Title: Nights With a Knight
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Heloise Potter
Heloise Potter didn't know when it had started. After all, it wasn't easy to pinpoint the exact moment love began to blossom in a heart. Was it when he asked to sit with her on the Hogwarts Express without knowing she was the girl-who-lived? Was it when he took the place of a knight on a giant chessboard and sacrificed himself so that she could continue on? Was it when he had hugged her desperately after she pulled little Ginny Weasley out of the Chamber of Secrets: alive, but drained.
Or had it started later than that?
Perhaps it was when he helped her sneak out of Hogwarts in third year, so that she could see Hogsmeade and understand all the hype. Perhaps it began when he stood next to her during the Triwizard Tournament, even though almost everyone else in the school turned against her. Perhaps it solidified inside her when he fought Death Eaters with her in the Department of Mysteries and managed to save Sirius's life. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was now undeniable because Voldemort was finally dead, the Death Eaters were imprisoned, and the danger was gone . . . as much as danger could ever be gone.
Heloise didn't know when she started falling in love with Ron Weasley. She couldn't call up a single memory and honestly declare, "That was it!" Maybe she had always been falling in love with him.
However, what Heloise did know was the day that the dreams commenced. It was a day she would never forget—February 24, 1995. It was the day that revealed her greatest strength (and, in turn, weakness) to everyone present at the second task of the Triwizard Tournament. Ron Weasley was her most important person—her most precious connection.
"Two years today," she whispered.
"What did you say, Heloise?" Hermione asked.
"Nothing," Heloise replied as she finished braiding her long, black hair.
"Mmm." Hermione turned her attention back to her letter, and Heloise scowled. She recognized the owl and parchment; it was a missive from Viktor Krum. And while Hermione certainly had the right to send letters to him, it still irked Heloise. After all, wasn't Heloise suffering in silence and hiding her feelings for Ron—her best friend—because Hermione had confessed last year that she fancied him. Yet, despite that late night confession, here Hermione was, owling Viktor Krum. Still.
Honestly, Heloise didn't understand Krum's appeal in the least. He was shorter than most wizards, and his features weren't pleasant. He waddled like a duck. His personality wasn't dazzling. His greatest attribute was his skill at Quidditch, but since Hermione didn't even like Quidditch (and constantly said it was a waste of time that Ron and Heloise could spend studying) she didn't understand what kept Hermione interested.
On days when Heloise's heart hurt from keeping in her true feelings for Ron, she viciously wondered if Hermione were interested in Viktor because he was a famous pureblood. One who had bothered to ask a mere Muggle-born to the Yule Ball.
She hated having those thoughts about her dear friend, but that didn't stop them from continuously appearing.
Ron had finally grown out of the awkward, gangly stage, but Heloise had liked him when he was skittish like a colt and kept tripping over himself. His voice had settled deep, a strong bass, but Heloise hadn't minded when his voice still cracked and squeaked. His hair had ended up a dark scarlet, but she hadn't minded the light ginger color of when she had first met him. Ron was Ron; that was all that mattered to her.
Heloise tossed her brush on her bed and grabbed her bag; she slung it over her shoulder. She hated all the attention Ron received now that he was fully grown. Where were all those witches before he became devastatingly fit? Where were they when he had no confidence and drowned in the shadow of his brothers' legacy? Where were they before he became heralded as a hero in the battle that defeated You-Know-Who?
Sneering, Heloise marched toward the door. She was the one who had always stood by Ron. Who did they think they were to intrude now?
"I'm heading to breakfast," Heloise said, voice soft as she glanced over her shoulder. She hoped Hermione wouldn't hear it.
"Oh! I'll come with you," said Hermione. She grinned brightly and set down her letter. "Viktor's doing wonderful, by the way. He said 'Hello'."
Heloise forced a smile on her face. Viktor always said 'hello' to her in his letters. Sometimes she wondered if he was writing Hermione solely so he would be able to say that to her. Was he hoping for a formal introduction? Or for Heloise to get curious and write him? Hermione had told her more than once that he asked about her friends, Heloise in particular. If Viktor was using Hermione as a way to get closer to her, it wasn't going to work. Whether he liked her or not, she was emotionally unavailable.
"That's nice," replied Heloise. Hermione's lips pinched at the customary response, but she didn't mention it. She had finally caved to the fact, unwillingly, that Heloise never returned his greetings.
Hermione pulled her bag off the foot of her bed. "Well, let's go then. Ron's probably dying of hunger by now." She brushed past Heloise and hurried down the stairs; Heloise sighed and followed her. She didn't like fighting with Hermione, but the topic of Viktor always seemed to set her off. Hermione was intelligent; maybe she was beginning to suspect that Viktor was interested in Heloise and not her?
"Morning." It was a rough, tired grunt.
Glancing up with a smile at the familiar sound, Heloise halted on the last stair. Hermione was beaming up at Ron, sunlight falling through the windows in the common room and making her hair look like chocolate. She was beautiful without trying. Ron returned the smile and, oh, how that hurt. She put a hand over her heart, as if that could stifle the pain. What a silly, useless gesture.
"All right there, Elle?" asked Ron, attention focused on her hand.
If it had been anyone else asking, she would have forced a 'yeah' out, despite it being a lie. However, Heloise had never been able to bring herself to lie to Ron. It would be too much like lying to herself . . . and she had seen how much damage that did to a person firsthand—the Dursleys were good for teaching her some things, at least.
"She's fine," Hermione said before heading toward the portrait hole. "Let's go. We don't want to miss breakfast and be late for class!" She left.
Ron took a step toward her in the now-empty common room. "Elle?" The sound of her name on his lips made her shiver. He was the only one who could call her that, and she didn't even have to ensure it. Ron had hexed the living daylights out of Creevey in second year, and a few others as well. People eventually got the message that he was possessive about the nickname. Heloise always assumed it was because—with how large his family was—he wanted something to himself, even if it was only a nickname.
Wishing for him to have different motivations won't change anything, she thought. She was his best mate, and it seemed like she would have to be content with that distinction. Having a place in his life, even if it wasn't the one she desired, would have to be enough.
"Elle?" His voice was worried as he strode toward her.
Heloise shook her head and stepped down to the floor. "Sorry, Ron. I just didn't sleep well last night." It was the two-year anniversary of the day that they started: the dreams.
He nudged her chin until she was staring up at him. He'd topped off at six-three, making her feel short, even though five-six was average. "Glamour charms?" he asked. His thumb brushed under her right eye.
Holding her breath, Heloise scolded herself for reading into his actions. He was just worried about his friend; he didn't understand what he was doing to her. That didn't stop her heart rate from shooting through the roof. "A girl's best friend," she said.
"Oi!" He stared at her, affronted. "I thought I was your best friend."
Chuckling, Heloise leaned her forehead against his chest. The steady beat of his heart hurt. . . . His heart didn't race in her presence, as hers raced in his. She swallowed back tears and whispered, "Don't be a dunderhead. You haven't been replaced, Ron."
"Of course not." His chest puffed up. "What could a glamour charm do that I can't?"
Make me pretty appeared on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say it. It wasn't true, after all. She had photographs with her and Ron, and the smile on her face and the sparkle in her eyes when she looked at him in them took her breath away. How could anyone ever look at those pictures and not realize that she was hopelessly in love with him? Her every gesture betrayed her. As far as she knew, though, she had the only copies. Since they were so special to her, she couldn't indulge in viewing them very often. The last thing she wanted was for her nosy roommates to wonder what held her attention so fiercely.
"Well?" he demanded, one arm sliding around her shoulders in a half-hug.
"Nothing, Ron. Nothing," she said.
"Exact—" Ron stopped speaking as his stomach growled. She peered up to see a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. "Uh, breakfast?" he asked sheepishly, eyes darting from hers to their surroundings, and then back.
"Still growing?" she teased, unable to help herself. That was the excuse he had used ever since she had known him. It was a kinder truth than the knowledge that, before Hogwarts, neither of them had known when their next meal was coming, or how much they would get to eat. Mr. Weasley worked hard to provide for his family, but Ginny had whispered to her one night about a couple of years where things were especially rough, before her father received the promotion, and food was scarce.
"Yeah, still growing," he replied.
There was a dark cast to his face that she didn't like. He rubbed his arm, fingers tracing over the scars the brains had left. "What's wrong, Ron?" she whispered. She knew him and his moods inside and out. This wasn't like him.
"I . . ." Ron stared down at her, eyes roaming her face as if he wanted to memorize the features. "Breakfast?"
The non sequitur stung, but she conceded defeat. If he didn't want to share his thoughts with her, that was his choice. She wouldn't nitpick. Ron had a right to his privacy, just like everyone else did. "Okay," she whispered. She hated how quiet her voice was, and Ron must've too, because he winced and tightened his grip on her shoulders.
"Let's go eat," he said. He steered her from the room in silence, leading the way down to the great hall for breakfast. Something felt off, but Heloise wasn't sure what it was, so she kept silent. After what felt like an eternity, Ron heaved a sigh and stopped. "Hey, Elle?"
"What?" She glanced up at him. His eyes were troubled, but his face was resolute.
"I . . . I was—"
"Potter, can I have a word?"
Heloise bit her tongue to keep from cursing as Ron folded in on himself. His eyes blanked, only to then flare with protectiveness. "No," he said to the interloper.
"I didn't ask you, Weasley. Potter, can I have a word?" The words didn't hold the superiority typical of most Ravenclaws.
"What do you want, Boot?" she asked. She wanted to hex Boot for interrupting, but that would be immature. She felt like she and Ron had been on the cusp of something, like he was finally going to confide in her . . . only for Boot to kill the words before they could be spoken.
"A moment of your time. In private, please," he said. His eyes were focused on her, as if Ron were irrelevant, or perhaps didn't exist at all. She didn't like it.
"No," Ron repeated. "She's not going anywhere with you alone." There was a sharp edge to his voice, more jagged than usually appeared when confronted by a Ravenclaw in the corridors.
Boot cocked an eyebrow. "And Weasley speaks for you?" He crossed his arms.
Fighting back the urge to scream in frustration as she felt a headache roiling, Heloise said, "Please, Boot, just tell me what you want." It took a great deal of control to keep her tone polite. She didn't have anything against Boot; he had never bothered or harassed them. However, that didn't mean she looked favorably upon him. Especially not since he had just intruded on something she didn't understand.
Boot straightened his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. "I formally request—"
"Her answer is no," Ron snapped before Boot could finish speaking.
The pain in her head spiked, and Heloise gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hand over them.
"Potter, are you all right?"
"Elle? Another one? Come on," Ron said. "I'll get you back to bed."
"You most certainly will not!" Boot snapped. He stomped forward.
Ron scooped her up in his arms, and Heloise hated that her head hurt so much that she couldn't enjoy it. She buried her head against his shoulder and wished the pain would vanish. It would, she knew, but not for hours. The lack of sleep was getting to her, and now it was time for her to pay the price. She should have known better than to take so many Pepper-Up Potions. Trying to stave off the dreams for a week was idiotic. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Waking up from the dreams was a living nightmare. Why would she ever want to leave them if it meant that Ron wasn't hers?
Heloise fisted her hands in his robes, as if such a weak grip could keep him by her side forever.
"Yes, I will," Ron retorted before striding back the way they had come, Heloise clutched to his chest.
She could hear footsteps chasing after them. "Weasley, what in the world do you think you're doing? Put her down now!" Boot yelled.
"Get lost, Boot!" Ron snapped back without slowing in the least.
"Weasley, I'm warning you—"
"Boot," Ron said, voice soft and cutting, "Elle's not feeling well. Now would be a really good time to not make me angry."
The footsteps halted. "I can't just let you—"
"And how are you going to stop me, huh? Do you hear Elle protesting? Because I sure don't. But since you won't take my word for it . . . Elle," Ron whispered, "do you want me to put you down?"
No! her mind screamed. She felt safe and warm. She felt loved and cared for by the man that had no idea of her feelings, and he likely wouldn't return them even if he did know of them. She was his best friend, perhaps an honorary sister of sorts. She wasn't going to delude herself into believing he thought she was the love of his life, despite her own feelings on the matter. "Take me to bed, Ron," she said, loud enough that Boot could hear. When Boot gasped and Ron stutter-stepped, she realized exactly how that might have sounded to the two boys. But she didn't take her words back or add a disclaimer. She just felt grateful that neither of them could see her burning cheeks.
"See? Her answer's no," Ron said as he continued down the corridor.
Boot didn't say anything in response, and Heloise didn't care. Even if he spread rumors about her and Ron, she wouldn't mind. Maybe if Ron heard his name linked with hers in a romantic sense it might spark a new kind of love for her. Wishful thinking, she sneered to herself.
"Ron?"
"We're almost there, Elle," Ron replied as he carried her up to the portrait of the fat lady. He didn't huff or puff, and he hadn't cast a featherlight charm on her. The affirmation of his physical strength caused her mouth to dry. He was so . . . Ron.
"Password?" the fat lady asked.
"Malfoy's a git," Ron said with relish. Heloise had laughed when he told her what it was for the next two weeks. Hermione frowned at his choice for the new password, and berated him, but Heloise adored it. He wouldn't be the man she loved if he didn't do such things.
Heloise turned her head as he entered the common room. He carried her up the stairs to the boys' dorm room, but she didn't mind. It wasn't like she or Hermione had never been up here before. He set her down on his bed, after shoving some stuff off onto the floor. "You all right to change by yourself?" he asked, voice inflectionless.
"And if I say 'no'," she asked, unable to resist teasing him even with the pain in her head.
"Then I'll help," said Ron, voice blank. It was the absence of any emotion that made her flinch. No teasing, no blushing—nothing.
"I can do it," Heloise said, wishing she hadn't opened her big mouth in the first place. The blankness felt too much like rejection, and she already felt alone enough in this love.
Ron nodded and grabbed his Quidditch jersey off the back of a nearby chair. "Here you go." He handed it to her and then turned around. "I promise I won't look, but I'm not leaving when you might pass out."
Heloise gritted her teeth against the pain as she removed her robes, skirt, and blouse. She wanted to tell him that she didn't want a promise like that. She didn't want him to look—not yet, because they weren't married. But she wanted him to want to look. Silly, stupid heart . . . you're killing me. She donned his Quidditch jersey and buried her face in the fabric, inhaling his scent. It was male and home.
She flopped back onto the bed and then hissed. "Bad idea."
"I'll say," Ron muttered, having spun around quickly when she hissed in pain. He knelt on the floor and pulled off her shoes and socks. "Scoot up," he ordered, gaze on her face.
He's not even glancing at my legs, Heloise thought as she obeyed, heart sinking in her chest. It hurts, Mum. It hurts so much. She faced the window, so that he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.
Ron lifted the covers over her and then closed the bed-curtains. "Sleep as long as you need, Elle. I'll make sure the guys don't bother you."
"Thank you," she whispered as he muttered an excessive amount of locking and protection charms.
"You're welcome." Ron leaned over and kissed her forehead, which he only did when she was sick. Pathetically, it made her wish she were ill more often. The masochism must come from Dad, she thought.
The door clicked shut behind Ron, and she let the tears fall. Being in love was supposed to be grand and perfect—a fairytale. Yet here she was, princess of the wizarding world, living in a real life castle, and her literal knight, who had saved her many times, hadn't asked for her hand. "What is wrong with me?" she cried against Ron's pillows. She hugged one of the pillows to her chest and breathed in his scent once more.
Here Heloise was, in his bed, as she dreamed to be, but it was nothing like her dreams. He wasn't here. She wasn't in his arms. They . . .
Exhausted, sleep claimed her for the first time in a week; the dreams she had been so desperate to evade consumed her.
"Sweetheart?" Ron asked, blue eyes bleary with sleep as he wrapped an arm around her protruding waist. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Ron. The baby kicked," Heloise said. Her grin was so wide that it hurt her face.
"What? Really?" Ron shot up in bed, sending the blankets tumbling to their waists. His chest was bare and smooth, muscular, and the scars on his arms stood out in sharp relief "Can I feel?" He didn't even wait for a response—not that she would deny his request—before sliding one massive hand over her baby bump.
"Not there, Ron. Over here." Heloise took his hand and slid it across her stomach, up near her chest. The baby was fond of kicking her ribs, it seemed. She felt the soft thump again.
"It kicked me!" Ron said, the awe on his face beautiful to see. He had been over the moon since she found out that she was pregnant with their first child. Contrary to everyone's assumptions, he hadn't fainted when she told him. It was, perhaps, the only bet that Fred and George had ever lost. He had put his hand over her stomach as if she were made of glass, and the happiness and sheer, utter delight radiating from him had only been topped by the day she bonded with him.
Heloise chuckled. "It kicked me, too."
Ron grinned dopily and pointed at her stomach. "Oi, don't hurt your mum. She loves you. And so do I." He leaned down and kissed her stomach, right over where the baby was kicking.
She ducked her head, eyes teary. "So I was thinking . . . if it's a boy we could name him James Sirius?" Her father had died to keep her safe, and that was the ultimate sacrifice any father could make. She wanted to honor his name. Sirius had done his best by her once he escaped from Azkaban, and since he and her dad had been like brothers, it seemed fitting to put their names together.
"And we'll call the girl Lilith Heloise," Ron whispered. He cupped her cheek. "They'll have a better fate than your parents, Elle. I swear it. We'll keep them safe."
"Them?" she asked, trying to shove her mother's dying screams from her mind. They resurfaced with frequency these days, as if history was destined to repeat itself. She knew they wouldn't let it. Her children would have both of their parents. Nothing else was acceptable.
"Well they're twins, of course," Ron said, staring at her with a grin and quirked eyebrow.
"W-what?" He was kidding right? "Did Fred and George put you up to this?" she demanded. Twins? No way!
"A Weasley always knows," Ron said, his nose in the air reminiscent of Draco Malfoy. "Our son and daughter are in there," he breathed reverently as he smothered her stomach in kisses.
"Yeah?" she asked dazedly.
Ron nodded with certain determination. "Yeah, Elle. Twins."
"Oh." She blinked repeatedly as the thought processed. Twins. Two children—two miracles—that were part of Ron and herself. Her heart caught in her throat. "That's . . ." Heloise had no words for what that was.
"Yeah," Ron said, agreeing with her wordless wonder.
A wicked idea entered her head, and Heloise walked her fingers up her husband's scarred arm. "They'll need brothers and sisters, of course," she purred. "Lots of brothers and sisters."
Ron's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as heat flared through his blue eyes. "You're evil, Elle."
Then, before she could respond, he kissed her. And passion devoured her.
Heloise's eyes opened to blackness. She breathed deeply and relaxed, remembering where she was: Ron's bed in the sixth-year boys' dorm. The agony in her chest was worse than ever before. Her fingernails dug into her chest, as if she could rip the pain of unrequited love from her heart. Once again, reality destroyed her happiness. Only, it was worse this time. Because she was lying in the bed of the man she loved, and they weren't married, she wasn't pregnant, and he wasn't safely wrapped around her.
Bitter questions wanted to spill from her lips. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Why aren't I good enough? What will it take for you to love me? What do I need to change?
She didn't voice any of them as she threw back the covers and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Heloise Potter was in love with Ron Weasley, and self-pitying questions weren't going to change that. It wasn't going to stop the pain in her heart. They served no purpose, so she refused to entertain them.
Brushing aside the bed-curtains, she stepped into the room. Starlight shone through the window; the boys hadn't bothered to draw the drapes. Loud snoring flooded the room. Now that she was outside the bespelled curtains, she could hear it. If they were asleep, then she must have slept all day.
Heloise stared at the door, as if it would open to admit a little boy and girl with messy black hair and cerulean blue eyes. It stayed shut. "They're not real," she reminded herself once again. No matter how much she had come to love them, to know them, to cherish them—they were nothing more than figments of her imagination.
Tears gathering in her eyes, Heloise walked to the door, desperate to escape the remnants of her dream world. She opened it, stepped through, and then closed it behind her. She collapsed back against it, shoulders shaking, and wished . . . but it was useless. Wishes didn't come true—not even in the magical world. She didn't have a fairy godmother. She had a furry godfather. And while she knew Sirius would gladly threaten Ron into marrying her and making her happy, she didn't want that. She wanted Ron willing, or not at all.
Ron's face appeared in her mind, lips wide with a dopey grin she had come to associate with their imaginary married life. "I need to find him and send him to bed," she decided. He must be exhausted by now. Especially since it was a Potions day. Snape would've been even more horrid than normal, seeing as his favorite victim—her—wasn't present.
Heloise started down the stairs, and then froze on the last step for the second time that day. Her heart was in her throat as she stared at the scene in the common room. Ron was stretched out on the longest couch, the one before the fireplace, in a pair of pajama pants and nothing else. But his sculpted physique wasn't what held her attention. No—the magical firelight display he was conducting accomplished that. Ron muttered, hand twitching in different directions, and streams of flame from the fireplace leapt out into the air to spell words.
It was very similar to the Black family tapestry, only there weren't any pictures. It was, without a doubt, a genealogy of the Weasley family. As she watched, his name appeared beneath his parents', followed by 'Ginevra'. Then, hand shaking, he drew a line sideways from his name and placed 'Heloise Potter' at the end of it.
She lifted a trembling hand and set it over her quivering lips. In pureblood tapestries that meant . . .
Next, hand shaking even more than it was before, Ron swished his wand, drawing more lines in the air; these ones came down from the line linking her name with Ron's. Not long later, two more names appeared in the air and danced over to settle beneath the new lines, which were also connected. The names were: James Sirius Weasley and Lilith Heloise Weasley.
Ron reached the hand not holding his wand out toward the flaming tapestry. His fingers stopped just shy of touching the names of their children. Heloise lost it. She burst into tears and ran toward him; as she did, he jumped off the couch and spun around and dropped into a defensive posture. The flames vanished.
Heloise crashed into his chest and burrowed as close to him as she could, arms wrapping around his waist. "Y-you see th-them," she sobbed. Her fingernails scratched his back, but he didn't complain. He didn't say anything. He just shook. "You see them, r-right?" He had to see them! How else would he know their names? Did he have the dreams, too? He must! How else could he possibly know the names of their children?
"E-Elle?" Ron asked tentatively. "Are you okay?" He turned around and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. It should have felt new, but it didn't. She had sat the same way an innumerable amount of times in the dreams.
"Tell me you see them, Ron!" Heloise demanded.
Ron glanced away. "I don't know what—"
"Don't lie to me," she bit out. "Leave, if you must. Stay silent, if you must. Ignore me, if you must. But please, Ron, I'm begging you . . . don't lie to me."
Ron flinched and bowed his head. "Yes, Elle, I see them. They h-have your black hair and m-my blue e-eyes." He visibly gathered himself and then looked her straight in the eye. "I'm sorry for upsetting you. I didn't mean to. I was just . . . wishing," he breathed. "It won't happen aga—"
She was not going to let him finish that sentence. She didn't know why he was apologizing. She didn't know why he was so hesitant to discuss this topic. She didn't know, and she didn't care. Heloise didn't care why he had flinched, or why he thought she would be angry, or that Hermione fancied him. None of that mattered to her. Because all she could see was his trembling hand reaching out to lovingly stroke their children's names. He loved and wanted them as much as she did, and that was all she needed to garner her courage.
Heloise leaned forward and kissed him. When he didn't respond, she nibbled his bottom lip, as she had seen in the dreams. Ron gasped, and she deepened the kiss. When he finally started to react, she pulled back. His eyes scorched her.
"Elle?" His voice was grittier than usual.
"I want them," she said fiercely. "I want them both. And I . . . Ron . . ." She wiped away the tears. "But mostly," she whispered, "I want you." She stared deep into his eyes. "I've always wanted you."
Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag that she had seen him fiddling with for years now. He handed it to her. Brow furrowed, Heloise tugged the drawstring and opened the pouch. She dumped it upside-down and caught the object inside with her palm. It was black marble, a specific type she would never forget; she saw it every time the memory of Ron sacrificing himself as her knight replayed in her mind. It was, in fact, carved to look like a knight chess piece. It was also, she realized, a ring.
"R-Ron?"
His hands entered her line of sight, took the ring from her, and slid it on her left ring finger. "Bond with me." It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request. It was a statement—almost a command. She was okay with that.
She glanced up into his eyes. "Yeah?" she asked.
Ron nodded. "Yeah."
Heloise kissed him again, lingeringly, and then tucked her head under his chin as he hugged her against him. She listened to the desperate thudding of his heart—like thunder and lightning—and could only imagine hers beat just as fast. She stared at the firelight, which had revealed the truth, and relaxed into him. Her knight had asked for his princess's hand. Who was she to deny him?