He didn't remember Draco.
Draco shouldn't be surprised by this, it had been years by now, four god-awful years of uncertainty tinged with hope, though time had slowly dissolved the more positive emotions into a low simmering anger spiced with something deeper- a longing, a desperate want for something, anything- though Draco would never admit it to anyone other than himself (even that had been a struggle) It had been years since he saw that face for both the first time and the thousandth. Years since he had seen that stupidly messy black hair next to him in that dumb shop and Draco knew that his life was utterly fucked.
Like, it already was, but now it was especially fucked.
Draco had been 11 years old- far too young to have your life fucked, as most professionals would agree- and still hopelessly naive and innocent, though he at the time would have protested that branding. His father was gone that afternoon, his mother brought along with the older Malfoy like some kind of secretary, so he had gone to Diagon Alley with a nanny, whom Draco had abandoned as soon as possible. He had gone into the robe shop by himself, trying his best to perpetuate an aura of authority, and had confidently (he hoped) placed his request. Madame Malkin had just accidently pricked Draco with a needle (he remembered that bit particularly well) when the shop bell had rung, heralding the beginning of the end of Draco's life. He had awkwardly stood on the step-up next to Draco, and Draco could feel those obnoxiously green eyes staring at Draco, taking him in. Draco had preened at the time, trying to fill his role as knowledgeable pure-blood legacy, peppering him with questions, until he had made his first mistake, insulting that damn gamekeeper, Hagrid. The formerly quiet boy had turned to face Draco, who in turn swiveled to face him back, and had defended that oaf, but Draco didn't remember that part. The part he remembered, so clearly he could paint it if he had any time for such an useless activity, was the look he had given. Draco had turned to face him fully, for the first time since entering the shop. Potter had been looking at him through those stupid bangs, bright eyes still visible through those wrecked glasses, but when Draco had insulted that half-breed, his chin had tilted up, eyebrows furrowed, hair parting slightly to reveal a freckle above his left eyebrow.
It felt like he had been stabbed, a slow knife tracing its way up his back to his heart.
It had taken him a bit of time, but soon it clicked in his head. He knew those eyes, that feeling that came with them, and that goddamned defiant look that Draco himself would receive several times in the years to come. It was simultaneously totally foreign but it was also like coming home, a warm, loving home, not like his house, but it was only after he had left with that big oaf that it had begun to click, with that half smile as he said goodbye, and it felt like a bullet had ripped through the small of his back, straight through the initial knife wound.
Oh god.
Tents, warm campfires. Swimming in the lakes, droplets of water caught in his dark hair, like diamonds glistening on a black velvet dress. He remembered longing, a sharp painful stab right underneath his ribs. He remembered the day it all changed.
They had gone early, for a trip up the nearby mountain. The others were still asleep, but he had wanted to see the sunrise and Draco had never been able to say no to him, and he knew that well when he asked Draco. The walk was fairly easy, leaving room for joking remarks and for Draco's heart to be beating far faster than it needed to. It wasn't his fault, in his defense, but he seemed to know exactly what he was doing when he jostled Draco's shoulder, or gave him that look. Draco had thought it was meaningless. They reached the top of the mountain right as the sun was rising and had collapsed on a large boulder, panting slightly and chugging water from their canteens-they had to run the last bit in order to make it in time.
Draco had started to make some snarky remark about the overall letdown of the sunrise- it was a lie, it was lovely with the trees and sky tainted gold with the light- but he had an image to uphold, a very sarcastic image at that, when he suddenly stopped. No, that wasn't his fault either, for he had turned around to that stupid face, and it was far closer than he had initially believed. Draco had sucked in a breath, eyes dropping involuntarily to his mouth. His olive skin was glowing like honey with sunlight streaming through, it looked warm to the touch. It was, as he found out, when his own pale fingers drifted up slowly to touch his cheek. His green eyes fluttered shut, and before Draco knew it, he had leaned in and planted his mouth on Draco's, softly. Draco had melted into it, grateful that he had made the first move since Draco was well aware of his own cowardice.
It made sense, Draco had realized later, the early morning trip to a secluded location.
He remembered the time that followed, the stolen kisses and hands tangled beneath the blanket. The warm sun on his bare back, the rivulets of sweat streaking down as they rowed. Uniforms, helmets.
Then he remembered the beach. The men raining from the sky, the bombs crashing, his own panicky heartbeat rising steadily in his ears and the back of his head. They had gone in on the boats, and in the chaos, he was gone, like dust in the wind. Draco remembered his own sloshing footsteps as he tried to make it to the sandy shores when he had seen him again, kneeling in the surf over a fellow soldier. Draco had changed course rapidly, desperately trying to make it to him.
Draco saw the shooter on the beach aiming for him. He didn't even think. He made a final lunge just as the enemy soldier opened fire. He felt the sharp pain in the small of his back, then- a heavy darkness as he collapsed into the shallow surf. He could see him as he howled in rage- no, agony,- and opened fire on that soldier on the beach. He remembered attempting one last snarky smile at him, that horrified face above him, and then- nothing.
Yes, Draco remembered Harry Potter.
Just not from this life.
In all honesty, Draco had no idea why he could remember his last life, so it probably wasn't fair to resent Potter for not remembering as well, but he couldn't help it. Draco had come home from Madame Malkins with his head aching, back sweaty, and promptly vomited, three times. He had been sick for the next week, and no prodding doctor that his appropriately concerned parents forced on him could come to any conclusion. Draco had been made to down sleeping potions, which was quite possibly the worst thing that they could have done, for they just sank him, like a man tied with an anvil, dropped into the sea, into waves of memories. He coughed up phlegm until he vomited again, rolled endlessly in bed, sweated buckets.
It was agony until suddenly, it wasn't. One early morning, he woke with nothing but a headache and a disgusting odor. He had climbed into the shower at two am, trembling, and had turned on the water as hot as it would go. Draco had sunk to the floor of the tub and cried, cried like he never had before, feeling like a piece of his soul had just been ripped out, transfigured, and shoved back in. He felt like he had been hit by a truck, then the truck had backed up and ran him over again for good measure, but worst of all were the memories.
Merlin.
It was horrible to have a head full of memories that were not his, but also were? Having all the grief and pain, and guilts and shames, and joys and love from a whole other person was exhausting. Draco had climbed back into bed, in clean pajamas (finally) and had slept for another twelve hours.
His parents had been relieved about his seemingly remarkable recovery and had questioned him about it, but Draco had told them nothing other than "Perhaps a strange strain of virus?" and they had left it at that. Draco had then spent countless hours in the library of the Manor, desperately researching anything on past lives, on reincarnation, on anything that could help him. He couldn't really find anything useful, but he would have the entire library of Hogwarts soon enough. Draco had spent the entire summer in a state of excitement and dread whenever he thought of school and … him.
Perhaps he remembered too, it was possible, and they could figure it out together. Draco had no way of contacting him, and even if he did, what on god's green earth could he say? Hello, Draco here. This may sound a bit strange, but I'm fairly certain we were gay lovers in a past life. Am I gay? Draco didn't even know. Maybe? Wow, this sucked. Anyway, it was out of the question. He would just have to hope that he remembered, that green eyed boy from the robe shop. If not, then… Draco didn't even know.
Harry Potter didn't remember him. It had been four years. Either Draco was the most unlucky person to ever exist (which he wouldn't doubt) or Potter was the cruelest, most sadistic person out there (which would be surprising). Either way, there was no sign of recognition from those stupidly pretty green eyes, no sign of anything other than contempt and hatred, which, Draco could admit, he was to blame for. What else was he supposed to do? He was eleven, and full of hope, but Potter's eyes had slid right over him like he meant nothing to him, which Draco supposed was true, as painful as it was. So he lashed out, he insulted Potter's new friends, desperately wishing he could be one of them. He went after his upbringing, his parents, his skills, all of it, like a little fucking physcopath. By the time second year had rolled around, some of the anger had faded, but it had left quite the impression in its wake. Draco had hurt. His chest, his head, his lungs, all of it, when Potter came into view with nothing more than a grimace for Draco, so he pushed it onto everyone else, long having given up in the hope of "feeling better." Draco had a reputation now, and he did like it a bit, no one would mess with him now. However, now Potter hated him, which felt like an elephant was stomping on his chest, to put it mildly, so Draco was mean back, and so forth, sliding down that downward spiral. Draco could probably stop with the childish insults by now- Merlin knew he was old enough- but he was simeltaneously in a state of wanting to punch that stupid face or kiss it senseless, and if he didn't act on one of them, he might just explode.
So here he was, fifteen years old, and already having the worst life ever.
God, he hated Harry Potter, especially how much he loved him.