And buried it has remained. O Holy Crush, a consecrated corner of Draco’s mind he has neglected—for the most part—for twenty years. A proverbial cemetery of devotion and worship and self-loathing that has since grown over with moss and weeds, only to be visited every once in a while: when Harry posts a gym pic, or throws cake around at a birthday party and smiles at Draco devilishly from across the room.