This is an ancestor of Mad-eye Moody who has taken an auror like position in the British army in India. The views expressed in this monologue are not my views, but an attempt to create the imperial mindset of the time. People were not worried about being politically correct, and believed themselves to be blatantly superior to their subordinate countries. This is the hearsay views of the Sepoy Revolt, in which India was almost reclaimed from the British, by a young soldier who has heard of the revolt and thus been inspired to join and protect British interests.

I tugged on the gold buttons of my new uniform, straightening the rough cloth where it sought to bunch up about my neck. Some say that it is the weight of the uniform which adds starch to your spine and lets you feel the weight of the dignity of the Empire. Personally, I feel that the dignity of the Empire could lose a few pounds, and perhaps give room to scratch. But I suppose I’m one of the lucky ones, even if it is hot as the blazes down here. Its really no wonder that all the natives are burned brown by this infernal sun, I’m half afraid I shall be as dark as they and no longer a proper sahib at all, before I leave.

One never does get used to the never ending bowing and scraping, but they are too afraid to put a toe out of line. That’s why I volunteered to come; it is a measure of duty after all. Someone needs to ensure that the Indian wizards (they call them jadoo-wallah) don’t take advantage, although I do believe they are too downtrodden after the last rebellion to even try to take on the might of the Empire again. We had some news of the rebellion back home, but it is entirely another thing to be here so soon after. At home we were the proud victors, making some “concessions” of course; you can’t expect the natives to know what’s good for them after all. But here the dislike is so palpable you can feel it drowning you, pressing in worse than a pea-soup fog back home.

Of course, someday they will realize what a favor we are doing them. They really have no notion of how uncivilized they are. It is a great relief that the Governor-General has finally banned the barbaric practice of sati, or widow burning. Of course, it’s alright if the wife is a witch, but the rest of the poor gels have no way to get out of it. If all the natives were proper Christians they would see at once that this is no way to behave. Unfortunately, I hear that the missionaries are having little luck with some of the people. They stubbornly cling to their old gods, pagans the lot of them. And if it weren’t for the army, it should be deucedly hard to find a good Church of England, although with their feelings towards wizards, I do sometimes wonder that I go at all.

Ach, this sun is terrible. I can feel the sweat dripping down my face and neck, making my hands slippery in their grip on the gun. We’ve been standing here for hours, polished and waiting for the Governor-General. They say he’s come with medals for the veterans straight from Her Majesty, Queen Victoria herself, although I suppose here the natives ought to call her the Empress of India. The government seems to have changed a great deal. The men keep talking about the East India Company, back in the “good old days,” as though last year was so very far off. But as far as I can tell, there ought to be no cause for complaint. Yes, I suppose the maharajas might chafe at British rule, but when they see the benefits of commerce… and really they can do as they like so long as they don’t meddle politically, and who wants to bother with that rat’s nest?

The sweat is running into my eyes now, it’s the battle of wills; to keep parade formation or to quickly wipe my face, it is the eternal conundrum. I settle for blinking rapidly and briefly looking down to shake it from my forehead. I hate the way that every time I look at the ground, particularly in the gutters or halfway up a wall I see a collection of disgusting reddish-brown stains. When I first got here I thought it was blood, and was duly alarmed at the violence that must have caused it, and it all looked so fresh and urgh… Even for a soldier I’ve always had a weak stomach. Fortunately I soon learned that the substance was not blood but instead betel, a plant the natives chew which makes their saliva red. The stains are caused by their spitting, and frankly, some habits are disgusting, chewing tobacco is just as bad. Although, as vices go it’s not as bad as the opium dens you walk past, the sickly sweet, drowsy smell drifting out onto the street.

It is amazing to think that with such vile practices all around, the revolt is said to have started due to our wickedness. Can you believe that? The vices of the British army. Poppycock, that’s what it is. They were just looking for an excuse, that’s all. It’s these stupid guns, if everyone could just wield a proper wand, but I digress. The problem was the grease on the casing of the cartridges. Some was pig, and some was cow. In one fell swoop the army managed to offend both Muslim and Hindu natives. But they hardly need have taken it so far as a rebellion. A simple complaint to their British superiors would have been more than enough. According to some of the boys, we had a right hard time of it for a while. They nearly did drive us out, but by God, we held on tight. The jadoo-wallah used the Imperius curse, I’m sure of it. We simply didn’t have enough wizards here to spot it. But they won’t slip that one past me. Constant vigilance and no surrender. India shall never be free of the Empire.

The Governor-General is here, I can hear his name cried out from the citizens on the streets. Soon I can escape this dreadful heat for the cool shade of an office and the delightful task of finding those rogue jadoo-wallahs. Here he comes, on his white horse and velvet box in hand. The ceremony has begun. God bless the Queen!