The Final Demand
Dear Mr de Mort, the letter had begun.
It had arrived on the doorstep of the old Riddle house that morning, having got through a number of imperturbable wards and right into the centre of an acre and a half of unplottable land.
This would be problematic; there was no option but to start packing.
"Wormtail!" the Dark Lord called angrily.
"Yeth, Marthter?" the pathetic creature fawned, hastily finishing a crusty lump of bread.
"Summon my most loyal Death Eaters. We are leaving."
"Leaving for where, Master?"
"Anywhere, Wormtail. We're leaving the country. Dumbledore can have it, it is no longer worth the effort."
"Your servants will not be plea…"
"Wormtail, if you wish to spend the next twenty years being wracked by ceaseless torments, you need only say the word."
The buck-toothed sycophant wisely shut up and cowered back towards the door.
"I will fetch them, my Lord."
As Wormtail scuttled out, Voldemort crumpled the paper he had been reading and flung it to the floor, immolating it with a blast of green fire.
This was quite possibly, he knew, the most secure, most dreaded location on the planet. There was only one force on Earth so evil, merciless, emotionless and powerful that it could have broken through the wards Voldemort had set up.
"Bloody Inland Revenue," said Voldemort as he went to pack.