I'm not really too sure about this one - it may not make a whole lot of sense. But I hope you all understand the theme and what's going on. Thank you for giving this a read! I really appreciate your feedback and the opportunity to express my ideas with you, however crazy they may be. :)

Draco was never entirely healthy.

But it was always this way, ever since childhood. No doctor or medical witch could ever place a name for his condition, so they attributed it to "stress" and "anxiety". There wasn't any specific cure. Countless times Draco was brought into a room alone with a medical witch or wizard and asked a series of questions (which he was encouraged to answer truthfully) as to why he was nervous all the time and that sort. After getting nothing really triggering out of him, they gave up—simply telling his parents to care for him the best as possible.

Narcissa rocked her little baby silently in the nursery early one summer morning. She'd been up for hours with him—he'd awoken crying and throwing up, an absolute mess of a six-month-old. It was unclear to her why such a young child could be healthy all day until the night when he was plagued by prolonged instances of illness. Her eyelids drooped as she rocked Draco back and forth in the rocking chair. He was making his usual little baby-babbling sounds as he nursed his pacifier, seemingly a little better than he previously appeared to be. Though she was exhausted and felt she needed a bath, Narcissa smiled lovingly at him. It wasn't his fault he just needed her sometimes.

Lucius slammed his hand down on the kitchen table, fury raging in his eyes. "And you think that it's a choice of mine to do his bidding over extended periods of time?!" he shouted. Narcissa tilted her chin up defiantly. "You certainly did have a choice when accepting the role of a Death Eater however many years ago!" she argued.

"That was before we were even married! Before I knew you!"

"Then you were foolish to not anticipate a family life!"

Lucius and Narcissa began arguing with each other simultaneously. The fight had begun when Narcissa blamed him for not coming home to spend the weekend with Draco like he'd promised. Of the two parental Death Eaters in the Malfoy family, she had less biddings from the Dark Lord than her husband because of her motherly duties. It didn't please her to be yelled at by her husband for this reason. Their argument continued on relentlessly, words and accusations biting.

Draco sat on the floor of his room, just a floor above where the argument was staged, hands covering his little ears and tears streaming down his face. He'd abandoned the puzzle he had been working on. It was difficult for the eight-year-old to understand why his parents fought so viciously sometimes—he couldn't fathom their role in the Wizarding World. As he listened to them shift their topic to something regarding him and this ominous role, he felt dizzy. He never wanted to be the cause of their fighting. Never. The room spun all around him, the lights got very bright and then very dim, everything seemed unstable. Draco panicked. He shakily stood up to try to get to the door so he could call for one of them. And hopefully break up the fighting. His little hands desperately clawed for the handle. But suddenly, it felt like a block of lead dropped into his stomach, and caused his knees to buckle. He hit the floor hard in a faint.

The fighting stopped, mainly because Lucius and Narcissa heard a loud thump from above them. The parents rushed up the staircase to investigate the cause of the alarming noise. Upon finding Draco all sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath through constricted airways, Narcissa screamed. She ordered for Lucius to stay with him while she fetched a doctor. Lucius took Draco into his arms carefully. "What's the matter?" he asked casually. Draco shook violently from his fainting scare and the fact that his parents were still mad at each other. "I…I hate the fighting…" he whimpered through his tears. Lucius stayed very still. "You collapsed because you were nervous about the fighting?"

"I was scared…"

"Draco, you must be stronger than that. Things are going to scare you in life that have nothing to do with you, and you can't get sick every time you encounter them. I hope that for eight years I haven't raised a weak boy."

Draco's eyes widened. He suddenly felt like bawling—his father didn't believe he was strong. "N-No, Father." he gasped. "I'm not weak."
"Then prove it to me. Because as of right now…I think otherwise." Lucius snapped. Draco nodded. He vowed to himself that from then on, he would never appear to be the weakest one in the room. Ever. Three years later when he began attending Hogwarts, he wanted to be sure that everyone knew he was strong—tough. He bullied. He snapped. He argued. He studied hard. Draco Malfoy was not only trying to prove himself to his peers, but mainly to his father.

And when he wasn't bullying or snapping or arguing or studying…he was lying in his bed or hiding somewhere secluded—shaking, pacing, throwing up. Draco Malfoy was still sick, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

In his sixth year, Draco became completely and noticeably stricken with his illness. He didn't even attempt to conceal it. His hair thinned. He lost weight. He stayed up for hours which earned him dark shadows beneath his eyes. Sure he would eat at mealtimes. But shortly afterward, he was forced to run to the boys' bathroom and empty his stomach, all by himself on the cold floor. He was just so nervous about everything. He was in too far over his head.

Draco limply sank to his knees in the second-floor boys' bathroom one winter evening. The stress of his mission was wreaking havoc on his poor body, giving him all sorts of troubles with eating, sleeping, and attentiveness. He barely bullied anyone (much less even talked to them) and had recently become the subject of some tormenting because of his condition. Draco hung his head as he sat there on the floor. He could barely keep himself conscious. His stomach made a whining sound, as if it were begging to be filled again and then harshly empty itself in the same routine as if it were just trying to torture him. Footsteps entered the bathroom. "Someone's in here," he heard one boy whisper to another. Draco weakly turned a bit to see who it was. A Ravenclaw and a Gryffindor.

They nudged each other. "It's just Malfoy," the Gryffindor giggled. "Someone should just section off that corner stall over there and only allow him in it, considering he's constantly occupying it!" sneered the Ravenclaw. Draco wiped his face with his sleeve to be sure no throw-up remained on his face. "Hey, Malfoy!" the Ravenclaw continued. "Want me to bring you your bed so you can just live in that stall?" Both boys cackled. Draco hid his face from them. "Hey, Malfoy!" the Gryffindor joined in. "I'd offer to bring you some food with your bed, but you'll probably just end up puking it anyway, so why waste it?" They roared with laughter. Draco honestly considered pulling out his wand and hexing them both, but his lack of energy prevented him from even reaching. "What's Daddy going to say when he finds out you aren't like the other boys? Hm?" jeered the Ravenclaw. "G-Get...Go a-away..." Draco attempted to snarl. But he just couldn't even produce the façade of being strong anymore. "Ooh, Daddy's going to be quite upset, I can tell! You're not making him very proud, Draco; acting like a little girl. Maybe Mummy will be disappointed in you too...wait, she doesn't even really do much except take orders from everyone else. So she'll probably be either very upset because your father is, or she'll cuddle you wike a wittle babyyy." they went on. Draco's eyes burned with tears. Oh, what he would do to them. He would make them pay for what they said about his mother. Pay the ultimate price. But he currently had absolutely no power whatsoever. He slumped down, curled up in a ball until the two boys left. Once he was sure they were gone, he leaned forward and threw up again in disgust at his pathetic attempt to fight them off. His father would not be proud of him, he was sure.

Draco shook and shivered violently in his sleep, letting out an occasional moan. He thrashed onto his left side. In his dream, he was picturing all of the moments that hurt him the most in his life: he saw his own father hexing him to 'make him stronger'; he saw Potter winning the first Quidditch game; he saw his father being dragged to Azkaban; he watched his mother crying endlessly in lonesomeness; he saw the dead baby bird in his hands after taking it out of the Vanishing Cabinet; he saw the Dark Mark burning into his forearm; he saw the final Battle of Hogwarts. Just as he had a Dementor come swooping into his dream, he was awakened hastily by a pair of gentle yet urgent hands shaking his thin arm. His eyes flew open. A pair of soft green eyes peered back at him through the darkness. "Love," Astoria whispered. "It was only a dream." She was used to this sort of event in the nights—Draco was plagued often by nightmares. He sat up, wrapping his arms around himself. He was having trouble catching his breath as the room spun around him in erratic circles. Astoria pulled him close to her. "It's alright, love." she whispered. Draco clasped his clammy hands around hers. "I feel faint…" he gasped.

Astoria reached for her wand and summoned a glass of cool water to the bedside table. She raised it to his lips, allowing for him to take as small of sips as he could handle. Silence passed. A deep, long silence. Astoria continued just rocking her husband back and forth. Draco let out a sigh and turned to face her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. She cocked her head. "Whatever for?"

"For always waking you because of my nightmares. And forcing you to care for me."

"Draco, I never mind waking to care for you. That's nonsense. Don't you ever feel for a moment that you are bothering me."

"The husband is supposed to be the strong one—the one that cares for his family. I can't…I can't even care for myself."

"What gives you that idea? Draco, don't you see how much better you've been doing though? You don't throw up nearly as much as when we started dating. And the only time you're sick is when you have nightmares."

"Which is frequently,"

"But who's to say that in a few years, you won't even have them at all? You just need to let go a little bit more. You're doing wonderful already, but over time, you'll get even better."

"I think I'm having the nightmares because I'm just worried about Scorpius starting at Hogwarts as a first-year."

"I think so too. But he's ready. We're ready. Everything will be fine, alright?"

Draco nodded. His wife gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, then leaned him back against the pillow. His shaking had eased a bit. "Do you feel like pacing, or do you want to just go back to bed?" she asked. Often after having a nightmare, Draco soothed himself by walking back and forth around the length of the room for at least an hour. But this time, he shook his head. "I think I'm ready to just go to sleep." he answered. Astoria lovingly stroked his arm as he closed his eyes. "I'm proud of you," she breathed. Immediately, Draco felt something inside of him lift. He'd finally heard the words he'd been waiting to hear all of his life. Not that he was weak, or that he was 'doing better', or that he was 'being good'. But that someone was finally, entirely proud of him.

No matter what he was.