All those private little moments in school behind the security of his four-poster curtains: a myriad of fanciful notions, everything from breaking Harry’s nose to shaking his hand to kissing him in the dark of the library. And then Eighth Year happened, and that first fantasy fell away, the second strengthened to an almost unbearable degree, and the third... well, the third had been truly torturous, better left tucked out of sight and out of mind in its implausibility, in its potential to drive Draco to despair and heartbreak as he watched Harry fall into bed with almost every available and willing boy in Hogwarts.