Harry Potter, by Charles Bukowski (PART 1 OF 3)

I was sitting next to a young girl who didn’t know her Tergeo spell very well.

“Try twisting your wrist this way,” I told her.

An older Hufflepuff boy was sidled up to her.

“You say you’re from Kansas City? Both my parents were born in Kansas City.”

“Is that so?” said the girl.

The she asked me:

“How about the impedimenta spell?”

“Say the word slightly before a clockwise twist.”

She was a little on the plump side but she was ready. I passed. I’d had it with the ladies for a while.

The Hufflepuff was standing real close to her.

“Do you live in England now?”


“Do you like Hogwarts?”

“Oh, yes.”

She turned to me.

“How about fiendfyre?”

“Like this.”

When class was over, the Hufflepuff spoke to me.

“Potski, I timed you on your spells. Do you know what the standard is for those spells?”

I didn’t answer.

“You went 5 minutes over your time for those spells. And you’ve been talking to that Ravenclaw girl next to you.”

What was the use? I didn’t answer.

“I’m going to have to write you up, Potski. Gryffindor will lose points over this.”

Six years. Although each night had been long, the years had gone fast. Six years shot through the head. I had seen this school eat men up.

They either melted or they got fat, huge, especially around the ass and belly. It was the same motions and the same talk. And there I was, dizzy and with pains in the forehead, neck, chest, everywhere. On weekends I had to drink to forget it.

It had been a brutal Tuesday. Some friends of Hermione’s had come to the commons and sat on the couch and chirped, how they really were great wizards, really the best in the nation. The only reason they didn’t get honors was that they didn’t—they said—show off in public like I had.

I had looked at them. If they practiced the way they looked, drinking their coffee and giggling and dipping their scones, it didn’t matter if they showed their magic to others or jammed it.


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