Author's Note: To answer many requests about 'Uncle Harry,' Sir Harry Paget Flashman

Is a self-admitted cad, sot, coward, and all around bastard. His only redeeming characteristics are his absolute determination to protect his family, an ability to fight like a trapped rat when cornered and unable to surrender, and his complete honesty. (Only In his memoirs.)

.org/wiki/Flashman

is originally from the Victorian Era. He is far from normal to still be alive in the 1990's. I will explain why in due course. He actually is Harry's multi-great grandfather, but has Harry refer to him as "Uncle" to keep his longevity and secrets, well, secret.

As to the Flashman Series, I'd highly recommend it, in addition to Fraser's numerous other works. Again, I'd like to say the man's a brilliant author, and my stuff is a pale, bland homage to his far better work.

Chapter 3: Finding a Home

But you will have noticed, no doubt, that when a man has a reputation, good or bad, folk will always delight in adding to it…"

-Flashman, By George MacDonald Fraser

In the days to come, I was to learn that the considerable talents for survival and manipulation I had acquired from a childhood with the Dursleys were those of a rank amateur compared with the ones possessed by my Uncle Harry.

It's understandable though-he'd been around a good deal longer than I had. Just how much longer was revealed in a confrontation shortly after we arrived at my new home, the once-glamorous townhouse of Gandamack Lodge in Berkeley Square, London.

While he had thus far treated me better than the Dursleys, (not hard to do,) I was mindful of the mean streak my new guardian had displayed-and though it had yet to be directed at me, it gave me pause. Add to that his relatively young age to be Petunia's Uncle and the man's odd speech and mannerisms, and my teeth were set on edge as soon as my bottom hit the slightly cracked leather of the Rolls' rear seat.

Pondering my quick decision to depart with him, I wondered, had I really made the right choice?

At least the Dursleys were a known quantity.

Flashy was as sharp as they come, and to his credit, he picked up on my unease almost immediately. Instead of striking up an awkward conversation, he simply informed me of our destination- his home in London, and set to driving the car, leaving a comfortable silence in which I contemplated my changed circumstances.

As we drove through London, I took it all in; the tall buildings skyscrapers mixing with older architecture, all of it lit up, and none of it seeming to match the dreary depressing sameness of Little Whinging, Surrey.

We drove past a block full of nothing but trees and lawn, pulling into the driveway of one of the older townhouses, and Flashman perked right up.

"Right. Here we are. Gandamack Lodge, on Berkeley Square. It's been a while since I've called it home-Still got the deeds and keys though.

Lot of High nobs live here- poncy bastards won't know what hit them once we get the place cleaned up a bit."

He passed me a key, saying "Here, open up the garage, and I'll park this monstrosity."

Apparently the Rolls took offense at that and stopped running just after I had opened the door to get out. The car's uneven temperament mean that I had to open the garage door and then hop into the drivers' seat to release the brake and steer the car in while Flashy sweated, cursed, and pushed from the rear.

We left the garage for the front door, and as my Great-Uncle opened it with a large, old-fashioned key, I saw a dark hallway covered in dust.

The sun was going down, though the elegant chandeliers in the hall remained unlit, and he struck some oil lamps in the hall, leaving a warm yellow light to accompany us down the black-and-white tiled hall. As my eyes grew accustomed to the softer light, I noticed the hall was lined with swords, busts of commanders, Prime Ministers, and fine paintings, most of soldiers in battle.

As we entered the living room, full of battered, comfortable-looking chairs and bookshelves stocked with volumes of all sorts, one picture of worn men in beat-up shakoes and ragged greatcoats clustered together in harsh terrain caught my eye-Something about the forlorn expressions reminded me of my own meager existence.

"Ah," said Flashy. "You're looking at Gandamack. It was the January thirteenth, of '42…" He paused and gave a wry grin, "Eighteen Forty-Two, that is, though I got dragged into El Alamein as well…I was up on one of the cliffs…"

He pointed up to a distant ridgeline in the painting,

"…with a Sergeant named Hudson, trying to make it back to our lines after our army had been routed near Kabul. I was determined from the outset to survive at any cost, see?"

"Yes, sir." I replied.

"We saw the last remnants of the 44th Essex standing to the last.

There were only sixty left, completely surrounded by Afghani hillmen with their deadly Jezzails, cold, tired, not a dozen working muskets among them, and still they stood.

The Afghans said they had fought enough, and announced that surrender could be arranged, and the response came, as someone-probably a Sergeant of the 44th -

– Remember, Lad, British Army's got some of the best Sergeants in the world, lad, wonderful skills and common sense, mainly 'cos they've got te deal with rotten officers, and I ought to know, I was a really rotten officer-

Anyways, the bloke bellows; 'Not Bloody Likely!' and then the Jezzails picked up again, before the hordes closed in. One, maybe two of the men lived.

'Die Hard 44th!' Hudson yelled, and I told him to shut his gob before he got us noticed and killed-or worse, handed over to the women for torture. Hell hath no fury, m'boy. Especially if you've done something to anger 'em-which I had-"

He paused, and I noticed his eyes fill with a remembered pain for a minute. Then he continued,

"-er, more on that later, lad.

The reason the picture is up there is to remind me never to get involved in some damn heroic last stand, because heroes, real heroes die like flies in battle. Trying to make a name, or worse, trying to keep one.

I managed both-I was lucky. Or cursed. You can view it either way."

He sank into a well-used armchair, stuck his feet up on a battered coffee table and poured himself a tumbler of brandy, while looking at me speculatively,

"You've got questions, I shouldn't wonder. Ask away."

I cocked my head skeptically, "You do look rather young for a hundred-eighty-year old, sir, and I haven't heard of anyone reaching nearly that age. It's not well… normal."

"Normal." He gave an undignified snort, "Aye, there's the rub. In my life, I've ne'er had a nodding acquaintance with the word. Seen some strange things, some horrible things…"

He trailed off, and returned to the topic at hand, tossing back the brandy, and pouring himself another. He had a prodigious appetite for the sauce, my Uncle.

"A good host would offer you tea," he remarked, after noticing that I had no beverage, "But I ain't a good host. Nor have I got any- never could stand the foul stuff- to which I credit at least part of my longevity."

I nodded in sympathy; one of the only good things about my position at the Dursleys was that I never had to drink any of my Aunt Petunia's foul smelling brews when she had her weekly troupe of gossip-mongering harpies and their henpecked husbands over for tea. Uncle Vernon and Dudley weren't so lucky. I always tried to look miserable and put out, but inwardly, I danced for joy.

My guardian slid me a tumbler from the whisky tray.

" Laid in a bottle of cider at the back of the pantry, not powerful enough to get you foxed, but good for a warm-up. Get some of that down ye, and I'll tell the tale- if you've the ears for it."

I nodded and hurried to the kitchen. This was sure to be a great story.

As I arrived in the living room, libation in hand, I noticed Sir Harry dozing in the armchair. After placing the cider on the table, I gave him a few gentle prods, and he jumped awake while pulling a knife seemingly from nowhere, and holding me tight by the scruff of the neck.

He then remembered where he was, and put the knife back with a muttered apology. "Always forget where I am for a moment…" I waved it off, anxious to hear what he had to say, and desperately trying to give my Great-Uncle-Grand-whatever the benefit of the doubt.

"Right then," he said, looking a bit chagrined "Best have a seat, we'll be here a while."

Choosing a suitably battered armchair across from him, I settled in. While Uncle Harry was lubricated by his brandy, and I relaxed with a glass of cider, he told the most fantastic story of my young life.

"Te start with, Harry, I'm not your Great-Uncle, I am actually your Great, Great-Great Grandfather, but you'd probably better keep calling me Uncle Flashy.

Not many hundred-eighty-year olds about, doncha know."

"Anyway, It all started when Allan dragged me off on one of his adventures in the interior of the Dark Continent. I won't go into the gory particulars, but when it was over, a dammed tribal shaman told that paladin, Quartermain , that Africa wouldn't let him die.

He then proceeded to tell me that, for my part in what happened, and since I had such a large stable of descendants, Africa would suffer me to live, provided that I was selfless enough to come to the aid of any of them, legitimate or no, who needed it. Heh,"

He paused to give a suggestive wink,

"Apparently I was a bit prolific. However, the story begins with my death."

I looked at him quizzically, seeing an older, yet still rather alive fellow. He waved my questioning look away, and pressed on,

"Y'see, When the Huns invaded Belgium in '14, I sprang into action at the advanced age eighty-eight, and sick of all the war fever, decided that forcing myself into Buckingham Palace and demanding to use the King's privy on the eve of our declaration of war on the Boche would be a rather nice way of venting my feelings about the whole mess.

Besides, it was the closest one available at the moment."

He took another sip of the brandy,

"My uniform and medals meant that my motorcar made it through the press of the crowd unhindered. After an American acquaintance of mine bid me adieu and left me to face the music alone, I entered the palace in search of a loo.

I didn't begrudge Franklin that, he got out while the getting was good, the Rogue.

Unfortunately, I was waylaid by the King and his retainers.

'Why it's the Flash Cove himself!' Roared King George, 'Come to join the colours, one last time?'

'Come to find the loo, more like, young whippersnapper.' I mumbled."

As I snickered, Uncle Harry burst into laughter, and we remained in hysterics for several minutes.

"Ahhhh," He said, "Fat lot of good the impudence did me, for the King found me a spot in the BEF, and it was off to Mons. I managed to escape the worst of the trenches though; they don't expect a man of my age to set in 'em.

Besides," said he,

"I had quite a racket dealing with Supply and Appropriations as a member of the Military Intelligence-How's that for a contradiction in terms, eh?"

By this time, I had been reduced to nodding dutifully, which was really all he expected.

"By '15 I had 'obtained' lodgings at a brothel far enough away from the front-Far enough 'till some idiot decided to crash an aeroplane into it anyway!

I'm still not sure if it was that, or apoplexy from the tender affections of-ah-Louise? Lucille, That was it, Louise was the day before- that I was enjoying when everything went black that finally did me in.

I came to in a coffin- second time that's happened to me by the by, but I felt different, fresher, and somehow the words of a shaman I hadn't heard in decades shoved their way to the forefront of my mind.

I shoved off the poorly nailed lid-luckily they hadn't filled the grave in yet-put the lid back on the casket, and managed to haul myself out of the grave in the makeshift military graveyard. How I managed it at eighty-nine I didn't know, but I felt lessn' twenty. As I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window, I noticed that I looked it too.

I found out later that I only age one year for every two that pass, yet even at this ancient number, I can still move as I used to-Well, mostly anyway.

As to aiding the family, realized that I was bound to it. I recalled that I had a great nephew in the trenches, and supposed I had better get to him, and get him out of there."

"And did you?" I asked, "Did you get him out?"

"Mostly," said he, "He was a bit of a prig, but he was family. I shattered his leg with an Enfield at a hundred yards. Got him out of the muck, at least, back to his proper, insipid little wife, his idiotic investments and the vast gambling debt he'd managed to rack up to send him into the trenches in disgrace in the first place.

Dammed fool didn't have the minerals to cheat, but he kept pestering me for loans…"

I blanched, and he chuckled,

"Not to worry boy, Willy annoyed me continually-Not planning on shooting you in the leg young shaver, nor harming you at all-er, barring earlier anyways. You're family, and you've had a bad go of it so far, so I reckon it's my lookout to make it up to you."

I released a breath I was unaware I had been holding, and he chuckled again.

"Anyway, not three weeks ago in Africa, I finally got your Mum's letter. So here I am."

He gave me an evaluative look,

"So here you are, m'boy. You've heard the story. D'you still want te live here?"

I looked him straight in the eye, and told him the truth, which would rapidly become a rare act for me,

"Yes sir, I do. I want a good life and a long one. I'll kill anyone who gets in my way."

He measured me with a glance and nodded solemnly.

"You'll do. Right, if you're to live here, time for the rules. I've just got two."

"Rules for what, sir?"

"Everything m'boy, everything. now pay attention.

Rule one: Even when illegitimate or deranged, family comes first- s'why I got you out- exceptions of course being idiots who don' know better, and hypocritical bastards like the Dudsleys."

"Durselys, Uncle."

"Bollocks to 'em anyway, whatever they're called.

Rule Two: Survival at all costs-Hiding's good, running's better. Life's worth living, not sacrificing for a bunch of people you'll never meet anyway. If ye've got to kill-kill, and live with it, if ye've got to beg, beg away, and kill the daft bugger what listens to ye first chance you get."

I hadn't said a word, and he looked at me again. "You comprehending all this boyo?"

I replied in the affirmative-growing up at Number Four had meant memorizing excessive and complex chore lists. This was nothing.

"Blood will out, m'boy, blood will out. When I signed those papers, you became a legal Paget. Good name, Paget; bravery, nobility, and scads of class, but inside-"

He thumped his chest for emphasis,

"-Inside, you're a Flashman, and that means you've got to become smarter, sneakier and meaner than the other blokes in the schoolyard.

He hit me with a penetrating stare, "Understand?"

My expression did not change, but inwardly I relaxed a little-I was safe, and I might just have a shot at life after all.

"Yes sir." I answered.

"Harry," says he, "You're a sharp lad. With a little book learning and a bit of polish, you'll be able to charm the britches off anyone you meet-literally in some cases, I'd imagine- what with all the new female fashions-

But now, I think- bed. It's been a busy day, and a proper night's rest'll set ye right. Up the stairs, second room on the right. It's still a bit dusty, but you'll get to that soon."

He poured himself another measure of whiskey, opened a battered volume from the coffee table, and motioned a dismissal.

"Goodnight, sir," I said softly and walked up the stairs, leaving behind an old man with his ghosts, his demons and his memories of past conquests to keep him company.

I ascended to the next floor and found the room, but with the power off I couldn't see much.

I nodded off the instant my head hit the pillow. That night, as with many before, I dreamt of a high, cruel laugh followed by a bright green light. While I remembered the dream the following morning, I behaved as usual and paid it no mind.