What came out was slurred and hideously mortifying series of confessions. That he fancied her, that he had since third year, and not because she punched him, though he  also  confessed to enjoying that more than he should. He confessed that he’d spent most of fifth year wanking to the memory of her arse in muggle jeans. Nothing so tender and romantic as compliments to her intelligence, beauty, her bravery, and wit. No, Draco had to tell her she "had an arse that could make less philosophical men weep."