Greener Grass. 2

She'd failed.

She'd fucking failed.

For fifteen years, the previous Potions masters at Hogwarts had been reasonable. Snape looked our for his house, and everyone always said Slughorn cared more about making connection than teaching. The year she decided to take Advanced Potions? Slughorn decides to develop academic standards.

It was official. The fat old walrus was her archenemy. Just the sight of his flourishing script—which covered every available inch of parchment on her practical exam—made Daphne want to hex the parchment into ash.

She was managing Exceeds Expectations in most of her other N.E.W.T. courses, but as of right now, she was earning a Dreadful in Advanced Potions. Combined with the Acceptable in Ancient Runes, her marks had dropped dangerously low.

She needed Outstanding averages to qualify for the Healer program at St. Mungo's.

Normally Daphne had no trouble keeping her marks up. Despite what most people assumed about Slytherins—especially ones whose families had supported the wrong side of the war—she wasn't some vapid pure-blood princess coasting on family connections and looks. But she didn't mind letting people think she was. It made things easier. A pretty face, decent tits, and a fit arse could get you anything in this world. You didn't even need all three. Just two out of the three was fine for most wizards, and just one for the more desperate boys. It was ridiculously easy and gave her more time to focus on what actually mattered.

But there wouldn't be any more time for anything if she didn't bring up this grade. The worst thing about the Greengrass family? Her parents demanded perfection: academically, socially, and matrimonially. While other pureblood families might be more lenient with their daughters, the Greengrasses had a zero-tolerance policy for failure.

Daphne needed a career, a well-paying one, to cut herself off from her parents' money and their bloody arranged marriage to some pureblood git they'd chosen. Healer training paid well once you were certified, and more importantly, it was respectable enough that even her parents couldn't argue against it. At least, not until she was established enough to tell them exactly where they could shove their marriage contract.

She didn't mind the arranged marriage bollocks either, if she was being honest. Not when she could probably do a lot worse than marrying some pureblood heir with a decent fortune and acceptable looks. The problem was that her parents seemed determined to match her with wizards who were twice her age and three times her weight. She had standards, for Merlin's sake.

Bloody Slughorn. When she'd approached him before class asking for extra credit, he'd told her in that wheezy voice of his to attend the tutorials and work with the study groups. She already did both. So unless she could convince some Potions prodigy to brew her makeup exam for her under Polyjuice Potion... she was well and truly screwed.

Her frustration escaped in the form of an audible groan, and from the corner of her eye she saw someone jerk in surprise.

She jerked too, because she'd thought she was wallowing in her misery alone. But Potter—Saint bloody Potter—had stuck around, and he was making his way toward Slughorn's desk.

Harry Potter.

The Boy Who Lived twice. The Chosen One. Hero of the Wizarding World. All those ridiculous titles, and here he was, just another eighth year trying to catch up on coursework like the rest of them.

She couldn't remember ever having a proper conversation with him. Probably because she'd never bothered to try. He was fit, though, she'd give him that. More than she'd realized during their seven years of ignoring each other across the Great Hall. Messy black hair that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, those ridiculous green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a body that Quidditch had been very good to.

But she was noticing now. His school robes did nothing to hide the broad shoulders or the way his shirt pulled slightly across his chest when he moved. How had she never paid attention to that before?

Potter caught her staring and a frown creased his brow.

"Everything all right?" he asked, glancing pointedly at the crumpled parchment in her hands.

She muttered something distinctly unflattering under her breath about Slughorn's ancestry.

One dark eyebrow rose in her direction. "Sorry, come again?"

Daphne balled up her exam and shoved her chair back with more force than necessary. "I said everything's brilliant."

"Right, then." He shrugged and continued toward the front of the dungeon.

Daphne didn't try to glimpse his grade—she assumed he'd failed like the rest of them. The Boy Who Lived might be able to defeat Dark Lords, but Advanced Potions was clearly another matter entirely.

As he picked up the tutorial schedule from Slughorn's desk, Daphne flung on her school robes and crammed her pathetic excuse for an exam into her bag.

Potter headed back up the corridor. He gestured for her to go first before he stepped into the corridor. Daphne supposed it was good manners on his part. She'd barely taken three steps when she felt it. A familiar tingle. The tingle. That peculiar sensation every witch learned to recognize when they felt a wizard's eyes on them. A prickling awareness that came when someone was having a proper look. Not just a casual glance, but the sort of lingering stare that made the back of your neck prickle and your skin hot.

Daphne's cheeks warmed slightly. She'd thought Potter was being a gentleman, but apparently he was just positioning himself for a better view.

He was staring at her arse.

Well. That was... unexpected. And oddly flattering, if she was being honest with herself.

Saint Potter wasn't quite as saintly as everyone thought, was he? Daphne couldn't say she minded, exactly. It was a good arse, after all, and she'd put enough effort into keeping it that way. Still, it was rather amusing to know that the Boy Who Lived was just as predictable as every other wizard when it came to a decent figure in well-fitted robes.

Just as they reached the entrance to the dungeons, she tripped when her heel caught a loose stone and she went sprawling. Her books scattered across the dungeon floor with an embarrassing clatter, and her carefully rolled parchment unfurled like a banner of academic failure.

"Clumsy cow," she muttered, her cheeks burning as she scrambled to her hands and knees.

Potter immediately dropped down beside her, gathering her scattered belongings without being asked.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine," Daphne said quickly, reaching for her books. "Really, you don't have to—"

Her jaw dropped when she accidentally grabbed his parchment instead of hers and she saw his grade.

"You got an Outstanding?" she demanded, staring at the neat script that proclaimed Potter's academic triumph in Slughorn's flourishing handwriting.

Potter—Harry Potter, who'd been decent but hardly exceptional at Potions for seven years—had somehow managed to score Slughorn's highest possible grade on an exam that had demolished nearly everyone else in Advanced Potions.

"And you got a Dreadful?" Potter said, sounding genuinely surprised.

Daphne snatched her parchment from his hands, her cheeks burning. "Brilliant observation, Potter. Did your Outstanding come with remedial reading comprehension?"

Instead of taking offense, he sat back on his heels and studied her with those annoyingly perceptive green eyes. "I thought Slytherins were supposed to be good at Potions."

"We are. Usually." She collected the rest of her books with sharp, efficient movements. "Unfortunately, our dear Professor Slughorn seems to have undergone some sort of personality transplant over the summer."

Potter nodded grimly. "Tell me about it. Half the class failed, and Hermione's ready to hex him into next week."

"Granger failed too?" The information was surprisingly comforting. If the brightest witch of their year was struggling, perhaps there was hope for the rest of them.

"Got an Acceptable. She's not taking it well."

They both stood, and Daphne found herself looking up at him again. Really, when had he gotten so tall?

"Listen. Do you... would you consider..." She paused, hating what she was about to do. "Tutoring me?"

His green eyes—darker than she'd realized, and surrounded by thick black lashes that were completely wasted on a bloke—went from surprised to wary in seconds.

"I'll pay you," she added hastily.

"Oh. Right, well, yeah, of course I'd expect payment. But..." He shook his head. "I can't. Sorry."

Daphne swallowed her disappointment. "Come on, do me a solid. If I fail this makeup practical, my N.E.W.T. scores will be rubbish. Please?" She flashed her most winning smile—the one Astoria called her 'ice princess melting' look that made boys trip over their own feet and never failed to get her what she wanted.

"Does that usually work?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"What?"

"The whole... dazzling smile thing. Does it help you get your way?"

"Always," she answered without hesitation.

“Almost always,” Harry corrected. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time. I’m already juggling class work and Quidditch… so, as much as I’d love to help you—” 

“You would not,” Daphne grumbled. “You look like you don’t even want to talk to me right now.” 

His little you-got-me shrug was infuriating.

“I have to get to practice. I’m sorry you’re struggling with this course, but if it makes you feel better, so is everyone else.” 

Daphne narrowed her eyes. "Not you. You're acing Potions."

"Got lucky, didn't I? Right textbook at the right time."

"Well, I want that luck. Please, teach me your ways."

She was seconds from abandoning all Slytherin pride and begging, but he was already moving toward the door.

"There's still the study group Hermione set up, you know. I could have her—"

"I'm already in it," she muttered.

"Oh." Harry paused at the door, and for a moment she thought he might change his mind. "Well, then I'm afraid there's nothing else I can suggest. Good luck with your makeup exam, Greengrass."

He disappeared into the corridor, leaving her alone with her failure Unbelievable. Every boy at Hogwarts would have jumped at the change to help her out. But Potter? He runs away like she'd just asked him to take the dark mark.

Now she was right back where she'd started before Potter gave her that faintest flicker of hope.

Completely buggered.