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While she was in the spare room, Harry went to his own and changed into comfortable running shorts and a tank top. It might have been in the high sixties outside, but the house was warm, thanks to the magical heating charms. He had just finished preparing the Firewhisky sour when she appeared in the doorway. She had chosen one of Valerie's old peasant blouses, its design leaving her shoulders bare and making it obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. She paired it with a leather skirt that was short enough to reveal several inches of her thighs above the knee.
"Is this too much?" she asked, tilting her head as if testing his reaction.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, looking her over with a neutral expression.
"I could never wear anything like this before I left home," she admitted. "I'd see witches in Diagon Alley wearing clothes like this, but I'd never dare to try it myself. And since I got married, well, I just haven't had time to get anything like this. Wearing it makes me feel… I don't know… free? But do I look like a tart?"
Harry set the drink down and met her eyes. "Private Greengrass," he said, using the formal title as a subtle way to put her at ease, "you are what we, in the business, call a stone-cold fox. Now, I imagine that term wasn't used much in your upbringing, but what it means is—"
"I know what it means," she interrupted, a faint smile crossing her lips. "Draco calls me things like that."
"Well, he's right," Harry said. "You're beautiful, and it's something you'll need to learn to handle properly, or it could cause problems in your career."
"How do I handle it properly?" she asked, taking a step closer.
"It would help a lot if your husband were here," Harry said.
"He's not, and he won't be for a long time," she replied. "He sends an owl once a week, but it's just a short letter. There's never time to say much."
Harry knew better. Long-distance communication spells, enchanted mirrors, and even charmed owls made it easy to stay connected for those who wanted to. The Ministry often provided discounts for Aurors and their families to ensure they could communicate, knowing the job took a toll. If Draco wasn't making the effort, it wasn't because he couldn't—it was because he didn't want to.
That wasn't uncommon, Harry thought. Her husband had likely seen marriage as an escape from whatever life he'd been trying to leave behind. The escape had worked, but the marriage itself? That was another matter entirely. Harry wasn't sure it would last.
Then again, maybe he was wrong. Maybe they'd stick it out, end up stationed together, and build the life they'd dreamed of—four kids and all. Who was Harry to judge?
What he did know was that, for now, this witch trusted him. She valued his guidance and relied on him to steer her safely. He also couldn't deny that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Maybe, if handled right, they could both have some fun—her exploring her freedom and him… well, enjoying her company.
"If you can find some wingmen—or better yet, wingwomen—and stick with them, that'll help," Harry said, handing her the Firewhisky sour.
"I haven't made any friends yet," she admitted.
"Then stay out of sight when you can," he said. "If you want to avoid attention, maybe tone things down a bit. Less makeup."
"I'm not wearing any makeup," she replied, frowning.
"Well, in that case, wear a Disillusionment Charm all the time," Harry teased.
"I can't help how I look," she moaned.
"No, but you can control how available you appear," Harry said, his tone steady.
"I'm wearing a wedding ring," she protested. "Isn't that enough?"
"For most men, yes," Harry said. "But for some, it just makes you a more interesting challenge."
"How can that be?" she asked, her voice filled with disbelief. "I'm married! That should be respected."
"If your husband were here with you, it wouldn't be an issue," Harry explained. "But he's not, and you're alone. Alone makes you a lamb, and the wolves will circle. Most of them won't cross a serious line, but some won't stop trying to get past that wedding ring. You need either a close group of female friends to shield you or… well… a boyfriend."
"I can't have a boyfriend. I'm married," she said, her voice firm.
"Fair enough, I get that," Harry replied. "Then what you need to do is make it look like you have a boyfriend."
"But then people will think I'm cheating on my husband!" she exclaimed, clearly distressed.
"It's either that," Harry said calmly, "or you'll have to deal with every wizard you meet trying to convince you to cheat on your husband."
"Can't I just say no?" she asked, almost pleading.
"Of course you can," Harry said, shrugging. "But to save your voice, you might want to invest in a few T-shirts enchanted with the word 'No!' in big flashing letters. Then you can just point to it."
"Har-de-har-har," she said flatly, her expression as straight as a ruler.
It was only then that Harry realized just how sheltered her upbringing must have been. That phrase had to be at least sixty years out of fashion.
Private Greengrass had taken a liking to Firewhisky Sours. She wanted more of them than she probably should have had, and Harry told her as much. But she was an adult and clearly enjoying herself, so he let her indulge.
The issue with Valerie's old wardrobe was becoming evident, however. Valerie hadn't left any undergarments behind, and Greengrass had removed her tights earlier, saying they were too restrictive. It wasn't long before her leather skirt stopped doing its job, shifting in a way that revealed more than she likely intended.
Harry sat across from her, trying not to stare, but the movement of her legs made it nearly impossible not to notice. The warmth in the room, the Firewhisky in his own system, and the sight of her—all of it stirred something primal in him.
He knew better than to act on it. He was well aware of the fine line he was walking. But in a moment of poor judgment, he reached over and tugged gently at the shoulders of her peasant blouse. The loose fabric slipped down, and her breasts spilled free.
They were stunning—full, firm, and perfectly proportioned, with shockingly pink nipples set against darker, strawberry-hued areolas. For a moment, neither of them moved. She looked down at her exposed chest, then back up at Harry, her expression unreadable
Harry confessed to behaving badly. At one point, he reached over and tugged the shoulders of her peasant blouse down, causing her breasts to pop free. They were the size of grapefruits with shockingly pink nipples set on darker, strawberry-colored areolas. She looked down at her chest and then up at Harry.
"Daddy!" she squealed. "Bad! Bad Daddy! You're being a prevert." She blinked. "I mean a porvort." She shook her head. "You're trying to get into my panties!"
"You're not wearing panties," Harry remarked, flipping her skirt up to reveal more.
She covered herself with one hand and tugged at the shoulder of the blouse.
"You are such a bad Daddy," she mumbled, her voice thick and unsteady. "I'm supposed to be safe with you."
Her head lolled, her eyes unfocused and glassy. The strap of her dress had slipped, leaving one shoulder bare, and her skirt was still bunched high around her waist.
It was tempting. She'd probably never know the difference. But He could practically see the charges materializing like smoke in the air. Improper fraternization. Misuse of authority. And if she was incapacitated—Merlin forbid—well, even the Ministry would call that what it was: a violation of every ethical and magical law he held dear. That breathtaking allure, that intoxicating vulnerability, looked less like an opportunity and more like a one-way Portkey to Azkaban. so he picked her up and took her to the spare bedroom, where he put her to bed fully clothed. It was Friday night, so neither of them had to go anywhere the next morning, and he did not want to try to get her back into her uniform and take her to the barracks.
But Harry confessed he had lingered long enough to determine she tasted luscious.
Astoria, as Harry had privately started calling her, woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. Harry had already prepared a traditional treatment, and she choked it down reluctantly. She sat on the couch, her posture far from modest.
"Would you please keep your knees closer together?" Harry groaned.
"Why? You spent half the night looking up my skirt," Astoria replied nonchalantly.
"Yes, and it was frustrating," Harry admitted. "Come on, Angie. Give an old geezer a break here."
"Angie?" she asked.
"My new nickname for you. I'm betting you don't want people calling you Angel."
"You'd win that bet," Astoria said, her tone serious. "My mother called me her angel my whole life. I'm pretty sure she thought the only way she'd get to heaven was if I died, became an angel, and came to fetch her."
"That's… rather grim," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.
"Her life was grim," Astoria replied. "Mine would have been just as grim if I'd stayed there."
"If it makes you mad or uncomfortable, I'll call you Astoria or Private Greengrass," Harry offered. "I'm just trying to keep things light."
"You're the first NCO I've met since I joined the Aurors who didn't treat me like I had the plague," she said. "I'm pretty sure you can call me anything you want, and I won't get mad about it."
"What if I called you skank or ho?" Harry teased.
"You wouldn't," Astoria said firmly. "I've only known you for a day, but I already know that."
"Okay, you're right," Harry sighed. "Shucks. I was so looking forward to astounding you."
"You've already astounded me," she said.
"How so?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"I may have only had sex twice," Astoria said, "but I remember what I felt like inside afterward. When I woke up this morning, I didn't feel that way. And when I got up, I realized you could have done anything you wanted to with me last night. My mother always told me all men would want to soil me. All men. One time, when she'd been sipping the firewhisky, she whispered that included my father and brother. And I know how men look at me. I know how you looked at me. But you didn't take advantage of me. You didn't soil me, and I'm astonished."
"Don't be," Harry said. "I know at least two dozen Aurors who would have accorded you the same privacy and safety. We're not all slavering satyrs, Angie."
"So you didn't want to have sex with me last night?"
"Oh, trust me. I wanted to—badly. On a scale of one to ten, I wanted to have sex with you at around twelve or thirteen. But I knew it wouldn't work. Sure, it would have been nice in the very short term, but as soon as you woke up, it would've been the end of my career. I've only got a year and a half left before I can retire as a war hero
. So I just jerked off instead."
"Jerked off?" Astoria asked, frowning.
"Wow, you were sheltered," Harry sighed. "It means when a man uses his hand to simulate… er… intimacy. He has sex with his hand."
"I don't understand," Astoria admitted.
Harry glanced around the room and spotted a spatula on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and curled his fingers into a fist, using the spatula's handle to demonstrate. "On your honeymoon, when your husband had sex with you, he put his…" Harry paused, clearing his throat. "…his wand into your 'cauldron' and did this." He mimicked the motion of thrusting with the spatula.
"No, he didn't," Astoria said flatly.
"But you said you had sex."
"Yes. We did it twice, but it wasn't like that."
"I don't understand," Harry said, puzzled.
Astoria took the spatula from him, curled her fingers, and pushed it in once before pulling it out and handing it back. "Like that," she said. "He didn't move it back and forth, which I was glad for because it really hurt when he put it in."
"Ahhh," Harry said, understanding dawning. "Okay. He had what's called a premature ejaculation."
Astoria sighed, her frustration evident. "You keep using words I don't understand," she complained.
Harry took a deep breath and began explaining. It turned into a long conversation as he realized how much he needed to teach her—not just about biology and anatomy but also about her own body. It was surprisingly engaging, pointing things out and even gently showing her on her own body where certain parts were. She didn't protest when Harry touched her breasts or the curve of her hips. She seemed genuinely curious, as if she were uncovering secrets hidden in plain sight.
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