Disclaimer: Characters and situations are JK Rowling's, because she is so clever. I am playing with them for non-profitmaking reasons. Thank you.

Warning: Slash and coerced consent, though no violence.

…….

In the end, Slytherin cunning triumphed.

A small amount of the newly-developed Imperius Potion went a long way when added to the floo network, and the water supply connected to Hogwarts. It took the Ministry two days to notice anything amiss, by which time the majority of wizarding Britain had been contaminated. All Voldemort had to do was issue his commands and, unable to resist, everyone obeyed.

Voldemort reasoned that now he no longer had any opposition, there was no further need for the wanton savagery or intimidation his followers had demonstrated during the war. There was no cause to resort to violence, with a couple of significant exceptions. Harry Potter had been Obliviated and dumped without his glasses on the outskirts of a remote small muggle town in America so he could no longer pose a threat. Albus Dumbledore had been painlessly eliminated without fuss as a clear and present danger to the new regime.

Less straightforward was the Mudblood Question. There was no denying that muggleborns held no place in a civilised magical society, but over the years the number of significant contributions they had collectively made to the betterment of the world made him hesitate to dispose of them altogether. The interim solution was to hold them in Azkaban, where they could not disgust normal people with their presence, but the brighter minds could still be discretely put to work for the good of society.

The Dark Lord decided that his fledgling new world would eventually require a ruling dynasty once things had settled down, a less distasteful solution than watching his voluntary followers squabble over who got to succeed him. He carefully selected a handful of fertile pureblooded witches and made them his wives. Unsurprisingly, the first to conceive was his favourite, the red-haired beauty Ginevra, whose blue eyes looked so charming under their glassy potion-trance that he unwisely repeated his mother's great mistake and convinced himself that she would be just as obliging without the Imperius.

Her response on being released from the potion's hold was so painful that Voldemort seriously doubted he would be able to beget any more heirs. Momentarily discouraged from interaction with females, he left her alone to gestate his son and turned his nocturnal attentions to his male concubine.

Severus supposed that he ought to do something about organising a resistance movement, but it was not easy when one was locked in the same room all day every day without magic.

Initially, he had convinced himself that acting too soon would be suicide, that he should lull the Master into a false sense of security before treating a few key former Order members with the antidote and restarting the war. But despite his slip with the Weasley wench, Voldemort was no fool. Like most megalomaniacs, he was a melodramatic man. He was oddly attracted to the starkness which was Severus Snape. Black eyes in a white face. Razor cheekbones and a prominent nose. Sharp hips and a concave belly. The physical aspects of the former spy were oddly alluring, but he never let them blind him to the fact that the clever, devious half-blood was a distorted mirror image of the Dark Lord himself. Voldemort did not trust him an inch. Snape's wand had been removed and the rowan-wood bead necklace he was forced to wear neutralised any attempts at perfecting wandless magic. He was confined to the comfortably furnished bedroom in Voldemort's palace, denied access to any other human being save his all-powerful Master.

Taking over the world had proved rather simple in the end and Voldemort was afraid that Snape would turn around one day and replace him, given half a chance. He made sure never to give even a quarter of a chance.

One could not be too careful with such a slippery snake.

The coup d'etat happened so fast, Snape had blinked and it had all been over. He had warned Dumbledore that the potion the Dark Lord was making him develop could be used to devastating effect; yet, preoccupied with other, more glamorous agents of the Light, the old man had patted him on the head and said he would look into it. His dalliance proved fatal. Suddenly the Dark Lord was telling everyone what to do and, amazingly, they did it.

He had hoped for a role in government, like the new Minister for Justice, Bellatrix, or the Headmastership of Hogwarts which Malfoy had landed, but Voldemort had a much more intimate position in mind for him.

It was not a bad life, really. Fortunately, the Dark Lord gained a good deal of satisfaction from watching the power his caresses had on his partner, so he was a surprisingly considerate lover. Snape had never had so much sex in his life.

During the day, he read books, took baths or stared out of the enchanted window, which showed only those things his Master wanted him to see. He tried not to eat too much in case he changed shape and lost whatever odd quality Voldemort found attractive. He did not like to imagine what would happen if he grew bored with his concubine. He knew that he ought to feel humiliated at such a demeaning incarceration, that he ought to struggle against the situation or possibly kill himself rather than lose the final shreds of his honour in this way. Not to mention his duty to get hold of the antidote and administer it to key personnel able to wrest control of the country from Voldemort.

However, once he had grown used to the arrangement and realised that he was not destined for death or any substantial torture, he began to relax. He had not felt relaxed in more than twenty years – possibly never in his life. He was by nature an adaptable person, so he accepted the huge changes and looked to the bright side. There were no critical decisions to be made any more, no shrieking children underfoot, no need for lies or fighting with colleagues, no Harry Potter. All he had to do was enjoy the silence and blessed solitude all day, then provide…comforts for the Dark Lord in the evening. Was it any wonder, he asked himself, that he had taken no steps towards changing the world? Pleasuring a deformed madman thirty years his senior was infinitely preferable to the daily grind of existence at Hogwarts. He had a feeling that Voldemort knew this, too.

…….

The new Minister for Magic arrives home from a hard day's despotism and flops into his favourite chair.

"How was your day, Master?" asks Snape, kneeling to remove his boots and briefly rub the aching feet. Voldemort groans emphatically.

"One would think, Severus, that with no opposition to my rule, getting things done would be a simple matter. Mm, up a bit, just there. Perfect," he directs the massage with his eyes closed and his head lolling backwards as the tension begins to lift.

"The old regime was famous for its bureaucratic lethargy, Master," Snape consoles him. He brings the magically sealed bottle of firewhiskey and a tumbler, knowing the Dark Lord does not trust the brewing genius not to poison him. He will pour his own drink. "It is bound to take a while to undo the centuries of incompetence practised by those bumbling fools."

"I know, I know," he sighs, taking a generous sip of the scorching liquid. "Would that the others were as wise as you, my concubine."

Severus smiles and kisses him on the cheek in acknowledgement of the compliment, treating himself to the mental image of the Death Eaters running around the corridors of power trying to find form NDV456(a)part III, Section 93.1xvii, appended, with the Dark Lord screaming because nobody understands the complex system of regulations for the disposal of magical waste-products in muggle hard-water areas, or whatever today's crisis had been. As far as he could tell, his own role in the new administration was one of the easiest.

Over supper – Voldemort is never home from work in time to eat dinner – Snape distracts his Master from the burdens of the day by updating him of the developments in the novel he has been reading. He is shocked to hear that the heroine is actually the illegitimate daughter of the evil warlock who has kidnapped her True Love and transfigured him into a kind of lollipop.

"She will have to kill him now," opines the Dark Lord, attacking the camembert. "They always murder the estranged and sinister fathers."

"We did," Snape smirks, getting the hissing laugh he was hoping for. "I shall find out tomorrow. Master, may I be so bold as to remind you that eating too much cheese so late at night rarely agrees with you."

"Correct once again, Severus," he grimaces, putting the oozing chunk back onto the cheeseboard.

Voldemort suspects that the younger wizard is probably up to no good, but permits himself the illusion of having someone to watch over him. No one ever has before.

Later, beneath skilled hands and lips, Snape concentrates on making the little whimpering sounds which drive his master wild with desire, though he can already tell that there will be no marathon session tonight. As if in confirmation, Voldemort gives a frustrated grunt and rolls back to his side of the bed in annoyance as inspiration fails him. Snape waits for him to calm down for a couple of minutes before wrapping a consoling arm around him and kissing the back of his neck.

"What am I to do with the mudbloods?" he sounds rather hopeless. The question has been asked again and again, yet none of his followers can ever come up with a sensible answer. Snape knows it is his moral responsibility to resist the urge to advise simply killing them all. If he ever decides to start a resistance movement, he will need Granger and Shacklebolt alive if they are to stand the faintest chance of success, anyway.

The Dark Lord tenses in his arms.

"Shall I just dispose of them, Severus?" he wonders, as lightly as if deciding what colour socks to wear rather than the fate of hundreds of people. Snape swallows.

"My Lord, their relatives would notice, if they haven't already," he suggests. Having been a teacher, his first thought is of the proud parents waiting in vain at King's Cross station for the homeward Hogwarts Express, walking slap into the wall between platforms 9 and 10. Would they dare contact the police? Who would believe their stories?

"Lucius is all for Obliviating them and dumping them, like Potter," pontificates Voldemort.

"There are far too many, Master. Muggles would notice if hundreds of lunatics started appearing," Snape reasons. "They are not all complete dunderheads."

"Precisely what I told him, my pet," he finally turns over and gives in to snuggling, the shame of his earlier failure fading in the face of this serious debate. He sprawls over Snape with a possessive, if slightly distracted air. "This is where you and I have the advantage over the purebloods. Malfoy views the billions of muggles in the world as nothing more than cattle with prehensile digits. We can understand both magical and non-magical societies…" he tails off into silence, sounding more troubled than ever, though he does not relinquish his hold on his captive lover.

Severus wisely makes no comment, his keen sense of self-preservation recognising the danger of dwelling upon the weak point in the Dark Lord's ideology.

Voldemort would like to get rid of all muggles, yet he knows that without them, the relatively small numbers of wizards would become in-bred monsters, mutating themselves into sterility and extinction.

Now he rules magical Britain, he would like to rule the muggles too. However, the effort required to keep such large number of people under control would outweigh the benefits of being in charge in the first place.

He has given up all thought of trying conquer overseas wizarding societies since nearly all of them sent threats of unilateral intervention if he so much as scries across the Channel at magical Europe. They are all still smarting from the sweeping invasion of most of the Continent by Grindelwald sixty years ago, and have organised a system of political co operation to ensure it can never happen again.

So, here they are, the UK's uncontested Minister for Magic lying atop his imprisoned whore, ruling a community by coercion without a clear vision of exactly what he is trying to achieve. In his many hours alone, Severus sometimes has worrying visions of the future and what would happen if wizards started overcoming the potion, or if the mudbloods being forced to brew the top-up doses found an undetectable way of sabotaging the supplies. He knows that as the lover of the Dictator he would be in serious trouble but clings to the hope that he would have the guile to survive. It is the one thing he excels at.

Each day of his life has been a struggle for survival – against his father, the marauders, the Death Eaters, the Order, the children of Hogwarts, the bloody final battles and now, sharing the bed of the world's newest dictator.

Snape wonders what it feels like to be able to act under one's own free will.

All these months of seeing no one but the Dark Lord has obviously turning him into a bit drama queen – it was not strictly true. He had been able to make decisions in the past, and he had made some serious howlers. A decision with ramifications for every witch and wizard lay within his power now; just a small matter of whether or not to find a way to end the current madness and save the world.

He could do it, he knows, if he starts using his brain again. There was bound to be a gap somewhere in Voldemort's defences, just waiting to be exploited by his enemies. He could easily shrug of the comfort of the peaceful routine and fling himself back into the crazy struggle that was War in order to do the Right Thing. Risk his life at every turn by striking against the most powerful man in the country for the sake of ungrateful strangers. Or he could leave things as they stood – no rights but no responsibilities either. Just reading books alone all day in exchange for simpering and spreading his legs each night.

It was a tough one.

It seems that Voldemort has also been thinking, because he has recovered his lost mojo and is stroking Snape's chest hair, flicking his tongue over brownish nipples and pressing against him with no uncertain intentions. Snape lets go of his mental dilemma and relaxes completely to allow himself to be breached. The Dark Lord is pleased and sets a gentle pace, before surreptitiously summoning his wand and casting;

"Hedonismus!"

The diametric opposite of "Cruciatus", the spell causes intense pleasure in every fibre of the recipient's being, and the Dark Lord does not use it very often. Though the curse has a positive effect, it is still highly dangerous and officially classified as dark and illegal.

Snape screams in ecstasy, writhing in unadulterated joy beneath his captor. Voldemort delights in the sight and the feel of it and soon both men are coming so violently they tumble into oblivion in a sticky tangle of gasping, earth-rocking orgasm.

Hours later, an elf quietly shakes the Minister's shoulder and he rises, washes and dresses quietly, in preparation for another day of the government he fought to establish. He had never dreamed it would be this challenging once everyone was on his side. He repeats the old proverb about Rome not being built in a day under his breath, like a chanting hex, hoping that he is right and it will become easier.

"Have a productive day," croaks a hoarse voice from the bed. Snape is in disarray from the power of the previous night's Hedonismus and Voldemort knows he will spend most of the day sleeping it off. He wonders idly if the treacherous snake is already plotting against him, or if he has not yet begun. He is fully aware that he should not have let him live, that he is just as great a danger as the Old Fool and the boy-who-lived had been, but with the political situation irritating him so badly, Voldemort is pathetically grateful for the comfort he gleans from the younger man.

He leans over the bed and kisses the bruised lips, a last moment of enjoyment before he returns to the London madhouse.

Snape is having difficulty coming down from his intoxicating high. He feels deliciously woozy, as though every cell in his body is still humming with aftershocks and wonders why he ever considered ending this, the best thing that life has ever thrown at him, for a vague sense of loyalty to people who never liked him.

Of course, it has occurred to Severus more than once that he has no proof the Dark Lord is telling the truth. Having lost consciousness in the first few minutes of the alleged final battle, he has only one wizard's word that the Light was defeated at all. For all he knows, Voldemort could be manipulating him for some complicated and nefarious purpose, and he will break out one day to find Albus at Hogwarts, Scrimgeour at the Ministry, Potter in a sulk and everything else as it should be.

For some reason, this does not encourage him to escape.

He lies in bed, for that is his only duty now, and yawns idly. He will leave it just a little longer before doing anything drastic.

He will bide his time.

AN: Not my usual thing, but I hope you enjoyed! Might investigate what-happened-next if people think it's worth it. Hope no one was offended by anything x

For some reason, Lucidity has asked for a dedication this time, which I shouldn't really do until she agrees to start writing some more HP fics...

Thanks for reading, guys! Love SN x