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It was 11:00 AM when Harry was informed by Personnel that they had assigned a new clerk to his section, and he was to go and collect her.
Harry's first thought was, "Another one like her?" His office had five slots, but only two were filled, not counting himself. The other two were witches, and while they did excellent work, a significant portion of what went on in his section often required the strength or magical prowess of a wizard. Harry was merely a cog in a massive supply chain within a magical installation that remained unnamed. His section dealt with broomstick engines and magical transmissions. They received them, stored them, and shipped them off to be repaired at the workshop level.
His immediate superior, a captain, visited maybe two or three times a month unless something went wrong. The facility was tucked away at the back of a sprawling warehouse complex, and as long as everyone did their jobs correctly, no one paid much attention to them.
The two witches Harry mentioned, Millicent and Padma, were capable workers, but, in his view, they didn't have that certain charm some magical women possessed even when wearing wrinkled robes smudged with dust and spell residue. Harry wasn't trying to be mean, but they simply didn't catch his attention.
Why did this matter? Well, it didn't, not really. At twenty-three, with over two years of service under his belt, Harry had been deployed countless times and divorced because of it. The vast majority of wizards and witches he dealt with daily were between eighteen and twenty-three, and he rarely met anyone who shared his perspective or experiences. The Enchanted Lounge wasn't like a Muggle club, where women might be seeking companionship, and he stood out like a sore thumb amidst the younger crowd. Not to mention, as a Senior Master Wizard, he was practically a revered figure to the lower-ranked staff.
Harry figured it wasn't odd that he noticed the women who worked in his section. It wasn't about pursuing anything improper—it would have been a clear violation of magical regulations, not to mention the unspoken rule about keeping things professional.
That being said, Harry was only human—or wizard, rather. He did take notice of the witches around him, including the ones working for him. And he couldn't help but admit, the two witches already on his team weren't exactly the type to fuel his fantasies.
That changed the day Private Astoria Greengrass got assigned to Harry's section.
When Harry first saw her, he walked right past her, not realizing who she was. She had reported in wearing a Class A uniform with a skirt, instead of fatigues. The uniform displayed long legs that seemed to go on endlessly, and her face carried an aura that made her look like a pixie out of a magical storybook.
You can imagine Harry's surprise when he called out, "Private Greengrass!" and she raised her hand like a schoolgirl answering a question. She walked over with the crisp precision of someone fresh out of basic training, snapping to attention with perfect form.
"Private Greengrass reporting, Master Sergeant," she said in a voice that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. Everything about her seemed to radiate charm and confidence. She was petite, about a head shorter than him, and her movements were as polished as her appearance.
"At ease," Harry said. "Do you have any gear?"
"No, Master Sergeant," she replied.
"Do you have a broomstick?"
"No, Master Sergeant."
"Let's start calling me 'Master Harry,'" he said, offering a slight grin. "Come with me."
Harry led her to the enchanted carriage he used for transportation, and as she climbed in, her uniform skirt shifted just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her charm. He quickly averted his gaze and focused on the road.
"Relax," he said, keeping his tone friendly. "This section is calm. I'm your boss, but you don't need to address me formally all the time unless there are outsiders around. Call me Harry, if you like."
"I'm not used to this," she admitted. "I just got out of advanced magical training and feel like I don't know anything."
"You'll learn fast," Harry reassured her. "Give it a month, and you'll be an expert. You'll know part numbers, wand specifications, and inventory catalogs better than anyone. Now, tell me a little about yourself. Who is Astoria Greengrass?"
Before she could answer, Harry checked his watch. It was nearing lunchtime. "Hold that thought," he said. "You hungry?"
"Yes," she said quietly.
He decided to take her to the Enchanted Lounge—a place she technically wasn't allowed to enter as a low-ranking recruit. She looked much younger than her years, though, so when they arrived, Harry joked, "Nobody will question you being here if they think you're my daughter. For the next hour, you're calling me Dad."
"Yes, Father," she said, suppressing a smile.
"No, not 'Father.' Just say 'Daddy' or something believable."
"Yes… Daddy," she replied, still smiling.
Over their meal, Harry learned a bit about Astoria. She'd recently married her childhood sweetheart, a wizard named Draco, just before being assigned to his section. Astoria came from a small wizarding village that still clung to old traditions. She explained how her family had been wary of allowing her to court anyone who didn't meet their expectations.
"They're very strict," she said. "Back home, you can't even date without a chaperone, and marriage is all about land and alliances."
Her marriage to Draco was rushed, performed by a magical officiant just a day before Draco's deployment to another continent. Afterward, Astoria had been assigned to Harry's section, while Draco was sent off to Fort Gordon—but she spoke of him with warmth and affection, even as she admitted how difficult it was to adjust to life apart.
Twenty-two weeks later, a newly hardened duelist graduated from advanced magical combat training at the Auror Academy and boarded her second-ever enchanted carriage to reach the Magical Aerial Brigade, where she was now assigned. She could have returned to her family during her leave, but chose not to. She said there was nothing at home she needed and no one she particularly wanted to see.
Her husband's twenty-two weeks of training had taken place at a different magical academy. Later, Harry would learn that Draco had fallen in with the wrong crowd, convinced to pursue every advanced Auror specialty under the sun, including Dragon Wing training. Harry thought of these as "the wrong crowd" because, in his opinion, anyone who willingly chose to fly directly into dragon territories for reconnaissance missions was likely missing a few screws. Beyond that, anyone aiming to join the elite Hit Wizard corps should probably avoid getting married. When one becomes an elite enforcer of magical law, they're essentially married to the Ministry. A human spouse simply couldn't compete.
Meanwhile, the Ministry of Magic had decided it wasn't appropriate to assign the two young, married lovers to the same magical outpost. The "needs of the Ministry" frequently overruled the promises made by recruiters to aspiring witches and wizards.
During lunch, a barmaid brought them a pair of Butterbeers, and when Harry handed one to Astoria, she said, "Thank you, Daddy." Harry felt his face heat up, but since he was seated, it didn't matter. Astoria wrinkled her nose after the first sip, making him wonder if she'd ever had one before. She was fascinating, for reasons beyond her striking beauty. For a young recruit, she was at a relatively advanced age, meaning she had more life experience. Yet, she hadn't been socialized in the same way as most witches, which gave her an air of someone raised in a magical forest by bowtruckles. Simultaneously, she was a dreamer with ambitious plans.
Her primary grievance was that when she and Draco had planned their future together, they had envisioned living in the same place, enjoying the bliss of married life, and starting a family right away. Like many young witches, Astoria had joined the Ministry partly to access the exceptional magical healthcare that would ensure a safe birth for her future children. They'd talked about having four. That dream had sustained her through the grueling days of magical combat drills and survival tests. But now she was faced with the truth: it wasn't going to happen anytime soon, if ever.
Draco's latest enchanted letter revealed he was enrolling in an advanced magical linguistics course, followed by Dragon Wing training. If he excelled, he intended to pursue a slot in the Ranger-Magical Corps, the elite of the elite. Harry couldn't help but feel skeptical. With every step Draco took toward specialization, the gap between him and Astoria widened. He'd likely be assigned to a different magical post—or perhaps even another country—for the majority of his career. Even if they remained married in name, it would be just that: a name, upheld only by Ministry records. The skills Draco was training for would ensure constant deployments, most of his missions shrouded in secrecy or higher levels of magical classification. He'd move from one high-risk assignment to another, while Astoria would be stationed in a more stable position. Even if she left the Ministry and became a dependent wife, their time together would be fleeting—perhaps twenty or thirty days a year, assuming he was back in Britain at all.
Draco's latest enchanted letter informed her that he was headed for advanced language studies and then airborne Auror training. If he performed well there, he planned to apply for the Order of the Phoenix's Ranger program. That's why I said "if at all." Draco's path likely meant assignments at separate locations—if not separate countries—for the bulk of their careers. Their marriage might exist on parchment, confirmed by the magical seals of the Department of Magical Union Records, but it would be little more than that. If he succeeded in his ambitions, his work would involve classified missions and frequent deployments, leaving her behind. Even if she waited until her Ministry contract ended and he extended his, she could live as a dependent spouse near his station. Still, she would see him only sporadically—perhaps twenty or thirty days a year—assuming he was even in Britain during that time.
As I learned more about Astoria's situation, I felt a growing temptation to break the rules about fraternizing with fellow Aurors. Her marriage wasn't going to last. At some point, she'd realize that the part of the plan to escape her overbearing family had worked. She was as free as a phoenix and earning enough galleons to get by. The Ministry provided most of what she needed, as long as she was willing to live in the barracks and eat the rather bland meals provided at the Auror Hall. If she stuck with it, she'd climb the ranks, become more indispensable, and stretch her career until she was well into middle age. You can start a whole new life at forty-one, especially in the magical world.
Basically, Private Astoria Greengrass was ripe for the picking, and if I didn't "pluck her," one of the next hundred wizards she met would. Despite her initial distaste for Butterbeer, she had two mugs, and it was clear she couldn't handle her drink. At barely seven stone soaking wet, two Butterbeers were plenty for someone as slight as her. She didn't stagger on the way out of the tavern, but her steps lost their deliberate cadence, and the military bearing she'd worked so hard to perfect unraveled. She'd learned to appear composed, even if she was in entirely the wrong environment for it.
When she got into the Ministry's enchanted coach this time, she flashed me again, her robes falling open in a deliberate tease. She looked up at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Naughty Daddy," she said, giggling softly.
I didn't respond, simply walked around to my side of the coach.
"Thank you for lunch, Daddy!" she sighed as I climbed in.
"You're welcome, Baby Girl," I said, my tone playful.
"My real dad would never call me that," she remarked. "He'd have hexed me into next week for spreading my knees like that."
"Well, you're not home anymore, and no one's going to hex you for anything unless you ask them to."
"Why would anyone want that?" she gasped.
"You've lived a very sheltered life," I said, giving her a knowing look. "As a married witch, you might want to educate yourself about the world."
I began telling her about some of the more unusual magical practices and desires I'd encountered across the globe. She scoffed at a few of them, disbelief flickering in her bright eyes.
"No one would ever let a centaur mount her," she said firmly. "Have you seen how massive they are? It'd be impossible."
"Suffice it to say, there are witches and wizards who enjoy all sorts of things. Some witches like being bound with enchanted ropes or even gagged. I've dated a few who enjoyed being spanked, but the ones who wanted to be hexed or cursed? Not my style."
"I should hope not," she murmured, her voice tinged with unease.
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