Okay, so the whole take-over-the-Wizarding-World thing didn’t really fly. Potter won and I ended up dead. Not the turn of events I had envisioned, which involved a throne, a Pina Colada, Bellatrix at my side and Potter’s decapitated head on a stake.

But, as I have learned from various self-help books, you get pelted with lemons, you make lemonade. I was dead and I wanted to be alive again. The only thing standing in my way was Death.

Having met the guy several times now I can tell you that he’s not as impressive as he’d like you to think. Sure, he plays a mean game of chess and knows how to show off his assets in a cloak, but he’s also not too bright. Keeps hamsters, too. Not as terrifying as one might expect.

Anyway, I escaped him (it doesn’t matter how; I would have to get bogged down in metaphysics) and returned to earth in a few weeks. I reappeared in a dingy little London alleyway in the middle of the night.

After a few moments of whooping and air-punching which I shall not describe, I checked my pocket for my wand—yes, I still had it with me. Why is that implausible?—and pointed it at a nearby trash bin with a cry of “Expulso!� I had only been dead a few weeks, but I was ready to raise some heck.

The heck-raising was pretty disappointing because there wasn’t any. Nothing happened. I tried again. The same result.

I let out a manful sob and began shouting every spell I could think of, twirling around and waving my wand. Still nothing. My magical power was gone for some reason. Perhaps I had used all my magical power returning to life.

Well, I was pretty steamed, let me tell you. I started to shout my best epithets at the walls of the alleyway. Lights came on in windows. The Muggles were apparently not as deaf as I’d often thought them.

Two Muggle bobbies rounded the corner, brandishing flashlights. I did not, however, flee. I simply used the bipedal resources at my disposal to move quickly out of my immediate location, cloak flapping at my ankles as I did so.

They chased me for a few blocks before I lost them in a maze of Muggle apartment buildings. It was a pretty embarrassing situation. The Dark Lord, former ruler of the Wizarding World, reduced to hiding from fat Muggles behind dumpsters.

Despite my humiliation, I began to formulate a plan. Which of my followers could I trust to house me? Bella? No, I couldn’t face her like this, robbed of magic. Certainly not Lucius. Severus was dead. Dolohov had cats (with my allergies I wouldn’t last ten minutes in his hovel). I was left with but one option and it was not a good one. My option was my brother, Tito Riddle.

My brother is my identical twin who is not well-known to the public. He was taken by Albus Dumbledore moments after he was born and Dumbledore placed a memory charm on everyone who had yet seen him—including himself.

Tito was found by a visiting wizard and raised in Mexico until he was eight, which was when he returned home via a large cardboard box addressed to me (we both had total recall of the night of our births and therefore knew of each other’s existence).

We grew apart in later years, relegated to Christmas card status, but I knew that he had a flat in London and that was where I went the cold evening of my return from the dead.

It was nearly midnight and Tito was wearing pajamas and hair-curlers when he opened his door.

“Tom?� he said, incredulous. “But you’re dead!�

“Not anymore,� I said.

We did a manly handshake-becomes-a-hug and he invited me in.

It had been years since I visited his flat and I had forgotten what a filthy place it was. Old chip bags and ancient editions of Hello! were strewn everywhere. Clearly, Tito, ever the ladies’ man, had yet to find himself a woman or a house-elf to help with cleaning.

“So you had another Horcrux you never told me about?� said Tito as we sat at his table with beers.

“Nope,� I said.

“How did you come back to life then?� asked Tito. “Metaphysics?�

I nodded. “But there’s a problem.�

“Like the problem you had when you were fourteen?� asked Tito gently.

“God, no!� I said, regretting ever telling my brother anything. “I’ve lost my magic.�

Tito had been a Squib his whole life and my magical abilities had often been a point of contention between us. He sipped his beer and said, “That’s tough. What are you planning to do?�

“Long-term goals? Killing Harry Potter, taking over the Wizarding World and making John Lennon into an Inferi for a concert tour. Short term goals? Maybe a place of my own, a new snake,� I said, pondering these weighty issues as I sipped my beer.

“You’re welcome to crash on my futon until you get something going again,� said Tito. “No snakes though.�

The Dark Lord, camping out on his brother’s sofa? I shook my head in disbelief. Dying and coming back to life really gave you a new perspective on things.

Still, it looked like a comfortable futon, parked right in front of Tito’s big-screen TV.

That reminded me. A chill ran through my veins, I was paralyzed with fear, unable to think rationally, my heart in my mouth.

I had missed several weeks’ worth of Coronation Street .

How could that wretched boy have killed me just before the all the shocking revelations began? How could he have been so thoughtlessly, needlessly cruel?

What a monster he was. If I ever got a hold of him, I would make sure that he missed all of his favorite programs. He would never find out what that damned smoke monster was if I had my way!

“What is it?� asked Tito, seeing the look on my face.

“Recap Coronation Street,� I said, leaning back in my chair. “What have I missed?�

Tito glanced at the clock on the wall. “No need for a recap. There’s a rerun starting in ten minutes. New late-night thing. I’ll make popcorn.�

As Tito rummaged through his cupboard looking for popcorn, I lay down on the futon, testing the softness. Not bad. I preferred something a little firmer, but I could certainly make do.

The sound of the gently popping corn was comforting. As I lay on the futon I thought maybe it would be all right. Maybe this would all turn out to be a delightfully crappy-sitcom kind of way for my brother and me to reconnect, for me to get a new lease on life.

Meanwhile, in the alley where Voldemort had so recently appeared, there was a flash of bluish lightning and a tall, hooded figure strode onto Earth. It stubbed its cloak-hidden toe on the sidewalk.

“Ow! Man, I’ve forgotten how much that hurts,� said Death, hopping on one leg in pain.

But he had to focus on his objective. His objective was simple: he was going to find that noseless bastard and haul him back to the land of the dead where he belonged.

Death walked away, still cursing under his breath.

A musical cue hit its crescendo and everything went black.

I started to feel a little restless after a long week of cheesy crisps, Fawlty Towers and unchanged robes. Reruns and salty snacks were all well and good, but I knew that I would eventually have to get off my pale behind and do something about my situation.

To Tito’s credit, he never complained, although he sometimes looked annoyed to see me still on the couch when he got home from work. He worked at some crummy Muggle store that required him to wear an ugly yellow polo shirt. I didn’t ask for further details.

“Voldemort,� he said on my eighth day of mooching off of him. “It’s time you got a job, at least. I have bills to pay, you know, and you’ve bought a lot of pay-per-view—�

“I told you I would pay you back when I get some money,� I snapped.

“Well, when’s that going to be?� asked Tito. “You’re not really cut out for Wizarding employment.�

That was true, what with the whole supposed-to-be-dead thing and all. Plus, I had no magic to speak of.

“What Muggle jobs would I be good at?� I asked Tito frankly.

“Why don’t you look in the paper?� he said, tossing it to me.

The Help Wanted ads were not encouraging. Line cook, cashier, waiter, pet-store assistant, bass drummer. Despite my considerable skills as a DJ, I could think of no jobs especially suited for me.

“Why don’t you just go and apply for the waiter job tomorrow?� suggested Tito. “That’s pretty simple.�

“What’s a waiter do again?� I asked.

“Serves people food in a restaurant.�

The Dark Lord, serving Muggles in an apron. I shuddered at the thought. But still, I needed the money.

“Alright, I’ll apply,� I said. “Now be quiet, Monty Python is coming on.�

The next day, I put on one of Tito’s sweaters and a pair of his jeans and went to the address from the paper.

It was a nasty little burger joint, frequented entirely by Muggles. Extremely disgusting.

“Hi, I’m here to apply for the waiter job,� I said to the hostess.

Her eyes were wide with fear of some kind. I supposed that my presence alone was probably enough to intimidate her.

She showed me to a small office, where I waited for the manager, a chubby man who looked at me rather oddly when he entered. I wondered if Tito’s sweater had mustard on it.

“Hello,� he said cautiously. “Er—what’s your name?�

“Voldemort,� I said.

“Uh-huh,� said the manager (whose nameplate read DAVE). “What’s your last name?�

“Smith,� I said quickly. I didn’t want to make myself too easy to find.

“O-kay,� said Dave. “Your name is Voldemort Smith?�

“That’s what I said. I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any parchmentwork.�

Dave looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. What was with this guy?

“Is there a problem?� I asked. I had used deodorant that morning and had even sucked on a mint, so my breath couldn’t have been too bad.

“Well, Mr. Smith, I cannot help but notice that you have no nose and that your—um, complexion is rather pale,� said Dave. “Was there an—accident of some kind?�

“Yes!� I said quickly. “A—shaving accident.�

“You cut off your nose when you were shaving?� asked Dave. He didn’t sound like he was buying my story.

“Damndest thing,� I said with a chuckle, trying to be personable. “Old Butterfingers, my minions call me.�

There was a long silence. Dave looked pretty freaked out.

“I think we’re going to go in another direction,� said Dave gently. “Sorry.�

I was quite dejected as I walked back to Tito’s apartment. Turned down because some restaurant manager was prejudicial! If I’d had a decent lawyer on retainer, I might have sued.

Tito was exasperated when I told him how the interview had gone. “Why didn’t you say you were a burn victim or something reasonable?�

Come to think of it, that might have sounded better, but I didn’t say anything, not wanting to give Tito any satisfaction.

“Well, there’s still my back-up plan,� I said, nettled by my brother’s lack of confidence.

Tito sighed heavily. “And what’s that?�

“Britain’s Got Talent,� I said promptly.

“No,� said Tito firmly.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,� I said. “I’ll have you know that my Death Eaters told me that my rendition of ’Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ was absolutely soul-stirring. Of course, I’m not personally qualified to judge, but--�

“I didn’t want to do this,� said Tito. “But there’s a job opening at the store where I work. Tomorrow I’ll get you the position. It’s pretty easy.�

“What do I have to do?� I asked, suspicious.

“Sell computers and electronics,� said Tito. “It won’t be too difficult. You can be very-- persuasive.�

No arguments there, of course (I had, after all, convinced Wormtail to switch to briefs), but I was still unsure. “Will I have to sell to Muggles?�

“Yes,� said Tito.

“Will I have to interact with Muggles on a daily basis?�

“Yes.�

“Will they speak to me?�

“Most likely,� said Tito.

There was no way out of it, I supposed. If Tito could stand being around vermin all day, I figured that I probably could too. We all had our crosses to bear. Lucius had been secretly burdened with atrocious foot odor. Bella had the whole ’history of insanity’ thing.

Despite my reservations, I got up the next morning and accompanied Tito to work. He told me we’d be taking something called the sub-way. I’d never heard of it, but I supposed it was sort of like Muggle Apparition.

I was all right until we walked into the little room and sat down. There were a great number of smelly, unkempt, offensive-looking Muggles sitting all around us, which added to my extreme discomfort. They were all looking at me, too, like I was the strange one.

When the little room began to move, I must admit that I lost some of my trademark cool. That is not say that I was precisely ‘shrieking and running around the car at top speed’ as Tito later described it. However I am not ashamed to say that the experience unnerved me somewhat.

When I came to a few moments later (I did not faint so much as fall temporarily unconscious), Tito was talking to a chubby man who worked for the sub-way. I gathered that my brother was rather embarrassed.

“What,� said Tito, when we had safely left the sub-way station, “were you thinking back there?�

“I was a bit surprised,� I said with dignity, “but you didn’t warn me that that thing moved.�

“What did you think was going to happen?� asked Tito. I decided not to respond to this inquiry.

The sub-way incident behind us, we arrived at Tito’s place of business, a blocky store painted all gray with the word ELECTRONICS painted on it in white.

“What’s the place called?� I asked.

“Electronics,� said Tito.

“That’s it?�

Tito nodded grimly. “It’s not very creative, I know.�

We walked through the sliding doors into the store. The inside was much like the outside: boxy, gray and drab. There were certainly a lot of things for sale, though. TVs, gaming systems, DVDs and a bunch of other Muggle crap I didn’t know anything about.

A chubby little Muggle with very curly hair walked up to us. He was wearing a yellow polo shirt, so I assumed he was an employee.

“Tito, I’m glad you’re here,� he said briskly. “I’ve got a customer with a bad motherboard who wants--�

He stopped and looked me over. “Who’s this?�

“This is my brother, Voldemort,� said Tito. “He’s applying for the job in sales. Voldemort, this is Simon Waffling, Assistant to the Manager�

“Assistant Manager,� said the little man. He stuck out a hand. I shook it gingerly, not wanting to get covered with Muggle germs on my first day.

“You’ll be going to see the Manager then?� said Simon. His face lit up at the mention of the manager. He pronounced the word with a capital ‘M.’

“Er-- yes,� said Tito. “I’ll see you about that motherboard.�

We started off down through the store, presumably to the Manager’s office.

“Voldemort, there’s something I haven’t told you about the Manager,� said Tito. He sounded nervous.

“What is it?� I asked. “Did I slaughter his family or something?�

“Not exactly,� said Tito. “The thing is, the Manager--�

We turned a corner and I nearly ran into a man with a yellow polo shirt on, a man carrying a stack of paperwork. A man with a long white beard.

“Sorry about that,� said Albus Dumbledore, reaching out a hand to steady me.

For a moment I simply stood stunned. Then I began to feel my legs turning to jelly.

Dumbledore smiled, apparently a little perplexed. He didn’t seem to recognize the man who had killed him (well, technically Severus killed him, but whatever).

Just as I was beginning to babble, Tito steered me down an aisle, away from the apparent apparition. I leaned against a pile of boxes, my breath coming in short gasps.

“Wh-what-he-can’t-manager-dead!� I knew I was making no sense. “How? He’s dead!�

“Listen,� said Tito. “He doesn’t remember you or know anything about the Wizarding world.�

“Why?� I asked hoarsely. My heart was still lodged somewhere in my pharynx.

“Well, I can’t actually tell you,� said Tito slowly.

“What?�

“I took an Unbreakable Vow!� said Tito. “All you need to know is that he’s harmless and he is going to be your new manager.�

“Absolutely not,� I said. “Deal’s off. I won’t work for him. Won’t do it, Tito.�

“Come on,� said Tito, taking a wheedling tone that I despised. “You need this job. And think about it this way. If you work here, you can keep an eye on Dumbledore. Maybe you can even figure out why he’s back.�

These arguments were at least somewhat persuasive and I had opened my mouth to respond when Tito grabbed my arm again and frog-marched me to a small office in the back of the store.

The nameplate read ALBUS DUMBLEDORE in curly letters. I saw a back issue of Crochet Today on the desk and snorted. Some things never changed.

The office was currently empty and while Tito and I awaited the return of “The Manager,� I mentally flicked through the possible ways that Dumbledore might still be alive.

As I saw it, there were four options: 1) Snape had double-crossed me and kept him alive and wiped his memory for some reason, 2) some of the man’s devotees--including Potter?--had somehow resurrected him, 3) he was a cyborg sent across time or 4) someone had taken his appearance, probably through expensive cosmetic surgery (and I know how much that sort of thing costs. Having my tramp stamp removed cost a pretty Galleon, let me tell you).

The door opened and Dumbledore ambled in. He looked just as I remembered him--although he’d traded in his snazzy robes for a rather hideous yellow polo shirt and too-tight blue jeans.

“Good morning,� he said, settling himself down in a regal kind of way. “I believe you’re Voldemort Riddle?�

“Mm-hmm,� I said. I wasn’t going to give the old man too much to work with.

“My brother here has fallen on hard times, financially,� said Tito. “He needs a job. I was thinking he would be a natural for the sales department.�

“Oh, really?� said Dumbledore. “Do you have any sales experience?� That last was addressed to me, of course.

“Of course,� I said, getting a bit puffed up. “I could sell gold to a goblin.�

“How about computers?� asked Dumbledore, those stupid little eyes of his twinkling.

“I practically invented pomcuters,� I said--not strictly true, of course, but I wasn’t going to tell Dumbledore that I had no idea what the hell they were.

“Excellent,� he said. He started fooling around in a drawer, and eventually pulled out a stack of manuals roughly as tall as Big Ben. “You can take these home and read up on what you’ll be selling. You can start tomorrow.�

I picked up the manuals without any complaints. “Thank you,� I mumbled.

“You’re very welcome,� said Dumbledore, all smiles and warm fuzzies. “Do you have any questions?�

“Do I really have to wear the polo shirt?� I asked. It had been bothering me for some time.

“I’m afraid so,� said Dumbledore.

I took the pile of manuals back to Tito’s flat and started pawing through them. Terms like ‘motherboards,’ ‘ink cartridges,’ ‘Pentium processors’ and ‘MP3 players’ turned up with alarming frequency. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, so I turned on Coronation Street.

Two murders and an elopement later, Tito got home, tired from a long day of work, apparently not in the mood to see his brother enjoying himself with good, clean soap opera fun.

“Did you even read the manuals?� he asked.

“Some of them,� I said.

“You do realize that tomorrow you have to sell this stuff, don’t you?� asked Tito.

“Don’t you worry about me,� I said. “I will be selling up a storm tomorrow. I will sell more than I have since that lemonade stand.�

“What lemonade stand?� asked Tito.

“We started a lemonade stand a year or two back. The Death Eaters. Well, actually it was a venom-ade stand. No repeat customers.�

Tito, displaying disgusting amounts of sarcasm, rolled his eyes.

Despite my bravado, I woke up the next morning with a sinking feeling in my stomach. The polo shirt waited. Tito had brought it home. It was a far cry from my usual stylish robes. At least it had my name under the pocket--

I looked closer.

“Tito!� I yelled. “Come in here!�

Tito came in.

“They. Got. My. Name. Wrong.� I thrust the shirt into his face. “My name is Voldemort, not Voldewort.�

To my horror, Tito chuckled. “Voldewort. That’s pretty funny.�

I was outraged. “I need to be respected in that store. This just won’t do, Tito.�

It took Tito nearly forty-five minutes to bully me out of the apartment, and that was only after I’d pinned an old “Support Tony Blair� button over the misspelled name.

When we finally arrived at the dismal store, Tito showed me the inner workings: the so-called “break room,� the line of lockers, a baffling machine that dispensed sugary treats if you put a quarter in. I wasn’t very impressed with the place.

“So what am I supposed to do now that I’m here?� I asked Tito.

“You sell things,� he said shortly, and walked off, which I thought was rather catty of him.

I hung around the break room for a few minutes, bought a Chunky Monkey bar from the glass-walled machine and was in the process of eating it at a small plastic table when a fellow employee walked in.

Now, there’re three things you should know about this employee straight off: 1) she was a woman, 2) she was--in this Dark Lord’s opinion--a bit of a babe and 3) she had her cheeks puffed out like she was holding her breath.

She stood there holding her breath for a few seconds, until she finally released it with a giant gasp.

“Have you ever thought about breathing?� she asked suddenly, as though we had been carrying on a conversation for some time.

“Um, no,� I said, ever the smooth ladies’ man.

“Well, if you start to think about it, it kinda messes you up. I mean, you don’t breathe consciously. Your mind isn’t doing it. If you had to focus to do it, you probably couldn’t do anything else. But once I start thinking about it, it gets kind of hard to do. You know what I mean?�

“Um, no,� I said. “My name’s Voldemort, I’m new here.�

“I’m Jana,� she said. “I’m old here.�

I laughed at this witticism a little louder than was strictly necessary. This gal was apparently mentally ill, totally my type. She was pretty comely, too, if you get my meaning.

“Are you the new salesman?� she asked, displaying keen powers of observation, as I had ‘Sales Associate’ on my wretched polo.

“Mm-hmm,� I said.

“It’s tough. You have to know your electronics. I have a good relationship with my PC at home, so I do okay.� Jana laughed at this remark, which didn’t make the slightest amount of sense to me. Naturally, I laughed, too, banging the table with my fist a little for emphasis.

This startled her a little, so I covered by standing up, stretching and saying, “Well, back to the grind.�

She nodded and I left the break room. Our children were going to be beautiful as well as megalomaniacal.

For the rest of the day, I hung around the store, asking random people if they needed help. I generally did this by hiding behind a large box and jumping out, which I figured would be a pleasant surprise for customers. After one elderly lady went into a kind of seizure, I decided to switch tactics.

Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be working, not even approaching slowly and being polite. No one bought anything I recommended and most of them left the store after I’d ministered to them. When Tito told me that a percentage of what I sold went to my salary, I decided to get serious.

Around midmorning, I saw a young man with baggy pants and a backwards cap examining a printer. I sauntered over.

“May I help you?� I asked, the picture of courteousness.

The insolent young fellow frowned and said, “What happened to you, man? It looks like you got run over by a bus.�

“It was a clerical error,� I said (I’d heard Tito use the expression that morning, hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant). “I see you’re in need of a printer.�

“Not anymore, dude. You’re a freak.� This teenaged fiend began to walk off. I’d had it. I was going to make a sale, and I was going to make one right now. I grabbed him by the ear and pulled him close.

“Listen to me, dude,� I said, using my Death Eater-discipline voice. “I have enough power in one toenail clipping to jinx you into soup, to curse you into oblivion, to turn that idiot hat into a stick and then beat you with it. I could literally deconstruct your entire body until you were nothing but a pile of goo with eyeballs on top. I could set you on fire and keep you that way for a thousand years. I could kill you in five dozen ways, each one in turn, each one more unpleasant than the one before. I could make your nose and your navel switch places. I could turn you into a strip of bacon and create a dog to eat you. I am not going to put up with any more crap from someone so completely, utterly powerless. The only thing you can do right now to avoid a hundred horrible fates is to buy a freaking printer. Now, we have Toshiba and Lexmark. Which would you prefer?�

The guy was crying. It was either my impassioned speech or my coffee breath. “I’ll t-take the T-Toshiba,� he snuffled.

“That comes in two colors, black and white,� I said sweetly.

“B-black.�

“Excellent choice.� I pressed the box into his arms. “And for an extra seventy-three dollars, you can buy a year’s worth of ink, all colors. Is that what you want?�

“Uh-huh.�

I added a second box and set him off to the register in tears. Maybe I could make this thing work after all.