Mother. No, not even as kind as house arrest, considering what had taken place and who had fouled the Manor. There were certain rooms they could go into—his, Mother's, a small and unused parlor, the kitchen. The house-elves had stayed, though Mother had been forced to give them clothes. Draco didn't know why. None of the Malfoys had been particularly kind or considerate to them. Yet they remained, and no Ministry official could budge them from their place. It didn't matter anyway, there would probably be no acting head of the Malfoys by the end of the month. My trial was held two days ago. They will have reached a decision soon, soon, soon, soon.
It pounded in his mind, over and over again. Soon, they'll send a messenger to tell me what my fate is. Soon I'll leave this limbo. Soon my father will have his soul sucked out and I'll have to watch. Soon—
The door creaked, and he jumped and whirled, hand automatically seeking for a wand that wasn't there, hadn't been there since Potter had taken his and the Ministry had taken Mother's.
"Mother. You gave me a surprise." He tried to calm his wildly beating heart, and flattened his hair in an attempt to look half-groomed. He'd stopped really caring about his appearance anyhow. No one was there to fault him for not dressing the part of a Malfoy anymore. But his mother's presence reminded him uncomfortably of how much he looked like his father, and his father was never anything less than properly dressed and elegant.
"Draco." She tried to smile, and managed a weak upturning of the corners of her chapped lips. Narcissa had been a beauty once, before the tolls of hosting a monster in her own home and never knowing when any of her family could be made the next example had painted dark circles under her eyes and the beginnings of wrinkles on her face. At least she had stopped crying, Draco observed detachedly.
"Yes, Mother?"
"I- wanted to give you this. I don't know what they will decide for you, but I'd like to hope that Harry Potter will remember that you are the same age as him. And- Happy Birthday, my son." She held out a small box, manicured hands trembling. She is much thinner than last year. Almost skeletal.
Then he registered what she had said. Birthday. Oh. He'd forgotten, forgotten his own birthday in the frozen state of fog he'd been in since they'd taken his father away. Or perhaps he'd been lost in the fog since he'd first stood before the beast that called himself lord of us all, and been told to kill.
Conscious of his own dirty and gnawed on nails, a contrast next to his mother's—especially when they shared the same gaunt features and pale skin—he reached out, and tentatively took the box. It was surprisingly light.
Looking up at his mother, he caught her expression of grief before she composed herself, and he knew that despite his ragged state, she'd seen his father in him at that moment.
"Draco, my boy, come fly with your old daddy will you?" A younger Lucius swept a young boy, perhaps four or five, up onto his shoulders, calling back through the giggles coming from above him. "Cissa, Draco and I are going flying!"
"Be careful of Draco, Lucius! Don't let him fall!" She called back from the dining hall where she was surveying the flower arrangements and place settings for the party later tonight.
"Yes, Cissa."
"Daddy won't let me fall, Mummy! Right, Daddy? Daddy can we do the fun thing when we nearly fall but don't?"
"Shh, don't tell your mum that I've flown that move with you on the broom! She'll have my hide!"
"But can we Daddy?"
"Yes, if you promise to hold on tight to the broom."
"I don't need to, Daddy. You squeeze me too much for anything to happen, until I feel all out of shape. Daddy, I want my own broomstick for my birthday tomorrow."
"You're a little young for it, Draco."
"Pleeease? Everyone else has one already!"
"Pansy doesn't."
"Pansy don't like flying!"
"Pansy doesn't, Draco. Speak properly, please."
"Yes, sir. But Pansy don- doesn't. She's scared of heights. She's scared of everything, even a kneazle. I saw her scream when one ran at her once. Did you know?"
"Draco. Draco." He snapped out of his memory, and smiled painfully at his mother. She didn't ask what he'd been doing a million miles away. It was something they danced around, like they avoided the topic of Lucius, of her trial, of his. Of the entire past two years.
Taking a breath, he opened the palm-sized box and wiggled his fingers through the tissue paper until his skin met glass. Curious, he pulled it out carefully.
His father peered back at him, haughty and nervous at the same time. On closer examination, Draco saw the reason why. In the silently moving framed picture, a young Lucius Malfoy was cradling a newborn baby—Draco—while from the bed beside him, an exhausted Narcissa looked on at her two boys proudly. Draco tensed, staring at the image.
His family. His birth. He'd never seen this before, most likely because it didn't show off the Malfoy family as rich, or clever, or attractive, or any of the other reasons they'd taken a family portrait. His family had never subscribed to the take-a-thousand-baby-pictures phenomenon that most parents went through.
"We had S- Severus take that picture for us when you were finally born. It took you so long to come out, Lucius had brought every nurse in that ward to tears, and sent the mediwizard nearly fleeing for his life. But then you came, and cried, and they cleaned you up and plopped you in his arms, and he froze up and stared at you like you were an alien. He was just finally relaxing and realizing he wasn't going to kill you by holding you when Severus snuck that picture."
His mother's voice broke at the end, and without removing his eyes from the precious frame, he set the box down on his bed and reached out to grasp her clammy hand. They stood there, mother and son, both watching as Lucius gently stroked his newborn child with an emotion akin to awe, threw a glance at Narcissa that was as full of love as it was wordless, and glared up at anyone observing his momentary lapse of dignity.
So this is another gift from you, Professor Snape. You always tried your best to protect me, I know. Even when father was turning the place upside-down with his newfound fervor with the Dark Lord, you knew how to make me understand that I hadn't been replaced in his favor, or forgotten. You saved me when I couldn't murder, and took my sins for your own burden. And all the time, you were grieving still for someone who'd never loved you back. Lily Potter was a fool when she rejected you, Professor Snape. May you rest in peace, whatever there is after death…
And like an echo, an acerbic reply seemed to reverberate around his mind, Take care of your mother, Draco. You'll soon be all that she has in the world. Be the man I know you can be, and not the spoiled brat you were in school, or the scared boy who was forced to obey the whims of a madman. Live, Draco.
"I could still be sentenced to Azkaban for life," Draco murmured to the memory of his former teacher and protector.
"Have faith, Draco. You were a young boy forced into service to a powerful tyrant. They'll understand that." His mother answered, unaware that he'd been speaking to an absent ghost.
"I stood by and did nothing, Mother. I actively spread propaganda for anti-muggleborn sentiments, nearly killed Katie Bell, let the death eaters into Hogwarts, attempted to murder the headmaster, Imperius'd Madame Rosmerta, and tried to stop Potter during the battle. I think that's quite enough to get me sentenced for life, if not enough for the Dementor's Kiss."
His mother was silent, but her grip on his hand was fierce. Carefully, reverently, Draco placed the picture that Severus Snape had somehow reached out from beyond death and given to him through his mother onto his desk. He removed his hand from his mother's clasp after squeezing it a little. "Mother, I think I'd like some time to myself to- think. Thank you for your present."
"You're welcome, Draco. I-" she paused. Draco looked inquiringly at her.
"I- you've always made Lucius and I proud, Draco. We've never stopped. He would sacrifice anything for you, as would I. I just wanted you to know that. We love you, Draco."
Slowly, he turned to his mother. "Mother-" his breath caught, and he was embarrassed to hear a distinct sob.
He tried again. "Mother, you- I- I love you both as well."
Perhaps it had been the magic password to some locked-away part of himself, he didn't know. But when he had said those words, it was as if the emotions hidden in some fortress within his mind broke loose, and Draco realized that the wetness on his face must be tears, and that he was crying in gasps and his mother was hugging him like she hadn't hugged him since he was a little boy and had scraped his knee.
"I don't want Father to die!"
"Shh, Draco. Hush. It's okay. We're going to be okay. He'd want us to show those bastards what Malfoys are made out of, that one death isn't going to bring us all down. We'll be okay, somehow."
It was, perhaps, the most inopportune time for the Auror to clear his throat. Draco's head shot up, and he swiped at his face ineffectually.
The Auror was the same person who had first sealed all escape routes in the Manor and escorted them into their own home. Dupont, his name was, if Draco was not mistaken. He had a blank expression, and carried a scroll which he passed to Narcissa when he saw that he'd been noticed. "Mrs Malfoy, here is the final verdict for your son's trial. I'll leave you two to your privacy now, but I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
The man left, and Narcissa held out the scroll to Draco, who shook his head. "No, Mother, you read it."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
She unrolled it shakily, and her eyes darted down through the formal jargon to the decision down at the bottom, which she read out.
"Judged: Guilty on one count of performing an unforgivable, two counts of endangerment to fellow students, and one count of attacking a headmaster.
Wizgamot vote: For endangerment to fellow peers, a fine of five thousand galleons to be paid to injured parties, Katie Bell and Hogwarts School, respectively.
For performing an unforgivable, a fine of ten thousand galleons to be paid to the injured party, Christie Rosmerta, proprietor of the Three Broomsticks.
For attacking with intent to murder Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, five years of hard labor in a dragon-reserve in Romania learning the value of all life, under the guard of Order member Charlie Weasley and Auror Aidan Dupont, beginning in two weeks."
There was a disbelieving moment, and then his mother's face entirely transformed. "You're not going to Azkaban!"
"I'm- I'm not?" Draco wasn't sure he'd heard right. Surely Mother had to be wrong. He'd done so many things. Even one unforgivable curse should have landed him in Azkaban forever. How had he gotten away so lightly? A cruel joke. Someone trying to crush my mother and I.
But no one was coming to tell him that it was all false, and drag him away to jail. The scroll had ended there. And his mother was glowing the way she hadn't since the blasted world had fallen apart with the re-entrance of the Dark Lord.
"I'm free?" Free, his mind whispered.
"Yes! Draco, you're free!"
Madly, his mother grabbed his hands and started dancing and whooping in joy. The sight of his refined mother doing a jig like a little girl was perhaps what broke through his dawning realization, and without further ado he threw away his own Malfoy arrogance and began to dance as well.
"I'm coming with you, Draco." His mother panted as they pranced like idiots in his bedroom.
"What?"
"To the dragon reserve. Romania. I'm coming with you in two weeks, when they ship you off to work there for your sentence."
"But Mother-"
She interrupted him, slowing in their wild dance and sitting down on his bed. She patted the spread next to her, and he plopped down as well. "Draco, there'll be nothing left here for me. This Manor has too many fresh memories I don't want to remember every time I walk into the dining hall or the big parlor. Your inheritance from your father will be more than enough to cover the fines, and I still have my own money, which is plenty. I'll have the lawyer get rid of the Manor somehow, and we'll move to Romania. I just- I just don't want to be alone, Draco. In two weeks, your father-"
She stopped abruptly. Draco's mindless euphoria gave way to the familiar pain again. "I understand, Mother. It'll be hard for you, you understand? Both of us are used to money and luxury. We won't get that there."
"I know, Draco. It'll be worth it, and maybe a new start for us as well. Only Charlie Weasley and the Auror will have known us from before."
"Are you sure about this, Mother?"
"Yes. Your father would want me to do this." She was firm, and when she got that stubborn glint in her eye Draco knew no one would be able to change her mind.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's get Dupont downstairs to floo our lawyer!"
As the mother and son left the bedroom, Draco looked back at the picture on his table. Happy Birthday indeed, Draco.
A.N.: This piece was inspired by the Birthday Project on the Reviews Lounge. The topic was to claim a character and write a oneshot featuring them and the theme or word "birthdays". This story should also be posted on the Reviews Lounge profile page along with all the other authors' oneshots, as a collaboration.