"Turns out green isn't a bad color for the Great Hall after all."

Harry motioned his glass towards the foliage cascading down the stone walls of his alma mater. Neville had transplanted half a forest to decorate the fundraising gala, and the lamps shone through an array of fresh leaves.

"Oh yes," nodded Luna at his side, "Rue is such a good ward against nargles. They're deathly allergic to it, you know."

"I'm sure," smiled Harry.

Three glasses of wine only made Luna even more fun. He had worried that graduation and the demands of the Wizarding World might snuff out her unique spark, but seven years on she was the same as ever.

He took a sip of his fourth glass. "But I meant that this green is nice. It's… alive. Not like those awful lamps they had down in Slytherin."

"Perhaps they were burning korflin herbs to balance their magical energies," said Luna serenely. "I brought a stick of it tonight myself—for the fundraiser, you know, to auction off."

Harry chuckled. "Any interested buyers?"

"Neville didn't have the heart to put such a rare treasure up," she said with a fond smile. "He really is gracious. Galleons are a poor substitute, but—"

"Far easier to bribe the Ministry with," he sighed, unfortunately just as they crossed paths with Hermione and Ron coming the other way.

"Harry!" hissed Hermione with a disapproving look, while her husband only grinned at him before sweeping her away.

"You're not wrong, though," said Luna wistfully. "All my petitions to have the zezarell's natural habitat protected have fallen on deaf ears."

"They're so stubborn," he agreed, while privately thinking the Ashdown Forest could thank its lucky stars for its unicorns and hippogryphs—actual species that attracted public sympathy.

Not that sympathy alone was enough to ward off the poachers and potion-masters of the world, always hungry for more flora and fauna to throw into their cauldrons. Without Neville's ceaseless efforts to find recognition for wild spaces as nature preserves, exploitation might have stripped them bare years ago.

"I mentioned it to Headmaster McGonagall," continued Luna. "But I think I caught her at a bad time. Perhaps the wine didn't agree with her, she looked a little pale in the face…"

"I think she'll be fine." Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Nice of her to open up Hogwarts for this event, though."

"And nice of you to show up and bring some attention," said the woman brightly. "We won't let it go to waste. The Quibbler will run a full page in its edition—"

"Great, great. Don't forget to mention the nargles," Harry beamed and took another drink.

Don't encourage her! He could practically hear Hermione shouting in his head. But the alcohol spurred him on. He was really enjoying himself.

"Of course, they shall have pride of..." Luna trailed off and glanced ahead, then gave him an airy smile. "Oh dear. The Headmistress still hasn't returned and I'm getting a little worried. I'll go check up on her."

"Uh, alright," said Harry to her back as she left him. But that was Luna, always mercurial.

With a contented sigh, he let his gaze sweep the hall again. All the guests were a little tipsy by now, but it was far too early to call it a night. His feet were starting to hurt, though. Stupid formal shoes, why'd he even have to wear them when nobody could see under the robes anyway?

It didn't help that the tables and chairs of his school days had all been cleared to make room for mingling. He didn't want to bother the attendant house elves for something as stupid as a chair, not when he could make one himself. He was a goddamn wizard, wasn't he?

Imperiously he pointed his wand. "S... Sella!"

A small poof at the tip of the yew, and a puff of rancid smoke.

"Damn it, that's not it… what's the word…" He clicked his tongue and tried again. "Accio chair!"

Nothing happened. He pulled up his sleeves—

"The students sat on benches in the Great Hall," said a feminine voice behind him. "Unless you were hoping for the Headmistress's chair?"

Harry barked a laugh. "I think the punishment would be far worse than losing House Points."

Turning around, he found himself staring into ice blue eyes set in an aristocratic face. The black beret perched on top of long blonde hair would have made the woman look cute if not for the cutting smirk on her face.

The name danced on the edge of his memory, but the alcohol chased it away.

"Cat got your tongue, Mr. Potter?" the woman purred in an elegant tone.

He scrambled for a reply. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Ms., uh..."

"Was I of so little significance despite the times we shared? I'm almost hurt."

That near-lyrical mockery was familiar, though. He snapped his fingers. "Greengrass, that's it! Daphne Greengrass! You used to hang out with Tracey Davis."

That got him a smirk. "Oh? So you'll remember Tracey, but not me? Should I be offended?"

"I dunno, do you want to be?" grinned Harry. That was probably impolite, but he'd been enjoying himself all night and saw no reason to change that now.

"Perhaps I do, and I shall carry it with me all the way to the press."

"You'd better hurry, then," said Harry. "The Quibbler is running a special edition this Friday."

"Oh, Mr. Potter," she said pityingly, "I can have your name tarred and feathered by tomorrow morning."

There was no doubt in his mind that she could. At a more sober moment, it would put him in a cold sweat. But right now it struck him as irresistibly funny.

"I do hope you'll arrange for tar of the highest quality, at least," he said.

"Only the best for you." She tipped her glass to him with a smile.

They both took a sip of their respective drinks. The prickling in Harry's spine pulled his gaze to Daphne's face. For a moment, he thought he saw something predatory in the gleam of her eyes. But no, he was imagining things. Old instincts died hard, and maybe they could do with a little pushing into the grave.

"Would another glass of… is that Ogden's… buy your good will?"

"You know, it just might."

Grinning, Harry waved one of the house elves over and selected two glasses from her silver tray. He meant to hand it over with a playful bow, but suddenly stumbled. Both glasses went flying.

Oh bugger. Must be drunker than—

The spilled wine made a graceful arc in the air before splattering on the front of Daphne's robes.

Harry blinked. Red dripped from the gorgeous black collar.

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry!" He raised his hands appeasingly.

"If you truly are sorry," said Daphne with admirable calm as she took his arm, "then come with me."

"Huh?" He blinked again.

"You will help me repair the damage you caused, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Of course."

She led him out of the Great Hall and halfway towards the west staircase before he dug in his heels.

"Wait, I can't go into the ladies' washroom."

Daphne arched an eyebrow. "Who said anything about a washroom?"

"But… don't you need to get cleaned up?"

"Do you have any idea how embarrassing it would be for a lady to be seen in a cramped washroom, wringing out her robes?" She straightened her beret as they started walking again. "No, no, that would never do. We shall find a quieter corner."

They ended up in one of the smaller breakrooms Harry distantly remembered Fred and George storing their products in. He took an awkward seat on the sofa while Daphne placed a lock on the door and did some brief spellwork. Then she pulled at the fabric of her robes to examine the damage.

"How very unfortunate," she sighed after a moment, and Harry felt guiltier than ever.

"They're black, aren't they?" he asked hopefully. "Once we dry them, nobody will be able to tell the difference."

Daphne shot him a disbelieving stare. "A discerning eye can certainly see stains in black, especially in silk of this quality. Here, have a look."

He followed her finger as it glided along the fabric, over rather… well, a generous swell of breasts. His cheeks flushed red when he realized he'd been staring, and not at the stains.

Get it together, Harry. He might have slapped his cheeks if he wasn't afraid he'd only embarrass himself further.

"Ah, yes. I see what you mean," he said, even as he tore his eyes away. "Then here, I'll magic them off. Neville taught me all kinds of cleaning spells, he's really experienced—"

He took out his wand, only for Daphne to slap it away.

"Are you daft?" she snapped. "These robes are spell-proofed down to the last thread. You won't be able to lift the stains without unravelling the fabric."

She looked at him appraisingly.

"Or... perhaps you wish me to go nude?"

Harry's cheeks flamed.

"N-no!" he protested, even as some compelling visions came to mind. She really was very attractive, and it had been quite a while—

Her smirk brought a small trickle of clarity through the haze of alcohol.

Stop it, Harry. Aristocrats are different, they're jaded to nudity after having servants dress them their whole lives. It's like talking about the weather to them. She's not coming onto you, idiot.

With a sigh, Harry straightened his shoulders and opened his mouth to try again—

"Oh, I see how it is." Daphne arched her elegant brows. "I'm not attractive enough for you."

"No, you're very attract—" his mouth supplied before he could wrestle it back down. "I'm sorry, I must be making you uncomfortable."

"Mm. I wonder." Daphne gave him a playful smile before she put aside her beret and gripped the hem of her robes. "Here, Mr. Potter. Do hold these while I conjure some water to soak them."

"Sure, I—"

Smoothly Daphne pulled off her robes.

"...I… what are you doing?" he spluttered.

She looked at him innocently. "Why, stripping off the damaged garments in question, Mr. Potter. Surely you don't expect me to soak with them?"

If his cheeks had been red before, they were now the exact shade of the Hogwarts Express.

"You can't…" he struggled as he caught the robes she threw at him. "You can't just..."

"I believe I just did," she purred.

Swallowing hard, he valiantly rallied. "But you're wearing, uh…"

Nothing underneath but very nice lingerie, shimmering blues and translucent veils that called attention to every inch of creamy smooth skin. And were those stockings encasing those long sculpted legs…?

"...that," he finished lamely. "Why, er, would you come to a f-fundraiser dressed like that?"

"Oh, it gets so stuffy in these halls," said Daphne as she fanned herself. "The last thing I need to do is sweat under my robes. Are you really wearing that much under yours?"

This time she let her eyes deliberately roam over his body. Harry became acutely aware that he was wearing only boxers and an undershirt underneath. He might as well have been naked under the intensity of her gaze.

"...it's different for guys," he tried helplessly.

"Ah, and here I hoped I had left old-style chauvinism behind me." Daphne sighed in theatrical disappointment. "It would appear that no matter where I go and who I meet, there is always someone ready to put me back in the kitchen."

Harry furiously shook his head. "No, no, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry."

Foot in mouth, Potter, he winced. How many times had he apologized tonight? It was made him feel like that fourteen-year-old boy he'd been once, seated next to a veela-blooded girl.

"Your progressiveness renews my hope, Mr. Potter," she said, amusement sparking in her eyes. "Then you won't mind if perhaps we put the robes aside for now."

Her fingers brushed his arm as she collected the robes from him. Despite the intervening material of his sleeves, he could almost feel the soft skin gliding along his own.

"Ah, yes… that's fine," he said, even as she slipped her arm into his again to pull him along.

The robes were duly laid out on the side table. Daphne did not release him.

Is she… he swallowed thickly. Okay. In what way could this not be a come-on? Is there something I'm missing here?

Then again, he was drunk—though perhaps slightly less so than earlier. Maybe he was reading his own selfish desires into things. Better to play it safe.

Harry was just pulling away when her grip on him tightened.

Daphne sighed. "How many more signals must I throw your way, Mr. Potter?"

"Excuse me?"

"Perhaps I need to be more explicit and use the simplest language possible so there's no room for you to misinterpret."

She let go of his arm and pointed to herself. "I."

The pointing finger rotated to him. "Want you."

She curled one index finger and thumb into a hole shape and shoved her other index finger into the space. "To fuck."

She pointed to herself once more. "Me."

...okay, I think there's a possibility that she's interested in me.

"Now, since we are technically in school," Daphne said with a sigh of long suffering, "can you repeat what I just said?"

"I, uh, I…" said Harry intelligently, and somewhere Snape was sneering at him. He shook the image away. "You can't be serious. N-no way."

"Oh, I am very serious. How many times have I cracked a joke around you?"

"I… you made a few good ones when you were tearing apart that prefect, err... not that I was watching—"

"Then let me be even clearer, Mr. Potter." She pointed at herself once more. "I need—"

"No, you don't have to," he assured her, hands raised. "I get it."

"Do you now?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Then what are you doing still standing around?"

"Not quite believing my good fortune?" he said.

And it was good fortune, so much so that he was tempted to pinch himself awake.

"Fortunately for you," she approached him with a panther's stride, "the facts speak for themselves."

With a single hand on his chest, she pushed him down onto the sofa and straddled his lap. Harry's hands reached around her hips without waiting for his brain's input. Not that he minded, with how soft she felt under his touch.

When he moved his hands under the sheer cloth of her lingerie, she purred and leaned into him. Her skin was so smooth and warm against his fingers. He didn't know if he could take his hands off.

"Stockings first, Mr. Potter," she breathed in his ear. "You wouldn't want to rip them."

He took a deep breath. "But what if I do want to?"

Her eyes gleamed sapphire. "Then you will be paying for a new pair."

"Worth it," he said, eyes roaming over her soft curves and toned stomach. The soft fall of hair cascading down her slender shoulders. "Definitely worth it."

"Then shall we—mmph!"

He captured her mouth in a burning kiss, one she returned enthusiastically. Her lips were warm and pliant under his, save for the teasing nip that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine. Somehow his hands had glided up under the silk to cup her breasts. They felt wonderful in his palms, just the right size and heft. Daphne's encouraging sigh poured fire in his veins and spurred him on.

Eagerly Harry pushed what barely passed for a bra aside, the better to knead her sensitive flesh. He didn't even notice the silk tearing over the pounding of his heart. Not until Daphne made a tutting noise between little gasps of pleasure.

"I s-shall add the bra to your tab."

He leaned up to nuzzle along the pulse of her throat, relishing the sound it pulled from her. "I'll be… hah… sure to get my galleons' worth, then."

"Show me," she said in a low sultry tone that set his nerves alight.

How could two words be so hot—

Daphne's hands cut off his thoughts, pushing him down until he was sprawled on the sofa. Her smirk, god that smirk. His own hands found their way back to fondle her breasts.

I really hope I remember this tomorrow.

An impatient sigh drifted down as Daphne tugged on his collar.

"Still clinging to your robes, Mr. Potter? Must I spill wine on them in turn?"

Harry laughed. "No need, your majesty."

"Mmm." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I could get used to that."

Harry shifted her as little as possible, just enough so he could pull his clothes off and throw them aside. Then he grabbed her hips and eased her back down on top of him, the heat of her body warding off the cold air of the breakroom. His breath hitched when she lowered herself so the tip of his cock slid against her outer folds, already slick with lust.

Daphne's smug grin could have set off a forest fire.

"I've been looking forward to this," she purred.

"For how long?" he breathed.

Then she shifted and took him inside her and oh god, she was warm and tight around him. He gave a groan of pleasure as she moved down until he was buried to the hilt.

"Long enough," she murmured contentedly, then braced herself against his chest. Her hands burned like fire on his skin. "Now fuck me."

"With pleasure," he replied, and thrust upward. The low moan he received in turn was the most erotic sound he'd ever heard.

Harry took his time at first, gripping her by the hips as he moved experimentally inside her. Her inner walls felt amazing clenching around him, but he didn't want to be selfish about this. He wanted this to feel good for her too.

Shifting himself a little off the pillows for another angle, he felt her nails suddenly dig hard into his chest.

"Ahh… that's it…" she sighed, eyes closed in pleasure. "There. Harder."

"As her majesty wishes," he said, then put more power into the snap of his hips.

Daphne mewled and clutched at him, her entire body shivering on top of him. Her breasts heaved and bounced as she fucked herself on him, pressing her hips to swallow up the little space remaining between them. Harry shuddered and plunged in deeper. The bump of the sofa's arm against his head didn't matter, not compared to the way her expression twitched with every thrust.

That look… Harry's hands slid up her sides to caress her shoulders. When her eyes opened in surprise, he sat up so their foreheads almost touched, their pace slowing down but not stopping. A gentle wave, rather than the frantic rocking from before.

Smiling into her crystal blue eyes, he ran his hands through her hair.

"You're beautiful," he said, then kissed her.

Her lips were tender against his, fluttering like a butterfly before she pulled away.

"Thank you," she said, a wistful smile flitting across her face.

Then she planted both hands firmly on his chest and gave a demanding rock of her hips, pulling a groan from him. "Now make me feel it."

Wrapping his arms around her, Harry thrust inside her at a punishing pace. His fingers slid down to where they were joined to find the sensitive nub at the apex of her folds, already swollen with her arousal. A stroke of his thumb over it had her clenching tighter still.

"H-Harry, play fair..." Daphne gasped, shuddering with each touch. "D... damn—ah!—cheating lions!"

"...who jinxed me earlier into... spilling that wine?" panted Harry, putting more power into his thrusts to move her faster and harder.

Her laugh caught and turned into a ragged gasp. "F-figured it out, did we?"

He had no focus with which to answer her, not with the fire searing his veins. The steady stream of wetness coating his shaft told him she was reaching her limit too. She was so perfect around him, nails digging hard into his skin. Pleasure crackled white-hot at the base of his spine.

It couldn't last, not with that pressure building. He groaned and clutched her tightly as he came inside of her. Daphne shuddered with the sensation, bracing herself as she pressed against him. Harry redoubled his attack on her clit, swirling his thumb around the nub to give her the last push over the edge.

She stiffened in his grasp, then purred as she slumped into his waiting arms. Harry would never forget how soft she was in his embrace, or the tickling of her breath as she nuzzled against him.

With a sigh, he reluctantly slid from her, already missing the sense of connection. But her fingers fondly carding through his sweat-slicked bangs made up for it.

They lay there in silence for a while, warm and sticky and wrapped up in each other as they caught their breaths. Then to Harry's disappointment, she pulled away and propped herself up on her elbows.

"As delightful as this was," she said, "we had better freshen up and return. This party is dull enough that our absence will be noticed."

Despite her matter of fact tone, her eyes held warmth as she slid off the sofa onto unsteady legs. Her hands shivered as she smoothed out the remains of her lingerie.

"Do wait some time before you follow," she continued. "No doubt suspicions will be raised, but there's no need to make it too obvious."

"Make what too obvious?" he asked, sitting up and quickly throwing a freshening charm on himself. "For clarity's sake, what just happened?"

The haze of alcohol had mostly lifted, and now doubts were creeping over Harry. He was hardly a stranger to relationships, but never before a one-night stand. If that's what this even was.

Something in Daphne's expression made him pause.

"I… I'm not entirely sure," she said.

Pulling her own robes on, she waved a wand over the fabric. With newfound sobriety, Harry wasn't surprised to see the wine stains disappear as if… hah, by magic.

Harry scratched his neck. "Well... what do you want it to be?"

"My victory, of course," she said, as if to assure herself. She gave him a half-smirk, half-smile as she patted her hair back into place. "Which it is, whatever may come of this."

Harry's cheeks flushed as she swept his robes off the floor, draping them across her arms as she offered them to him.

"Thanks," he coughed as he awkwardly slipped them on. "I'll, ah… well, let me know. I wouldn't… be averse. To more, I mean."

Daphne gave him a gentle smile. "Oh, I think you'll have your answer sooner than you think."

The beret regained pride of place atop her head. With a twist of her wrist, she conjured a mirror to give herself a last check. Seemingly satisfied, she banished it and headed for the door. "No less than ten minutes, Mr. Potter."

"You make it sound like I'm an accomplice in something sordid."

Her smile widened before she strode out into the hallway. The vision of that grin lingered long after the door closed behind her.

Hate to see them leave... love to watch them go.

"Why isn't there a spell for hangovers?" groaned Harry as his head slumped against the table.

It wasn't fair. By the time he'd seen Daphne off (in a manner of speaking), he'd been feeling clear-headed. But apparently that had been a temporary thank you from his libido before the pounding headache and nausea set in.

"There are over a half-dozen charms," lectured Hermione as she glanced up from her copy of the Daily Prophet. "Any of them would work if you weren't slurring the syllables so badly."

"I can't help it. It feels like there's a dozen giants stomping on my head." He cast her his best pleading look, the one he used back in school when he asked for help on his essays. "Can't you cast one for me?"

It proved about as effective as it was back in school, too.

"No. Absolutely not." Hermione put down her paper and frowned at him. "You deserve this, Harry. This way, maybe you'll actually learn something."

"Cruel," he muttered and pitifully rubbed his temples. "Maybe I've got an aspirin left over."

As strict as she could be, at least she never criticized him for habits left over from his Muggle upbringing. Harry rummaged through his wrinkled robes—ugh, there was only so much a freshening charm could do—then paused when his fingers closed around a small bag.

"Call me whatever you like," his friend said callously. "Just make sure not to do it again."

Harry pulled out the bag and tugged it open. There was a familiar green powder inside, along with a fireplace address written in script on a golden card.

"Sorry, Hermione." He grinned from ear to ear. "I'm definitely going to do it again."

Author's note: No beta we die like Sirius. Just quick fluffy smut we threw out in four days after we binged on some Haphne. I'm really sorry but also extremely grateful to my co-author Minerva, who as always turns my dross into gold.

Co-author's note: Don't listen to her, she wrote 99.8% of this story. All I did was occasionally say words and occasionally put a few in myself. SMUT FOR THE SMUT GOD, FLUFF FOR THE FLUFF THRONE! See you next time.