Harry Potter was bored. He was in a waiting room, that much was obvious. From the bland grey walls complete with wooden dado rail, to the faded brown carpet tiles made up of some outdated two-shade pattern, to the reception desk manned by to very bored and stern looking women, and the vast number of blue plastic chairs in various states of disrepair, it was clear that this was a place where those seated were expected to wait for their number to be called before stepping through the big white door to once side of the receptionists. Oddly there was no door that allowed any other exit from the room or allowed those arriving to enter. But since this was obviously a part of the magical world, he just accepted that they arrived by other means. Indeed he could see the obvious signs of magic at work - for the machines that handed out the small pieces of parchment that acted as tickets might have been mechanical, but the glowing numbers that changed when the next customer was called were clearly magic; when the receptionist flicked her fingers and the numbers changed, he was certain that was the case.
Which left Harry in a bit of a dilemma. He knew from past experience that when in a queue the best thing to do was to wait to be called. Yet he had been there for four hours according to the clock on the wall and his number had not been called. Nor did he have any idea what his number should be as unlike the ticket he had glimpsed belonging to another customer, his ticket lacked his name and a number. It did however possess an inked "minus one" at the bottom.
The clock clicked on and the number of customers seemed to increase as the hours progressed. He was certain that his mind was playing tricks on him because in the time he had been there he was certain that he had seen Mrs Weasley and one of the other parents from Hogwarts approach the door and step through. It was also becoming evident that while new customers continued to be processed, he was going nowhere.
"Mind your feet please," came a voice and his head snapped around to find that one of the receptionists had left the desk and was currently collecting litter from the wafting area, muttering to herself as she did so. "Honestly, some people will leave a mess anywhere. No respect."
"Excuse me," he said, hoping now was not the worse time to request assistance. "How long is it before I'm called?"
She looked annoyed. "Oh, in a rush are you? Can't sit there for a few minutes to be processed like everybody else? We're quite busy today young man, in case you didn't notice. A ten minute wait is quite reasonable in the circumstances."
"I've been here four hours," Harry grumbled, catching her attention.
"Four hours? Preposterous! We are never that far behind on our worst days. You probably didn't notice your number when it was called. They're not always in order, you know. What is your number anyway? Let me see your ticket."
And so he showed her the ticket, confident that the matter would soon be resolved. She wasn't the nicest person he'd ever met, but she seemed to know what she was doing and clearly stood affronted at the idea of such a long wait. She looked at the ticket, back towards him, and then at the ticket again. Her face seemed to look annoyed, then confused and finally resolute.
"One moment, sir," she said, the last word sounding as though she had taken lessons from Snape in ways to make a simple word sound insulting.
She made her way over to the desk and showed the ticket to her colleague. Her colleague frowned and paged through her paperwork, glancing up at Harry with an increasingly hostile expression before she took a quill and wrote some details on the parchment and handing it back to the other woman. Then she stood and accompanied her colleague back to where Harry sat, a dangerous glint in her eye.
"My apologies, Mr Riddle," she said. "It seems our manager is not able to see you at this time since you are still incomplete. He did, however want you to witness the extra work that you have caused him so that when he makes his judgement you will understand why it is so harsh. I believe at this point we will clear the backlog you've saddled us with by tomorrow and then you can look forward to a very short and unpleasant conversation with him."
Huh?
"Riddle? I'm not Tom Riddle," Harry protested, but the receptionist was clearly not in the mood to listen.
"Oh there are no pretend names here, Mr Riddle. It doesn't matter what you called yourself before, here you are Thomas Marvolo Riddle." She paused, curious "Did you think we'd call you Lord Voldemort, or perhaps My Lord?"
"Um, I'm Harry Potter," Harry offered.
The receptionists laughed.
"Oh, now I've heard it all. You think for one moment that we will allow you to pretend to be somebody else, especially the boy who ended you? No, Mr Riddle, you will stop this nonsense and I suggest you spend more time finding some sort of remorse and a way to ask forgiveness than trying to get out of it by pretending to be somebody else."
"But I am Harry Potter!" Harry protested. "Voldemort killed me."
This time he noticed that they did not react to the name. Clearly they were not afraid of Tom Riddle, regardless of what he called himself.
"Utter nonsense!" one of the receptionists snapped. "Harry Potter is not due to come here for a very long time. Let me see... " she consulted her paperwork... "At least a century from now."
"But I am Harry Potter," Harry insisted. "Can't you just check my identity?"
One of the witches pointed at him, then at a clipboard that had appeared in her left hand, muttering about time wasting mass-murderers and their disrespect for proper administration. She waited for the results before her eyes widened and she repeated the task several times, her face growing paler each time.
"Mary?" the other receptionist asked, noting the lack of complexion on her colleague's face. "What's wrong?"
Mary passed over the clipboard, which was quickly reviewed before the other woman repeated the tests with the same results.
"Impossible! Harry Potter cannot be here; he mustn't be here!" She looked at him sternly. "Who are you and who put you up to this? Was it Gary or Stuart?"
"I am Harry Potter," Harry told her, lifting his fringe to show the faded scar.
"Sue, Harry Potter isn't allowed here," Mary stuttered, clearly concerned although Harry wasn't sure why. Susan looked just as worried as she paged through the growing paperwork on her clipboard before she looked up with sudden realisation.
"Mary, stop the queue! We're processing people that shouldn't be here!"
Mary moved to the counter and wrote something on some parchment. The ticket machines and the glowing numbers vanished as a loud bang was heard from the door locking.
"The boss won't like this," she pointed out.
"Oh, the boss is going to be VERY unhappy," Sue agreed, before checking something. "Luckily, not with us."
"But Harry Potter is HERE. You know what that means."
"Yes, well with a bit of luck maybe the boss can set things right and we can avoid..." she glanced at a curious Harry... "problems."
It was at that moment that the lock on the big door could be heard turning once more and the door opened. From the opening stood an old man in a black cloak, supporting himself with a wooden staff. His face was extremely drawn and pale, his hair was snow white.
"Mary, Sue... why have you stopped the queue? We have deadlines to meet and we're already behind." He paused, noticing Harry. "And why is he in the waiting room and not in the queue to receive a ticket?"
"He has a ticket, Sir," Mary replied.
"The wrong ticket," Sue added, drawing the man's attention.
"The wrong ticket? Nobody gets the wrong ticket here."
"He got the ticket for Thomas Riddle," Sue explained.
"Impossible!" the man proclaimed after giving Harry a once over glance. "This one is intact and I expect to spend a good two minutes reuniting Tom Riddle before I judge him and send him somewhere very unpleasant. So, who is this?"
"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said quietly.
"HARRY POTTER?!" the man bellowed. "Harry Potter cannot be HERE, he can never be here! Who is responsible for this?"
Mary and Sue exchanged a brief nod before replying: "Malcolm."
And somewhere in another part of the afterlife, a lowly case worker with a habit of cutting corners got the impression that his career in soul reclamation was about end.
