Flashman and the Sorcerers, or Harry Potter and the Hero of Kabul
from the Flashman Papers, written ca. 1905-1910
In a long and varied life, I admit that I've only had a few rules that I have followed. One of them is "Never, ever mess with the supernatural. It don't pay." The one time I ever broke that rule comprehensively, it wasn't my fault. If that beastly Voldemort had left my loving Elspeth alone, or the wanton trot had shown the least amount of common sense about who she did the honeymoon hornpipe with, all would've been well. However, t'wasn't a complete waste of time, by any means-I met some of the most interesting people, such as Hermione Granger, a saucy little snapper with a slantendicular look in her eye, and, if I am any judge, a weak spot for chaps like me, with my six feet of height, broad shoulders, dark good looks and cavalry whiskers. Not that I ever tried anything with her-she was too young for me by half, and I bar paramours that can turn me into a newt. Now, that lithe seductress Sybilla Trelawney, on t'other hand, was another story entirely. She'd a passion for Adam's arsenal and little enough opportunity to indulge in it, being a teacher and all. Giving such women a taste of Harry in the night is just nuts to a chap like me.
It all started in the year 18-, when I'd gone to ground in London after another round of terrifying adventures to get my breath back and my wounds tended. Oxen and wainropes, I swore, would not be enough to drag me from London again. Of course, I've said that many times before-much good it ever did me!
The then PM was a waste of space and air, like most politicos (learned my own lesson about them, didn't I—my attempt to get into Commons ended up with me shanghaied aboard that bl—dy awful slave ship and abused by that d-ed maniac John Charity Spring, not to mention dragged clear to America and across the continent before I could find a way home to England) but at least the beastly cad didn't appear in the middle of one's sitting room of an evening.
I was sitting up with a bottle of brandy, more than half-foxed and considering whether I'd do better looking up an old flame who lived in Belgravia, or toddling off to bed. Elspeth was off in Scotland; one of her beastly sisters had just pupped, and so, of course, Elspeth just had to be there to give the sprog her auntly blessings. Me, I avoided my Scotch in-laws, and they me, which suited me right down to the ground.
In any case, all of a sudden there was this loud pfoomp sound, and a strange cove in long robes was standing there before me. As you can imagine, that sobered me right up—Flash don't like the unexpected, not one bit he don't, and given my background, can you blame me?
"You're Colonel Harry Flashman." The robed cove sounded very sure of himself, so I abandoned my first plan, which was to plead in my best Whitechapel whine that 'twasn't me, guv'nor, the big cove's somewhere else. "I have need of you."
My face went red—others' do with anger, but with me, it's a sign that my yellow belly's doing the polka down inside me. "And if I am? D-n your impudence, sir, what gives you the right to just appear here? An Englishman's home is his castle, and if you don't give me a good explanation, I'll toss you through the window!" After all these years, I'm good at carrying off a bluff, while all the while looking around for some way to escape.
The cove pointed a stick at me and muttered something like "incarcerus," and all of a sudden, I was tied up, neat as ninepence! "I was told that you'd be a difficult man to deal with. However, your reputation for courage and resourcefulness has recommended you to me. Allow me to introduce myself." He gave me a little bow, neat as Rudi von Starnberg, damn him. "I am Amadeus Asmodeus Black, Minister of Magic in H.M. Government."
As you can no doubt imagine, this took me well aback. I had mostly slept through my lessons in the British governmental system at Rugby, but I'd have remembered if they'd mentioned a Ministry of Magic. I also couldn't deny that he'd apparently trussed me up by casting a spell. Very well—I've always been one to deal with things the way they were, admittedly, after trying hard to escape the situation. "You seem to already know me, but if you don't, I'm Harry Paget Flashman, Colonel—currently on half-pay—and the Hero of Kabul."
"We need a hero."
At his words, I felt a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach, and barely kept myself from throwing up. Apparently my heroic reputation, false though it be, had percolated even to the wizards, and I had a feeling that even if I threw myself at his feet, bawling, he'd just think it was a joke in dubious taste. It's pure hell, sometimes, being six-feet-plus with a build like mine and a bluff, manly face. If I were weedy and sickly-looking, nobody'd think of me when they're looking for a willing fool to toss into the nearest bowl of mulligatawny.
