For the long run

After everything, Harry and Draco sat in silence, still trying to make sense of the person fate had paired them with. The weight of their situation settled between them, thick and suffocating, but neither seemed eager to break it.
It was Draco who spoke first, voice carefully neutral. “It’s not against you or anything,” he began, glancing at Harry with something between reluctance and curiosity. “But I never would’ve thought you’d be my mate.”
Harry turned his head slightly, waiting.
Draco exhaled, then continued, his tone shifting to something more teasing—though there was an edge beneath it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like you’re—physically—out of my type or whatever.” He waved a vague hand at Harry before leaning back against the armrest of the couch. “But come on. You? A goody two-shoes Gryffindor? The Boy Who Lived? The most insufferably famous person in Britain? Always acting like you hate the attention when, let’s be honest, you love it.”
Harry stiffened. “What?”
Draco smirked, clearly thinking he’d struck a nerve.
But instead of rising to the bait, Harry let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His fingers curled into the fabric of his robes as frustration built. “I never wanted any of this. Before I turned eleven, I didn’t even believe in magic, let alone Veela bonds or—whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between them. “And after I found out, all I ever wanted was a normal life. A family of my own. Something quiet, something stable. Just—” His voice wavered, quieter now. “Someone to love, and be loved by. Not a father-in-law who wants me dead.”
Draco, who had looked vaguely amused up until now, suddenly went still.
His jaw tightened. “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, but he didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.
Harry huffed. “Is it?”
Draco didn’t answer right away. He looked away, suddenly very interested in the hem of his sleeve. His father would never kill Harry—not when it would mean Draco’s own death as well. The thought was absurd. Lucius might disapprove, might make their lives hell, but he wasn’t that far gone.
Draco scoffed, regaining his confidence. “My mother would never let it happen.” His tone was final, like that settled the matter entirely.
Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly. He didn’t know Narcissa Malfoy well—just what he’d seen during the war. But she’d lied to Voldemort for Draco’s sake. If there was one thing she seemed to care about above all else, it was her son.
“…Yeah,” he admitted. “I believe that.”
Draco looked satisfied, but Harry wasn’t entirely reassured. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t the kind of man to accept something like this quietly. Even if he wouldn’t try to kill either of them, there were other ways to ruin a life. And Draco had to know that too…
—
After a few hours, the sun had begun to set, painting the sky in streaks of warm orange and soft purple. The castle, always alive with murmurs of magic, seemed to settle into a comfortable lull as the day wound down. Inside their quarters, however, the atmosphere was anything but calm.
Harry had spent the past hour cleaning. Not because he particularly wanted to—Merlin knew he’d rather do anything else—but because he had to. It was a habit ingrained deep in him, a lingering echo of the years spent with the Dursleys. When his mind was restless, when thoughts swirled too chaotically for him to control, his body took over. Cleaning had always been his way of grounding himself.
Draco, on the other hand, was appalled.
“For Merlin’s sake, Potter,” he groaned from where he lounged on the sofa, arms crossed in exasperation. “We have house-elves for this. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Harry didn’t bother looking up from where he was neatly stacking some of their books onto a shelf. “Yeah,” he muttered, “I realize.”
Draco scoffed. “And yet, here you are, playing housekeeper. If you’re that desperate to keep busy, I’m sure there are more interesting ways to pass the time.”
Harry shot him a glare over his shoulder. “You don’t have to sit there and watch, you know.”
Draco smirked. “Oh, but it’s so entertaining.”
Harry rolled his eyes and went back to what he was doing. It was easier to focus on straightening their space than to think too much about their reality—about the bond, about what it meant for the future.
Eventually, though, the scent of dinner drifting from the kitchen put an end to his cleaning spree.
With their meals retrieved and eaten in near silence, they soon found themselves preparing for bed. That was when the awkwardness crept back in, thick and suffocating.
Despite the potion still working to dampen the worst of the bond’s effects, there was no ignoring the fact that this was new—strange, even. They had gone from sworn rivals to unwillingly sharing a space, a life, a connection neither of them had asked for. And now, they were going to sleep in the same room.
Harry didn’t know why it felt so significant.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he hesitated by his bed. Across the room, Draco was doing the same, though he masked his discomfort with an air of indifference.
“Well,” Draco drawled, tugging the covers back, “I suppose this is our life now.”
Harry huffed. “Guess so.”
With that, they climbed into their respective beds, lying stiffly with their backs turned to each other.
The silence stretched between them, heavy but not unbearable.
For now, at least, the space between their beds was enough.
Tomorrow, though… tomorrow was a different story.
The hours passed, and the quiet of their room became suffocating. At first, the bond’s pull had been a mild discomfort—an itch beneath the skin, a strange, restless awareness of the other’s presence. But as the potion wore off, it worsened.
Harry lay rigidly on his back, fists clenched in his blankets. His body ached with something he didn’t know how to name, a deep, gnawing discomfort that made it impossible to keep still. He could feel the bond straining, demanding closeness, and the longer he ignored it, the more unbearable it became.
Across the room, Draco let out a frustrated breath, shifting under his covers. Then, suddenly—
“Absolutely not.”
Harry cracked one eye open to see Draco sitting up, his hair slightly disheveled, his expression pinched with irritation.
Draco threw his covers off as if they personally offended him. “I refuse to spend the entire night like this.”
Harry forced himself to stay still. “Like what?” he muttered, voice tight.
Draco turned to glare at him. “Like this, Potter! I feel like I’m being pulled apart.” He ran a hand through his hair, breathing through his nose. “This is ridiculous. We’re making it worse for ourselves.”
Harry gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to admit it, but Draco was right. The sick feeling pressing into his ribs, the low, burning ache beneath his skin—it wasn’t going to go away.
Still, he hesitated. “So what, we just—?”
“We move the beds together.” Draco said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t insane. “That way, we don’t have to be—” He made a vague motion with his hands. “This close, but the bond will settle enough to let us sleep.”
Harry stared at him.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Unless you want to keep suffering?”
Harry huffed. “Fine. Let’s just—” He reached for his wand to move the beds.
But before he could so much as lift it—
The room blurred around them, and then—
Warmth.
Soft pressure.
When Harry blinked, he wasn’t in his bed anymore. He wasn’t even on his side of the room.
Draco’s arm was curled loosely around his waist. Their legs had somehow tangled together. The scent of Draco’s magic—crisp, sharp like fresh air after rain—wrapped around him, warm and settling in a way Harry hadn’t expected.
Draco made a strangled noise, going tense. “What the hell just happened?”
Harry swallowed, voice quiet. “...We didn’t move the beds.”
“No, we bloody well did not.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then, with a huff, Draco let his head drop onto the pillow. “I’m not dealing with this right now,” he muttered. “We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
Harry should have argued. He should have pulled away.
But he didn’t.
Because—Merlin—the relief was instant. The tension in his chest eased, the headache pounding at his skull faded, and the warmth of Draco’s body against his own made his eyelids grow impossibly heavy.
His muscles relaxed against his will, as if his body had been waiting for this.
Draco’s breathing evened out too.
After a long pause, he murmured, voice drowsy but reluctant, “This is disgustingly comfortable.”
Harry barely had the energy to snort. “Shut up and go to sleep, Malfoy.”
Draco hummed in vague agreement, and before Harry could even think about moving away—
Draco’s grip on his waist tightened slightly.
Just enough to keep him there.
Morning came slowly, golden light filtering through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. For a blissful moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them thought.
All Harry knew was warmth.
His body felt good. Relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt in years. The heat pressed against him was comforting, the steady rise and fall of breath beside him lulling him into a rare, peaceful state. He shifted slightly, instinctively nuzzling into the warmth, a quiet sigh escaping him.
And then—
Memory came crashing back.
His eyes snapped open.
Draco Malfoy.
They had fallen asleep cuddling.
A sharp inhale confirmed that Draco was still very much there, his body solid and warm against Harry’s own. And worse—Harry wasn’t just lying next to him. At some point in the night, he had thrown an arm around Draco’s waist, his face buried somewhere dangerously close to Draco’s neck.
And Draco—oh, Merlin—Draco was practically wrapped around him, one leg tangled between Harry’s, his fingers loosely curled into the fabric of Harry’s shirt like he’d been holding on.
Harry barely had time to process the mortification creeping up his spine before he felt something else.
Something much, much worse.
Oh no.
Teenage hormones, Veela bond, warm body pressed against him—
Draco tensed at the exact same time Harry did.
There was a beat of absolute, horrified silence.
Then, in a blur of movement, Draco launched himself out of bed.
“Nope,” he said, voice an octave higher than usual. “Absolutely not.”
Harry, wide-eyed, scrambled in the opposite direction, nearly falling off the mattress in his haste. “Agreed.”
Draco didn’t spare him a glance as he grabbed the first set of clothes he could find and bolted for the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him, followed almost immediately by the sound of the shower turning on.
Harry sat frozen on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, face burning.
A very, very cold shower.
He exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
This cannot keep happening.
As the mortifying morning incident faded into the background (or, at least, was forcibly shoved aside in their minds), Harry and Draco focused on getting ready for their first day back at Hogwarts.
The castle was already buzzing with early morning activity, and both of them knew they couldn’t delay breakfast any longer. The last thing they needed was to deal with the bond’s effects on an empty stomach.
By silent agreement, they decided to stagger their entrance into the Great Hall, neither of them wanting to draw unnecessary attention.
Harry went first, slipping through the doors and making his way toward Gryffindor table. As expected, most students barely looked up at his arrival. He was Harry Potter, after all. Disappearing for a night or two had never been out of the ordinary for him—not when detentions, near-death experiences, and general chaos seemed to follow him wherever he went.
Ron and Hermione, already seated, glanced up when he approached.
Hermione gave him a quick once-over, brows furrowing. “You okay?”
Harry hesitated, the ghost of Veela warmth still lingering on his skin.
“Fine,” he said, a little too quickly. He grabbed a piece of toast, shoving it into his mouth before she could question him further.
Hermione clearly didn’t believe him, but—bless her—she let it go. For now.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, Draco entered just moments after, doing his best to look perfectly composed despite the absolute disaster that had been his morning.
As expected, most of Slytherin House didn’t bat an eye. No one in their right mind worried about Draco Malfoy. He was the Prince of Slytherin, and he knew damn well how to handle himself.
Except for his friends.
Blaise and Pansy were eyeing him with far too much curiosity when he slid into his usual seat, and he didn’t even have time to pour himself tea before Pansy leaned in with a smirk.
“So,” she drawled. “Where were you all night?”
Draco didn’t react, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he took a slow sip of tea. “I can’t tell you here,” he muttered under his breath.
Blaise raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “That interesting, huh?”
Draco shot him a warning look, then went back to his breakfast, ignoring the knowing grins being exchanged across the table.
He’d tell them. Eventually.
Just… not here.

If Harry had been hoping for an uneventful morning, he was sorely mistaken.
McGonagall, as usual, was strict but fair. The lesson focused on advanced human-to-object transfiguration, and though Harry managed to keep up, he could feel her sharp gaze lingering on him every so often. Did she know? Dumbledore surely did, which meant McGonagall probably did too. But, thankfully, she said nothing.
Draco, on the other hand, performed the spells flawlessly, earning a nod of approval. He smirked slightly, clearly pleased with himself, but didn’t send any jabs Harry’s way—not in class, at least. Small mercies.
Herbology with Professor Sprout was just as chaotic as ever. They were paired off for today’s practical lesson, and, of course, Harry ended up with Neville while Draco was with Pansy. The assignment involved carefully extracting the sap from Venomous Tentacula without getting bitten.
Draco scowled as the plant nearly latched onto his sleeve. "Why do we even need to know this? It’s disgusting."
Pansy snorted. "So dramatic. Just hurry up before it takes a bite out of your precious robes."
Neville, on the other hand, was in his element, expertly handling the plant while Harry did his best to keep up.
By the time lunch rolled around, Harry was exhausted, but he wasn’t about to complain—not when Charms with Flitwick was next, and that was always one of the better classes. They spent the lesson practicing complex summoning spells, with Flitwick bouncing excitedly around the room, praising anyone who showed progress.
"Excellent work, Miss Granger! Five points to Gryffindor!"
"Mr. Malfoy, very precise—another five to Slytherin!"
Harry’s attempts were mostly successful, though Draco, irritatingly, made everything look effortless.
Finally, Defense Against the Dark Arts—though today, instead of their usual professor, they were greeted by someone far more intimidating.
Snape.
A hush fell over the class as he swept into the room, black robes billowing dramatically as always. He wasted no time before beginning a lecture on defensive counter-curses, his voice slow and deliberate.
Harry forced himself to focus, though he couldn’t help but notice Draco sitting up straighter, more alert. Snape had always favored him, and it was no surprise that Draco paid extra attention whenever he was around.