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.