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As all wizards know, many precautions are taken to separate the magical worlds and that of the nonmagical. Portkeys are heavily regulated, as is any large gathering of wizards. And of course, there is the Statute of Secrecy.
It's unfortunate that most of these don't work.
Your average eleven year old isn't going to think very hard about the politics of the Wizarding world. They're probably thinking about how they had just been told that they have magic and will be going to magical boarding school. That is, unless you're Hermione Granger.
But while a 15 year old Hermione frantically read the horribly misleading Daily Prophet, a 50 some year old named Lord Voldemort lounged in a chair. He was on what he had told Wormtail was a “brisk holiday”, and by that he meant that Malfoy Manor was inaccessible because it was once again being searched by the Ministry, for the third time this month.
Riddle Manor wasn't quite Voldemort’s style, but it was a good enough hideout. Plenty of room for both Nagini and Wormtail to get out. The townspeople were, of course, suspicious, but didn't do much except gossip. Not after the old gardener had gone in and never came out. They didn't go near the manor and that suited Voldemort just fine.
Except for one person.
Hudson Smith walked up the path to the manor. The ambience kind of reminded him of one of those hoarder shows. That would make sense to him; after all, hoarders often didn't pay their taxes on time. That was what Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs was for.
Hudson was in somewhat of a bad mood since his coworkers had made fun of him for having two last names. It wasn't his fault that his parents’ name research wasn't very well done.
He stomped up the stairs and rapped on the door. A small man came out.
“M-my lord, th-there is a M-Muggle here-”
He was interrupted by what Hudson could tell was a voice, but he couldn't make out the words.
“Sir, are you mister Tom Riddle? I need to speak to you on behalf of the HMRC.”
The voice in the background paused, but then continued again.
“Y-you may come i-in. My lord wishes to s-see you.”
“Good.” Hudson was glad he didn't have to get police involved. It was always nice when he could handle this quickly and efficiently. He followed the small man inside.
“Sir, are you Mr. Riddle?” he asked as they walked through an impressive, but old, foyer.
“Me? Oh no, I'm no one important.” He laughed shrilly.
Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought…
“Sir, I need a name.”
“You can just call me Peter.”
Hudson pulled his very new laptop out of his briefcase (the Windows 95 laptop was his pride and joy; he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was a bit of a computer geek) and wrote down the name on a new Word document.
“And your surname?”
Peter looked around nervously. Hudson sighed.
“Mr. Riddle hasn't listed any dependents. I don't care if you are in a relationship or just his damn housekeeper. I need a last name.”
“Pettigrew…” Peter whimpered out. Hudson didn't understand why that was such a big deal but he also really didn't care.
Then again, he was no stranger to dumb names, what with his two surname name. Maybe Peter was just embarrassed?
Peter stopped in front of a large door. “P-please be respectful, and uh, good luck!” He started laughing for some reason in a way that made Hudson want to cover his ears. But instead he pushed open the door.
“The Muggle, my lord,” Peter said, walking out of the room with a bow.
And then the two men were alone. Actually, it was hard to classify the supposed “Mr. Riddle” as a man. His skin was gray and his slitted eyes were red. If Hudson didn't know any better than he'd think the man was half snake.
Speaking of snakes, one slithered out from behind the throne-like chair the snake man was sitting in. This was no small snake. It was a massive snake that could probably eat a person whole. Snake-man made a strangled hissing noise and the huge snake slithered towards Hudson. He swallowed.
No, no snake was going to stop him from his job! He had dealt with worse than a crazy cosplayer!
“Sir, are you Mr. Riddle?”
The man flicked a stick in his hand lazily, and Hudson felt the worst pain in his life. It was like being simultaneously burnt and stabbed.
“Do not ever call me by that name, Muggle. It is by my grace that you are still alive. Simply because I am curious as to why a Muggle would be brave enough to come here and make demands . So, Muggle, tell Lord Voldemort who you are. Now.”
The pain let up, but Hudson’s body ached. “M-Mr. Voldemort, you have to complete a form for a legal name change… y-you are still listed as Tom Riddle in our databases-”
“DO NOT CALL ME BY THAT NAME!” The pain came back, worse than before, but also shorter. Hudson suddenly realized that this was way different than everything he'd ever faced before. He fumbled with his walkie-talkie and managed to press the button.
“I need backup for the Riddle case… he's-”
The device was thrown out of his hand and shattered against the wall.
“Just what is that, Muggle? One of your foolish inventions? Thinking you could rival the magical world?”
“I- I have a name you know-”
“I don't care. Crucio.”
He felt that pain again but not for long. It almost seemed like Voldemort was toying with his prey. Hudson could only hope that more people would come quickly. But for now, he would at least try to do his job.
“Sir, you haven't let me tell you why I am here.”
“Oh? Do go on.”
“My name is Hudson Smith with the HMRC. I'm here to talk with you about your taxes.”
“Taxes? Ha! Lord Voldemort doesn't pay taxes!”
Great, another rich person who thought he was above the law just because he got a big inheritance from his parents.
“Mr. Ri- that is, Voldemort, you owe 40 years worth of taxes on this house. We do apologize, as we missed quite a lot of cases before we digitized, but we are here to right those wrongs. You can, of course, talk to an accountant if need be, but I have the amounts right here.” He pulled up a spreadsheet on the beautiful laptop.
“Did you not hear me? Lord Voldemort does. Not. Pay. TAXES!” Hudson braced for another one of the weird telepathic stabbings/burnings, but before he could, there was a bang on the door.
“Open up! This is the police!”
Voldemort’s already narrowed eyes narrowed more than Hudson thought possible, then he laughed a laugh somehow even worse than Pettigrew’s.
“You will not leave here alive, Muggle! Avada kedavra!”
A jet of green light flew out of the stick and Hudson ran to the door. The light missed him by inches.
“Colloportus,” Voldemort said casually. Hudson tried futilely to open the door. Hudson supposed he got lucky again because there was another loud BOOM from the direction of the front door.
Thank you, God. I swear I'm going to go to church after this if you keep me alive. Seriously.
Hudson could hear Pettigrew shrilly pleading with the police, telling them that their filthy Muggle weapons didn't scare him at all. Voldemort had paused in his attempt to kill Hudson for a second, his head tilted. He was pretty sure Voldemort was trying to listen to what was happening in the hall.
There was the sound of a gun firing, and a scream.
“Yes, YES, they're in there, please, DON’T HURT ME! ”
Just like that, Voldemort’s attention returned to Hudson. “Avada kedavra! ” Hudson instinctively dropped to a squat and held his briefcase up to protect him. The light hit, and he felt a horrible shaking, but he was still alive. The briefcase’s leather had a large hole in it. Hudson was too panicked to be upset.
“Impossible…” Voldemort muttered. “No matter. Avada kedavra! ” Again, he held the briefcase to protect himself. This time, the shaking was worse and the briefcase had a hole through it. Hudson didn't think it would be able to protect him anymore.
He had literally no idea what was going on and that scared him.
“Nowhere to run, little Muggle,” Voldemort said with another awful laugh. What was it with these people and the movie villain laughs?
“Avada- ”
There was a banging on the door, and it flew open with a loud crack as it hit the wall. Three police officers pointed their guns at Voldemort. A sheepish looking Pettigrew was handcuffed.
“Mr. Riddle, you're under arrest for tax evasion and attempted murder.”
Voldemort laughed. “Hilarious. Muggles, trying to kill Lord Voldemort?”
“Sir, we don't care what you are the lord of, you still need to pay your taxes.”
“Avada kedavra.”
“LOOK OUT!” Hudson screamed while the green light flew toward one of the officers.
It hit him head on and he crumpled to the ground, looking like he was almost just asleep. Hudson started shaking, thinking that this could have been his fate had he not been so lucky…
The police started firing, probably pissed off that one of their own had been killed. Voldemort didn't even have time to shoot another green light because one of the bullets hit him in the side and he instinctively dropped his wand. Another hit him in the leg.
Voldemort clasped a hand to his side, looking smug no longer. One of the officers ran to him and handcuffed him. “You're under arrest. I hope you rot in jail.”
The officer brought Voldemort and Pettigrew outside, while the other ran to Hudson. “Are you okay?”
“F-fine,” he whispered, his voice as shaky as his body. He felt cold all over.
“Looks like you're going into shock. Let’s get you to the hospital and they can check you up, alright?”
Hudson could do nothing but nod. He was definitely going to retire after this. Maybe open up a computer repair shop, like he had always dreamed about. And he'd spend more time with his wife and children, and maybe go see his mother…
The news that Voldemort had been arrested got out quickly, and he was sentenced to life in jail. Pettigrew got three years.
Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, reading the paper. Who knew the great and powerful Lord Voldemort, killer of so many, would be felled by the Muggles? The whole Wizarding World was in an uproar. It hadn't changed any purebloods’ racist views on Muggles, of course, but it was certainly a day of celebration.