Chapter 3
Harry didn’t mean to start treating Draco Malfoy like a princess. It just… happened.
At first, it was small things. He built their shelter himself while Draco supervised, arms crossed, looking *bored* but undeniably beautiful with the sun making his hair glow like something out of a fairy tale. When they foraged for food, Harry did all the actual collecting while Draco critiqued from the sidelines. And when Malfoy got a tiny scratch—*barely* a scratch—Harry found himself cupping his hand around Malfoy’s wrist and soothing over it with soft words before he even *thought* about it.
By the end of the first week, it was no longer subtle.
"Potter, I’m *starving*," Draco whined dramatically, sprawled out on the sand like some forsaken noble awaiting his rescue.
Harry sighed, dropping the firewood he had gathered. "*Fine*, Princess, I’ll get you something to eat."
Draco blinked at him, then smirked. "Princess?"
Harry groaned. "Forget I said that."
"No, no, I like it," Draco said, sitting up, a *glow* of amusement in his eyes. "As you were, then, *brave knight*."
Harry scowled at him but still went off to find food. That was the problem—*he always did it*. If Draco so much as sighed dramatically, Harry was on his feet, making sure he was comfortable.
And Draco? *Loved* it.
By the time Harry returned with fresh fruit, Draco had arranged their seating area with leaves and soft palm fronds, reclining like an actual prince awaiting his feast. "Took you long enough," he said, holding out his hands expectantly.
Harry narrowed his eyes at him but still handed him the best-looking fruit. *Big mistake.*
Draco gasped, cradling it dramatically. "*You peeled it for me*?"
Harry flushed. "*Shut up, Malfoy*."
Draco just *beamed*, taking a slow, delicate bite. "*Mmm.* I could get used to this."
And he *did*.
Soon, Draco stopped even *pretending* to contribute. Harry did all the gathering, all the fire-making, and even—Merlin help him—the *fanning*, because Draco complained about being too hot one afternoon, and Harry just *did it* without thinking.
"You know," Draco mused one evening as Harry handed him a fresh coconut he had *hacked open for him*, "this is quite nice."
"*For you*," Harry grumbled, watching Draco sip his coconut like the spoiled brat he was.
Draco smirked, completely unbothered. "Oh, absolutely. But don’t act like you don’t enjoy it, Potter."
Harry scowled, about to protest—except… Draco had a point. He *did* enjoy it. Maybe too much. Maybe he *liked* seeing Draco all pampered and comfortable. Maybe he *liked* the way Draco leaned into him whenever he had to guide him over rough terrain. Maybe he *liked* being the one to take care of him.
And judging by the knowing glint in Draco’s eyes, the blonde *knew it too*.
Harry was in trouble. Big, *big* trouble.