Hogwarts, Transfiguration Classroom.
The classroom, usually a place of solemn study, had been transformed into a "Tax Audit Hall."
A holographic projection of Dobby—wearing a sharp suit, sunglasses, and holding a calculator—hovered in front of the blackboard. His mechanical, electronic voice broadcasted to the room:
"According to the Ministry's newly issued Intelligence Tax Administration Measures, wizards with an IQ above 120 must pay the 'Smart Tax.' The higher the IQ, the higher the tax rate. Students, please self-test and declare immediately."
The classroom was filled with wails of despair.
"This is unfair!" Ron raised his hand. "I'm smart too! Why don't I have to pay?"
Dobby's red eyes flickered for a moment.
"Mr. Weasley, the system detects that your brain capacity is primarily composed of 'Muscle Memory' and 'Cravings for Food.' Your effective IQ is 45. You are classified as a 'Tax-Exempt Imbecile.' Congratulations."
Ron: "???"
Is that a compliment or an insult?
Meanwhile, in the front row, Hermione was trembling over a blank piece of parchment.
In front of her lay a Potions exam paper that had just been graded.
Score: 0.
The question was "How to brew the Draught of Living Death." Her written answer: "Eat the cauldron, then go to the Great Hall and buy a Coke."
"Miss Granger," Dobby floated over to her, his electronic eyes flashing with a dangerous red light. "The system shows your IQ is as high as 145. You are a 'High-Priority Audit Target.' You are required to pay a total of 500 Galleons in 'Excess Wisdom Tax.' If payment is not received, the system will forcibly execute an 'Intelligence Downgrade Strike.'"
"I don't have any money!" Hermione cried out, her voice thick with tears. "And I'm not smart! Look at this test! I can't even tell the difference between Asphodel and Wormwood! I'm a dummy! Really!"
Snape stood at the podium, watching this scene coldly.
He held the zero-point test paper, a cruel smirk curling the corners of his mouth.
"Playing dumb?" Snape said softly. "Granger, did you think writing the wrong answers would fool the system? Your logic in being wrong is too rigorous. It is so precise that only a genius could come up with such absurd mistakes."
He waved his wand, slapping Hermione's test paper onto the blackboard.
"Look at this question: 'What should you do if you encounter a Dementor in the Forbidden Forest?' Others wrote 'Expecto Patronum.' You wrote 'Teach it Calculus.' You call this stupid? This is arrogance!"
Snape turned to the house-elf. "Dobby, raise her tax rate to 100%. Also, as punishment, she is to serve as a private tutor for that 'Godzilla-Skrewt' in the Forbidden Forest."
"Tutor?" Hermione looked despairing. "Teach it what? Advanced Arithmancy?"
"No," Snape revealed a nuclear-kind smile. "Teach it to read. And help it finish that prep book, 'Ultimate O.W.L.s Prep: Five Years of Tests in Three Years.' The Skrewt says it wants to apply to Hogwarts."
Hermione's vision went dark, and she nearly fainted.
> [System Alert: Hermione (IQ Crushed + Forced Beast Taming): Emotion Value +888!]
---
Just as Hermione was on the verge of a breakdown, a noise of chaotic music drifted in from outside the window.
"Here we go! 3, 2, 1, link is in the bio!"
"Fam! Smash that follow button! Don't get lost!"
Ivan leaned over the windowsill to look out.
Suspended in the sky above the Forbidden Forest was a massive Livestream Orb.
Voldemort was sitting on a throne made from a Blast-Ended Skrewt shell, wearing... Hagrid's pink floral apron?
His nose-less face had been smoothed out by a beauty filter until it looked like a peeled hard-boiled egg. He was holding up a... mop?
"Hey there, loyal fans!" Voldemort made a finger-heart gesture at the camera (which looked more like a hand cramp). "Today, I'm bringing you the 'Death Eater Co-branded · Avada Kedavra Mop'! Only 998 Galleons! Buy it and mop the floor—the floor disappears automatically! Even the dust gets its soul destroyed!"
The chat comments were scrolling frantically:
[User_Giantess]: Where did the streamer get that apron? It really snatches the waist.
[User_Draco]: Dad! Stop selling mops! Come back and inherit the family business!
[User_Hagrid]: Tom! That's my apron! Give it back!!
Voldemort looked at the comments, a vein throbbing on his forehead.
But he endured it.
Because Ivan was standing off to the side holding a sign: [Miss Sales Targets = No Dinner Tonight].
"And we have this!" Voldemort gritted his teeth and pulled out a pair of furry slippers. "These are made from Thestral hair! Put them on, and you can see death... oh wait, no, see the dust on the floor! Only 199!"
Just then, a massive shadow loomed over the Livestream Orb.
The Blast-Ended Skrewt that had evolved into Godzilla leaned in curiously, wanting to see what this glowing ball tasted like.
It sneezed.
"ACHOO—!!"
A spray of green acidic snot landed precisely on Voldemort's streaming equipment.
Zzzzt!
The livestream signal cut out.
Voldemort's overly-filtered face froze on the screen, looking like a terrifying glitch in a meme video.
"My traffic!!" Voldemort let out a tragic scream, jumping up from his throne. "Quirrell! Get a towel! My filter fell off! Where's my nose?! Where's my beauty mode?!"
Quirrell was frantically wiping the screen nearby. "Master! Stop wiping your face! That's the monitor! Not your actual face!"
The classroom erupted in laughter.
Even Hermione, who was pretending to be dumb, couldn't help but crack a smile.
However, Ivan couldn't laugh.
He noticed that Dobby's "Audit Program" was acting strange.
Dobby wasn't calculating taxes. Although his holographic projection was facing the students, his core code was frantically accessing an encrypted folder.
---
The folder was named: [GGAD_Private_Chat_Logs_v1.0].
Ivan leaned in close and quietly hacked into Dobby's backend system.
Lines of chat logs popped up on the screen:
> [Gellert (1945): Albus, your robes are so tight today. You look like a ham stuffed in a casing.]
> [Albus (1945): Get lost. Also, stop adding chili oil to my pumpkin juice.]
> [Gellert (1945): Then come see me at Nurmengard tonight? I invented a new "Hybrid Aphrodisiac" and I want to test it on you.]
> [Albus (1945): ...Only once.]
Ivan: "???"
This isn't a tax audit! This is clearly that Old Bee Dumbledore using Dobby as a 'Human Webcam' to spy on his ex-boyfriend's chat history!
Just then, Dobby suddenly turned his head. His red electronic eyes stared dead at Ivan.
> [Warning: Illegal access detected. Initiating "Silencing Protocol"...]
> [Connecting to server: Dumbledore_Private_Album...]
"No no no!" Ivan was scared out of his wits, slapping his hand over Dobby's projector lens. "I'm not looking! I didn't see anything! I have zero interest in the Old Bee's privacy!"
"Ivan!" Snape's voice suddenly cut through, laced with suspicion. "What are you doing sneaking around with that house-elf? And why is there an extra 'Mental Damage Fee' on my hair growth potion bill?"
Before Ivan could explain, the classroom door was slammed open.
Fudge rushed in, sporting a head of burnt curly hair (a lasting side effect from acting as a heat sink last time), holding a document with a red header.
"Bad news! Big trouble!" Fudge shouted. "The Muggle Prime Minister... no, the current Minister for Magic and Minister of Muggle Affairs, is coming to inspect the collection of the 'IQ Tax'! He said if we don't collect the money, he'll turn Hogwarts into 'Her Majesty's Prison No. 3'!"
"He dares?" Snape sneered.
"He dares!" Fudge cried, his face full of despair. "He brought cameras! He wants to produce a reality show called 'Hogwarts' Got Taxes'! If the school doesn't pay the full IQ tax, he's going to auction off Professor Snape's hair growth formula to balding entrepreneurs!"
Snape's face instantly turned green.
That was his lifeblood!
"Dobby!" Snape roared. "Adjust the tax rate to 0 immediately! Not only that, issue 'Poverty Subsidies' to everyone! 100 Galleons per person! Quick!"
> [System Alert: Dobby (Currently peeping at chat logs): Execution Failed. Insufficient funds. Headmaster Dumbledore just used public funds to buy a set of "Grindelwald Matching Couple Pajamas."]
Dead silence filled the classroom.
Snape slowly turned his head to look at the portrait of Dumbledore on the wall.
The Old Bee in the painting guiltily covered his face with his beard, pretending to be asleep.
"Very good." Snape squeezed the words out through his teeth. "It seems we need a... 'Tax Audit.' Target: The Headmaster."
Watching this scene, Ivan silently backed away.
"Um... I just remembered I have something to do. I'm leaving..."
"Stand still, Potter." Snape's wand tip dug into Ivan's back. "Since you started this, you handle the Prime Minister. If he dares to film my formula, use your 'Logic Virus' or whatever to turn his camera into a Hello Kitty."
Ivan: "...Can I refuse?"
"No. Unless you want to go to the Forbidden Forest and help the Blast-Ended Skrewt with its homework."
Ivan sighed and looked out the window.
Voldemort, wearing a pink apron, was being chased by female trolls for autographs, and the Prime Minister's helicopter had already appeared at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
"This Hogwarts," Ivan thought in despair, "is doomed sooner or later."
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