Deep Forbidden Forest.
This originally sinister nest of Dark Magic now hung a hand-painted wooden sign: "Tom Riddle's BBQ Catering Ltd. (Open for Business)."
A squad of Blast-Ended Skrewts wearing bulletproof vests and sunglasses were patrolling around the grill.
Yes, Blast-Ended Skrewts.
Hagrid had strapped mini tactical vests onto their backs, and they held small wands (shrunken versions made by Ivan) in their mouths, looking like a unit of armored turtle special forces.
Opposite them stood the Muggle Prime Minister on a large rock, holding a long tax bill, his face iron-green.
Fudge was huddled in a nearby hollow tree, only half his head poking out, frantically tapping on a calculator.
"Tom Riddle!" The Prime Minister slammed the tax bill onto the rock. "According to the British Empire Non-Registered Business Entity Taxation Act, you owe thirty thousand Galleons in 'Illegal Street Vending Fees' and 'Air Pollution Fees'! Pay up, or I'm confiscating your grill!"
Voldemort, wearing that grease-stained groomsman suit, sat on the back of a giant Skrewt, leisurely gnawing on a lamb kidney.
There was no anger on his nose-less face; instead, he showed a look of... appreciation for a peer?
"My dear Prime Minister," Voldemort said in that raspy but elegant Parseltongue hiss, even wiping his mouth gracefully. "Violence is a common ailment of Muggles. See, I am not resisting. I am merely exercising my right—applying for an administrative review."
"Review?" The Prime Minister paused.
"Yes." Voldemort snapped his fingers.
Professor Quirrell stumbled over holding a pile of documents, parchment dossiers half as tall as a person.
"According to Magical Creature Protection Law Article 42, Clause 6," Voldemort pointed to a page with a long, pale finger, "I, Tom Riddle, currently parasitic on the back of Quirrell's head, am classified as a 'Parasitic Magical Creature'. As an endangered Dark Magic creature, I have the right to apply for 'Hardship Subsidies' and 'Re-employment Tax Exemptions'."
The Prime Minister took the file, glancing at it, and felt a headache coming on.
It was densely covered in Runes, incomprehensible charts, and even a signature from Dumbledore (clearly forged).
"Th... this is fraud!" Fudge whispered from the tree hole. "That's fake! Dumbledore never signed that!"
"Silence!" The Prime Minister glared at Fudge, then turned to Voldemort, a cunning glint in his eyes. "Mr. Riddle, your tax avoidance methods are clever. However, you overlooked one thing—Hogwarts is currently under my jurisdiction."
The Prime Minister pulled a small black notebook (Magic Tablet made by Ivan) from his pocket, the screen flashing green.
"Ivan installed 'Golden Tax Phase IV · Magic Edition' for me. Every single transaction of yours, even if recorded in Parseltongue, is automatically captured."
Voldemort's smile froze.
"What did you say?"
"Your skewer income has been automatically declared." The Prime Minister pressed a button. "Due to long-term tax evasion, the system has automatically triggered the 'Late Payment Penalty'. Your current debt is not thirty thousand Galleons, but..."
The Prime Minister looked at the screen and sucked in a cold breath:
"Three billion Galleons."
The lamb kidney dropped from Voldemort's hand.
"Three billion?! Why don't you go rob Gringotts?!"
"Compound interest, understand?" The Prime Minister pushed up his glasses, revealing a capitalist smile. "Also, Ivan added a 'Mental Distress Fee'—because your lack of a nose frightened the first-year students picnicking in the Forbidden Forest."
Just as Voldemort was about to explode and cast Avada Kedavra on the Prime Minister, a cold, gloomy wind blew past.
Whoosh... whoosh...
The Dementors arrived.
Not one, but a swarm.
They were originally summoned by Voldemort as bodyguards, but now, they bypassed him and pounced straight for the Prime Minister.
"Protect the Prime Minister!" Hagrid shouted, commanding the Skrewt SWAT team. "Fire! Use Incendio!"
The Skrewts opened their mouths immediately, but...
What sprayed out wasn't fire, but a pile of colorful bubbles?
"Oh, damn it!" Ivan's voice came from the sky (he was watching the show from a broomstick atop a tree). "I installed 'Bubblegum Modules' in their fire cores! It's for environmental protection!"
The Dementors ignored the bubbles and latched onto the Prime Minister.
Their rotting hands gripped his shoulders as they began to inhale deeply.
"Get away! You rotting monsters!" The Prime Minister struggled desperately, trying to whip them with the tax bill. "I am the Prime Minister! I have the nuclear button! I... I want a Hard Brexit!!"
The Dementors froze.
They took a suck, then another suck.
Then, their empty sockets seemed to reveal a trace of... disgust?
"Too bitter..."
A Dementor spoke in a raspy voice. "This human's soul is full of 'Brexit', 'Polls', 'Approval Ratings'... not a drop of happiness, all anxiety and lies!"
Like eating spoiled food, the Dementors scattered, even wiping the hands that touched the Prime Minister on the grass as if they had touched something dirty.
The Prime Minister lay on the ground, eyes glazed.
Although his soul wasn't sucked out, he looked drained of spirit.
He slowly turned his head to look at Voldemort, mechanically repeating:
"Hard Brexit... Hard Brexit... No-deal Brexit... Tariff barriers... Hard Brexit..."
Voldemort: ???
Hagrid: ???
Fudge: Did the Prime Minister go mad?
"Is he..." Voldemort looked at Ivan. "Scared stupid by Dementors?"
"No," Ivan landed and checked the Prime Minister's pupils. "This is late-stage 'Brexit PTSD'. The Dementors found his soul too bitter and threw away his 'Happiness' and 'Reason' together, leaving only obsession."
Ivan sighed and patted the Prime Minister's cheek. "Hey, Mr. Prime Minister? Remember who you are?"
The Prime Minister sat up abruptly, staring blankly ahead, shouting:
"For the glory of the British Empire! Put those Blast-Ended Skrewts in concentration camps! We need to build a wall! Wall off the Forbidden Forest!"
Voldemort couldn't help applauding (though it was just the sound of bones clacking):
"Brilliant. Although I am the Dark Lord, I must admit, you are crazier than I am. At least I only want to rule the world; you want to dismantle it."
"Cut the crap!" Ivan kicked Voldemort in the shin. "The Prime Minister went mad; this is on you! Since you can't pay the fine, you'll have to pay with your body."
"Pay with my body?!" Voldemort covered his chest (though he had no heart). "What do you want to do to me? I am a principled Dark Lord!"
"What are you thinking?" Ivan rolled his eyes and pointed to the massive, glowing "Cold Fusion Alchemical Furnace" nearby.
"Winter is coming to Hogwarts; heating is expensive. Since you have a talent for 'Dark Magic Fire', go be the human igniter for that furnace. Eight hours a day, room and board included (you live next to the furnace), until you pay off that three billion Galleons."
Voldemort looked at the giant furnace, then at the half-eaten kidney in his hand.
"Can... can I take paid bathroom breaks?"
"Yes, but performance points will be deducted." Ivan smiled like a capitalist. "Also, to prevent you from slacking off, I installed a 'Facial Recognition Time Clock'. Right on your forehead."
Before Voldemort could resist, Ivan slapped a red-light-flashing camera onto Voldemort's forehead.
Beep— Clock-in Successful. Current Employee ID: 007 (Death Eater). Today's Task: Burn Calories, Warm Hogwarts.
Just then, the Prime Minister, still muttering "Hard Brexit," suddenly pounced on Voldemort, hugging his leg tightly.
"Ally! We are allies!" The Prime Minister shouted, drooling. "You hate tariff barriers too, right? We must unite! Kick those elves out!"
Voldemort looked at Ivan in despair. "Can I stuff him in the furnace as fuel too? Count it as overtime pay."
"No, he's a taxpayer." Ivan refused, then pointed to the side. "However, you can make that guy in the suit go."
Lucius Malfoy was sneaking behind a tree, holding the wig spat out by the Skrewt, trying to slip away.
"I... I was just passing by!" Lucius's legs went weak. "I'm here to pay the fine! I have money!"
"Good." Ivan snapped his fingers. "Mr. Malfoy voluntarily sponsors the 'Prime Minister's Rehabilitation Fund' with one hundred million Galleons. By the way, since you like wigs so much, take this 'Mist of Anxiety' the Dementor just spat out as hair gel. Great hold."
A puff of gray mist floated onto Lucius's head.
Lucius's hair instantly stood up straight like a sea urchin, impossible to comb down.
"My hair!!" Lucius screamed. "This is worse than Snape's potion!!"
The Forbidden Forest was filled with cheerful air.
Voldemort was lighting the furnace, the Prime Minister was directing Skrewts to build a wall, and Lucius was crying with sea urchin hair.
Ivan sat on a tree branch, nodding in satisfaction.
"This is a harmonious society."
However, he didn't notice.
The "Time Clock" stuck on Voldemort's forehead, after absorbing Voldemort's Dark Fire, suddenly flashed a line of glitched code on its screen:
[System Rebooting... Horcrux Signal Detected... Downloading "Riddle Diary" Backup...]
Voldemort seemed to sense something. He glanced at the camera, a subtle, eerie smirk curling his lips.
"Burn..." he whispered. "Burn all the data into the cloud..."