This one-shot is inspired by the song Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell.
(I cry every time).

Also, just to add a TW for cancer. I'm sorry if this has affected you or your family in any shape or form, and i wish from the bottom of my heart you all well.

Thankyou.


Both Sides Now

The death of Hermione Jean Granger-Malfoy was one that shook the entire wizarding world: it seemed to Draco they mourned and mourned for weeks, but with a certain light-heartedness.

They mourned this mother, daughter and witch. Hermione was a witch that debased all previous hierarchy within the Ministry. Even with her OWLs and NEWTs, she changed the whole perspective on muggleborns (not that, the world soon discovered, they were any different at all).

But to Draco, Hermione's death was one that could only ever affect him. It was one that he could only ever cry over – one he could only ever stand at her grave and whisper things he wished he had said when she was alive and breathing and red with blush on her cheeks.

She was the only person he had ever cried over.

Not even his own father could make him cry, make the tears tumble down his sallow cheeks until they soaked into his collar until his face ached and ached. No, only Hermione caused Draco to feel human. Vulnerable. She was the only person he trusted to do so.

He only trusted her.

Her death, though, sparked anger within Draco, too. Anger at Hermione – a resentment so strong it thrummed in his veins, pulsed through his blood. It heated his face with rage. Perhaps some would call it jealousy – that Hermione did not have to live in a world without him; for it was the greatest pain of all.

Worse than the cruciatus curse; worse than having He Who Shall Not Be Named within his childhood home, sat at his family dinner table; worse than having his own mother turn against him simply because of who he loved; worse than having his father constantly disappointed in him – constantly having to see the sneer upon his father's face; worse than losing his friends; having the dark mark (a mistake he so solely hated himself upon).

The truth was, though, nothing was worse than living in a world where Hermione simply did not exist.

A world he woke up to that he hated. A world that did not know they were married; for they had eloped, with only close friends and family there. It pained Draco to exist in a world that did not know of Hermione's love for him, and his her's. It hollowed his stomach out, the dread of waking up in a world when she wouldn't be there, the freckles dusted along her nose and cheeks highlighted by the early morning sun, her hair an entanglement of evidence from the night before. It pained him to wake up, and not see her. It pained him to make tea in the morning.

When she first passed, he always made two.

Always.

And he hated himself for it; for believing that she was still alive, that she was dosing within the sheets of their bed. That she was there, forever, with Draco.

When he realised, he broke down. Right then and there in the middle of the kitchen that was now barely used. It was filled with muggle appliances she had taught him to use, but now, they sat unused and dust covered, reminding him of a time that was much better. A time when the house would glow simply because she was there.

It seemed to Draco that since she died the world was dimmer; the sun refused to shine through the clouds, and the house remained dull and grey. It poured and poured with rain, even in the height of summer.

He couldn't stand it.

And yet, despite his irrefutable hatred for her death – hatred for the Gods that caused him this most terrible pain - Draco remembers all their firsts.

The first time he saw her in the atrium of the Ministry – a ruffled Rita Skeeta at Hermione's side, blushing furiously as he had no doubt Granger was berating the woman for lack of personal space; the first time they made eye contact; the first time they spoke; the first time they went out to the Leaky Cauldron as a part of a work party; the first time he had the balls to ask her out before McLaggen could open his gob; the first time they'd gone out; the first time they kissed; the first time he walked her to her apartment; the first time she'd brought him tea to work; the first time he'd brought hers; the first time they hugged; the first time they'd touched each other; the first time they'd had sex; the first time she hugged him; the first time he hugged her; the first time they just slept with each other, in an embrace; the first time she rubbed the furrow away from his brows; the first time he swiped a tear away from her cheek; the first time they'd argued (she always won of course); the first time he left, slamming the door against it's hinges; the first time they had makeup sex; the first time she held his hand; the first time he held hers; the first time she put a plaster on his thumb, a stingy splinter pried with delicate fingers; the first time she let him blow dry her hair (the machine was a nasty old thing, the buttons too small for his fingers); the first time they'd gone on holiday together; the first time he said 'I love you' (and he remembers how she didn't say it back, not at first, he remembers the swooping low in his stomach – the doubt lingering and curdling. But only later did she say it, when they were in bed panting simultaneously); the first – and only – time he had asked her to marry him; the first time she laughed with utmost glee and joy; the first time they cried of laughter; the first time they looked for a house, and it being the first time they'd agreed on anything almost instantly; the first time she let him decorate the rooms; the first time she let him teach her piano, and she taught him Runes; the first time they lit the hearth in their new house, snuggled on the sofa in front of it; the first time she got pregnant; the first time they both agreed on a name; the first time he looked into his son's eyes; the first time they both collapsed in exhaustion after Scorpius had finally fallen asleep; the first time they charmed their son's hair brown to take him out to the park (without Draco, of course); the first time he'd heard Hermione say something about a lump in her breast; the first visit to the doctors; the first surgery (one he paced the halls relentlessly, wearing away the tiles as Harry attempted to consolidate him – his son in the arms of Ginny, completely oblivious to the world around him . Draco remembers being jealous of his son then, for not knowing the unfairness of life. Its inevitability); the first call back – being warned it was taken out, but there was a chance of it coming back; the first time Hermione came back home; the first time she laughed again; the first time she could hold their now 1 and a half year-old son in her arms for longer than two minutes; the first time she'd visibly put weight on; the first time they slept in the same bed together since the discovery, for Draco was too ashamed (too heavy with guilt and no matter how many times Hermione insisted it wasn't his fault, he still blamed himself); the first time she had been able to do more than just hold his hand, but trace the outline of his jaw and lips, or rake her fingers through his hair; the first time they had sex after she'd gotten ill – the first time they'd truly made love; for Draco was unsure he'd be able to have her like this again, in his arms and strong.

He wanted to cherish Hermione for as long as Fate would let him have her – however long that'd be. And he promised, Gods how he promised, he wouldn't take it for granted. Because now, Draco truly knew the ins and outs – he truly knew both sides- of love and life.

And Merlin did he hate it all.