Final Alternative Ending! I am taking more than my usual liberties with Canon, as I have decided to ignore the whole horcrux/unicorn blood thing. Because I can. Mwhahahah.

…….

Drifting into the warm slumber of the truly sated, part of Snape's consciousness registers that his Master is behaving unusually.

Instead of falling asleep alongside his concubine, the Dark Lord is rolling jerkily around the bed, making an odd throaty gasping sound and flailing his arms around. Severus supposes that he has taken some kind of stamina potion which has given him yet another – fourth? fifth? Snape has lost count – orgasm, which he has decided to attend to alone. As Voldemort makes no move to involve him, Severus succumbs to exhaustion and floats away on a gentle stream of pleasure.

When he wakes, it is a few seconds before he registers another difference. For the last two years, the Dark Lord has risen at dawn to begin another taxing day of despotism, leaving Snape alone to get up when and if he chooses, able to bask in the luxury of total solitude. Today, however, the light from the enchanted window registers that it is already mid-morning, yet his Master is still lying beside him.

Snape is not entirely surprised. Were he ruler of the world, he would have permitted himself a nice lie-in long before now. Determined to make sure the unexpected holiday is worth his Master's while, he rolls over and tenderly drapes an arm over the older man's chest.

Which is strangely cold.

Blinking in confusion, he sits up and looks properly at Voldemort. The red eyes are half closed and glassy, one arm is flung back and hanging limply off the side of the bed, the other is balled into a fist and resting on his abdomen. His ribcage, Severus notes, is not rising and falling.

"Master?" he says quietly, not quite ready to believe what all the evidence is telling him. When Voldemort does not reply, he rests his hand on an immobile cheek and is eerily reminded of the skin-on mooncalf steaks he used to mince for inclusion in the wolfsbane potion, a lifetime ago. His hand moves of its own accord to the pulse point at the Master's neck. He can feel nothing.

Snape slowly slides out of bed and pulls on his dressing gown.

"The Dark Lord is dead," he concludes aloud, as though forming the actual words will make some kind of difference. He waves his hand absently and the bedsheet slides up and covers the corpse from view. Sinking into a chair to take stock of this shock development, he does not realise for a full five minutes that he has performed magic.

Obviously, the rowan necklace's ability to inhibit his magic has died with its creator. He summons his wand and feels a wonderful surge of power as it vibrates gently in his grip. Delighted to be whole again, he casts a spell to snap the collar, one to clean himself, several to dress and in a fit of exuberance, a super-strength scouring charm to wash his hair. This is an exceptional occasion, after all.

Now he is free, Snape is not certain what to do next. He wonders who will step into the power vacuum left by the Dark Lord's demise and what the change will mean for him. It is highly unlikely that the new ruler will choose the old one's tainted whore as his own – similar situations in history dictate that a stringent purging of the defunct regime must happen before the new can be properly established. Of all the upheavals which Severus has lived through, this is his most dangerous time of all.

When a tentative knock sounds at the door, he starts violently and is looking for an escape route when he checks himself. He may have spent the last two years as a squib sex-toy, but he has always been a powerful wizard. There is no reason why his long-buried cunning should not be enough to save his hide once again. Perhaps there is no need for blind panic just yet. A quick revelation charm cast at the door brings a smile to his lips as he recognises the ideal three men paying a visit. Really, Snape could not have planned it better himself.

"Enter," he commands. They look at each other and all try to shuffle to the back to the queue, jostling to avoid being the first one through the door. Snape recognises their fear of the unknown – to his knowledge none but his Master has ever crossed the threshold of their private quarters. The luckless Wormtail is the first to peep around the doorframe. He gasps when his pale, watery eyes fall on Snape.

"Pettigrew," Snape greets him imperiously. A little more shuffling and the bulky forms of Crabbe and Goyle are disgorged into the room, curious to put a face to the voice.

"Ooh!" says Crabbe, goggling unashamedly.

"Um," says Goyle, doing a fair impersonation of a bemused trout.

"We thought you were dead," says Wormtail, glancing nervously around the room.

Snape sees no reason to make this easy for the mentally challenged branch of the Death Eaters. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits. Eventually, Pettigrew cracks.

"Is the Dark Lord here?" he whines nervously. "His admirable dedication to securing a glorious future for our world means that he never misses a morning strategy meeting. We thought we should come and see if everything was all right. If we could be of assistance, I mean."

Snape maintains his cool silence, knowing that he will learn most by making the others uncomfortable enough to try and fill the pendulous silence with interesting babble.

"This is the Master's suite, isn't it?" he sniffles. "We have no wish to disturb his well-earned privacy, only to know that all is well. It's just that Lucius has another problem with the brats at Hogwarts, Draco isn't answering his floo and those wretched Weasley twins," he shudders at the memory of past torments inflicted on 'Scabbers', "have managed to throw off the Imperius potion and are running amok. Again."

Snape raises his left eyebrow an eighth of an inch. Wormtail's tongue darts out to moisten his cracking lips. Crabbe hiccups.

"So," the ratty little man continues, hopelessly, "We could do with some guidance."

Snape knows that this is one of the key crossroads in his life, that his actions over the next few moments will determine the course, not to mention the length, of his future. It seems that his late Master's despair over the state of the Government was entirely justified. He has only left them alone for a few hours and already everything is a big old mess. What these clowns need is a firm hand, a stern leader with lots of experience at controlling an undisciplined rabble, a level-headed, intelligent wizard whose track record boasts results.

Really, there is only one candidate for the post.

He vanishes the dead body lying hidden beneath its sheet and turns to face the three worried Death Eaters. Sneering down his nose at Wormtail, he gathers his robes around him with tremendous sinister dignity.

"Follow me," he commands in a tone which does not entertain the possibility of disobedience.

Looking rather relieved, they do.

…….

To Snape's delight, he finds that the temporary containment of his magic has only served to strengthen it. He is able to suppress Avery's indignant and foul-mouthed opposition to the new situation with a click of his fingers. The other Death Eaters all notice the permanence of the suppression and the ease with which it was executed and collectively swallow. Within seconds they are falling over themselves to pay homage to the new Dark Lord.

…….

It is glaringly obvious within hours that Malfoy is failing dismally at being Headmaster.

"Lucius," he cannot control the incredulity in his voice. "The entire school is under the Imperius potion. They will do whatever you tell them. Exactly what is the problem?" There are white streaks in Malfoy's formerly pristine blond hair and it seems to be receding back from his forehead ever so slightly. He firmly clasps his hands together as he gazes up at Snape, but the new Master still notices their tremor.

"Brats, my Lord," he wavers. "Brats! Every last one of them! They obey specific orders, but you have to keep changing them as new ideas occur to them. You can't just say 'behave' because good or bad behaviour is a subjective concept. You need to be constantly vigilant."
Snape frowns so devastatingly at Malfoy's use of the catchphrase of their former worst enemy that Lucius hurries to explain, losing a little of his poise as the words tumble out. "You say 'don't hit each other with your schoolbags', which they obey, but then they hit each other with books, so you say, 'don't hit each other with any objects' so they use their fists. So then you have to say, 'don't hit at all' so they trip each other up and…" He is shaking all over now with the horror of it all. Snape raises his voice to make sure everyone in the throne room can hear him.

"Yet I succeeded in controlling these repugnant adolescents without the use of potions, from the tender age of twenty-two," he sneers. A murmur of admiration ripples through the room.

"If I may be so bold, Master," Lucius grovels unashamedly. "I suspect that is why your Lordship is sitting on the throne and the rest of us are on our knees before you."

Snape smirks with restrained amusement. Lucius' ability to spot which way the wind is blowing has stood him in excellent stead over the years, he really ought to be rewarded for such a flawless display of toad-eating. First things first, however.

"Macnair!" he calls.

"My Lord?" The dedicated killer shuffles forward.

"How do you like children, Walden?" he asks, still smirking.

"Usually with ketchup, Master," he leers.

"Perfect," Severus decrees. "Lucius, you're fired. Macnair, you are the new headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Effective immediately."

…….

Studying his list of the many ills requiring remedy in this exciting new dawn, he reaches the infamous 'Mudblood Question.'

"Bring me Draco," he commands. For a few minutes there is a furious whispering and scurrying and general intimation of bad news, during which, the younger Malfoy consistently fails to materialise. Snape rolls his eyes. "Well? Where is he?"

"Gone, Master," whispers Nott, cowering.

"Gone?"

"Disappeared, along with…" he tails off into silence.

"Along with whom?" demand the Dark Lord and Lucius in unison.

"One of the mudbloods," a tiny voice volunteers.

"Which one?" Malfoy shrieks, rising to his feet in outrage. "Which of that filth has dared to befoul the purest house of…" Belatedly, Lucius remembers that he has no place making such a scene in front of the great dictator, and pipes down in the face of a stern black glare. Nott seems cheered by the irritation of his superior Death Eater and looks him directly in the eye when he answers.

"I believe her name is Granger," he smiles sweetly.

Lucius laughs until he has to be slapped. Bellatrix is more than willing to oblige, fetching him a stylish, resonant crack across each cheek. As Crabbe and Goyle drag the still hysterical father out of the throne room, he is heard to scream that he can no longer 'take it', that all he requires is a 'quiet life' and 'bit of peace'. Narcissa mutters a series of dark intimations of what she will do to her 'little gobshite' of a son, were she ever to lay her hands on his 'good-for-nothing treacherous arse'.

"So who is in charge of Azkaban since Draco left?" Snape asks the assembled throng.

"Hem hem," a squat figure in a knitted sweater depicting large-eyed kittens sashays forward. Despite the fact that he is ruler of the British wizarding world and the most all-powerful person alive, he flinches back slightly in his seat at the onslaught of pink hair-ribbons, batrachian face and overwhelming smell of sickly sweet perfume.

"Yes, Dolores, you will be perfect," he grimaces, dismissing her. The poor muggle-borns would be begging for the return of the Dementors within days.

…….

Unfortunately, they are no nearer to solving the problem of what to do with all the other mudbloods, but Snape has no desire to spend his nights agonizing over it as Voldemort had. He needs someone else to investigate the possibilities. Scrutinizing the assembled ranks of murderers, sadists and dullards he realizes that none of them will do. Snape does not object to a little pain here and there, but he draws the line at full-scale genocide. An intelligent person is required for this task, one with compassion and sense yet who is easily intimidated. Bracing himself, Snape forms the words he never expected to willingly utter.

"Someone go and fetch Lupin."

The werewolf is not looking good. His face is lined and as grey as his hair; when he is thrown to the floor at the Dark Lord's feet, a bald spot the size of a chocolate frog packet is visible on the back of his head. Snape listens as he whines, weeps, apologises, appeals to his old 'comrade-in-arms's' better nature, urges him to 'do the right thing' and begs for news of his pathetic Gryffindor friends. When he finally runs out of woe and shuts up, Snape charges him with the responsibility of devising a humane solution compliant with his dark purposes.

"Prove yourself useful in this capacity and I may take notice of some of your wishy-washy liberal views on the running of the country," he adopts a bored expression and examines his fingernails. He can see cogs turning behind the suspicious amber eyes as Lupin realises that he is being handed a chance to make a difference to the lives of innocent people subjected to this new totalitarian regime.

"Why should you trust me?" he glares up at Snape.

"I don't," the Dark Lord says airily. "You will be under guard at all times. Any misdemeanour will be punished stringently and all suggestions will be subjected to a Death Eater committee before implementation to check for nefarious loopholes. Behave yourself, and there may be rewards in the future."

Lupin ponders this.

"You want me to be your conscience?" he concludes at last.

"If that is how you choose to describe it," inwardly he congratulates the sharp-witted beast for guessing correctly. Outwardly, he grimaces. "I am too busy to waste time pondering such trifles. You are lying around, idle, and have always been pathetically obsessed with the fair treatment of your fellow wizard. With one notable childhood exception, of course." He lets the festering anger at his adolescent bullying flash briefly in his eyes, to remind the old marauder that the grudge will never be overcome, that the worm has turned with devastating success. Lupin's friends once had the power to hurt Snape – now Snape has the power of life or death over every wizard in the country.

"Deal," Remus agrees, smiling weakly in the face of emotional onslaught.

"I do not make deals," Snape intones icily. "Try anything untoward and I will have you killed. Get out."

…….

Released once more from the Imperius potion, Ginny Weasley-Riddle stands before Snape with admirable dignity overriding her obvious fear and revulsion. A bright inquisitive baby is balanced on her hip.

"You," she says flatly.

"Me," agrees Snape.

"Dada?" asks Thomas, frowning at the unfamiliar dark-robed figure on the familiar throne.

"No, sweetheart," she smiles at him. "That's not your Dada."

"And therein lies our problem," says Snape softly. She raises her chin, and with a calmness bordering on serenity, kisses the top of her son's head.

"If you must kill him, there is nothing I can do. I only ask that you kill me too, as I don't think I could bear to live without him," she states simply.

"You are capable of loving the child of the wicked man who seized power and forced you into an unwanted pregnancy?" Snape is genuinely perplexed. Complicated potions and intricate Dark Arts spells have never been a problem to his fine mind, yet the female psyche has been unfathomable since day one.

"That's not Tommy's fault," she reasons.

Suddenly Snape plunges twenty years back in time and sees another intelligent redheaded witch defying common sense for the sake of the black-haired baby she holds.

He shakes himself violently and Weasley and Tommy come back into focus. The brief flashback is enough, however, to remind him of how the late Voldemort had almost created the weapon of his own destruction in his botched attempt on the tiny Potter's life. Almost. There is no way he can let this child grow up to become a threat to him now – who knows what powers the brat could develop, in time.

"You must understand that I cannot allow the child of my predecessor to thrive," he begins, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Ginny tenses. "However, my Special Advisor has suggested a course of action which would spare your son's life. He would have every trace of his magical ability permanently removed before being taken to an adoption centre on the other side of the world. It is likely that he would be raised by capable muggles with no idea of his heritage." Thank you, Lupin, he adds privately, for that perfectly guiltless solution.

"I'm going too," says Ginny immediately.

"Come now, Miss Weasley, I hardly think…"

"I'm going with him," she insists. "Destroy my magic as well, and obliviate me. There's nothing for me here, in your mockery of a society, where people are nothing but puppets to enact your twisted wishes. I don't want to remember this, to know how it used to be and to know what I've lost. Send Tommy and I to Australia as ignorant squibs, you'll never hear of us again."

Snape sighs, not finding any sensible reason to deny her request. Accepting this will mean one less potential troublemaker to deal with.

"Very well," he says.

…….

Next on the list is the tedious chore of sorting out the Ministry bureaucracy. It would take a particular kind of pedantic mind to be able to penetrate that seething maze of forms and filing systems, and some great skill to actually make sense of it, once they had. This one was easy.

"Bring me Percy Weasley."

…….

Severus arrives home with Ginny's condemnation still ringing in his ears. He barely acknowledges the solicitations of his concubine as his outer robe is removed and he is guided to his favourite armchair. Elegant fingers massage his hunched shoulders as he turns the burdens of leadership over and over inside his mind.

What is the point of ruling the world, if the world is made up of automatons. Can he keep dosing every witch and wizard in Britain with the Imperius potion in order to maintain his authority? Somehow Fred and George frequently overcome its effects and make inroads into organising revolution before they are caught. Snape ought to have them killed before they succeed, yet he is curious to discover how they manage what thousands of others cannot. Perhaps all those years of experimenting with dangerous substances have given them a certain resistance to it. Until the Death Eaters understand the problem, they must be allowed to live and continue their tiresome escapades.

"Master, you seem rather weary this evening, if you will pardon my saying so," the other man says tentatively, stroking his furrowed brow with great tenderness. "May I help?"

"Everything is fine," he lies, pulling his coerced lover into his lap, absently fingering the beads circling the fine, pale neck.

A greater threat than the Weasley twins is posed by Draco and Granger, wherever they are. Young Malfoy would be content to begin a new life somewhere and write off his past as a bad job, but the know-it-all will insist on organising resistance overseas. He suspects she will have already contacted the ex-pat British wizards in Spain, Greece, Australia, New Zealand, the US, South Africa and the hundred other places where they emigrate to escape the dismal weather, and that at any moment the new regime could fall under external attack.

He must start Lupin working on a solution, though just now the simplest thing would be to send hitwizards out to hunt the fugitives down and terminate them. But could he trust the assassins not to just scarper?

He pours himself a large drink from the sealed bottle on the side table and forces his brain to relax. The other man feels him let go and nuzzles his neck, kissing him reverently. Snape looks at him properly for the first time that evening.

"Lucius, have you dyed your hair?" he takes a moment to spot what has changed.

"Do you like it, Master?" asks Malfoy coyly. "I found the white streaks rather unbecoming."

"Very nice," replies Snape, running his fingers through the blond locks. Lucius smiles, apparently happy to have pleased his Master. He often tells Severus how pleasant it is to no longer be weighed down with responsibility, to merely lie around their bedroom all day, making himself beautiful in preparation for nights of lovemaking with the Dark Lord. Snape monitors the combinations of cosmetics very closely, fully aware of his former mentor's skill at improvised brewing. Though his magic is suppressed, he is not to be trusted. Not for a second.

Even an hour of passion with the adoring beauty cannot stifle the doubts in his mind this evening.

Yes, Snape is a hugely powerful wizard, but is he capable of sustaining this situation?

Yes, the Imperius still works for 99 per cent of the population, but for how much longer?

No, he is not certain what will happen if they throw it off.

Yet despite these awful doubts, there is still great satisfaction in knowing that he rules the country. For this moment, he has power. His word is law, just as the miserable and neglected little boy always dreamed it should be. Everything is to be done his way now, or else. Even if it all comes crashing down, he will have been be one of the very few who have wielded absolute political control. How could he complain?

There has been no one to care for his cursed existence in the past – everyone cared what he did now. It may all end tomorrow, but while he could, he would enjoy the reward for those long years of pain and obscurity. He would make changes where they were necessary, try and establish fairness for his subjects wherever possible, and remedy those ills which had outraged his sense of logic in younger days so that when it all ended, those with half a brain would realise that he had actually done a modicum of good. The mark he would leave on history would be an undeniably ambiguous one, yet it would be significant, he vowed to himself.

Did he miss the way things used to be? Not the teaching, certainly. Not the spying. Not the feeling of insignificance.

He rolls over and watches Lucius dozing, seeming young and beautiful in his sleep, golden hair radiating from his head like some fair maiden in a fairytale. Not for him the onerous burden of office or the horror of life-changing decisions.

Does he envy Lucius? Sometimes. He can remember a time when it was he who slept the sleep of the innocent, with nothing to do but obey Voldemort's orders. It had been months since the morning he awoke to find his lover, his Master, his captor, dead; and already the world is a very different place. Thanks to Severus, it is better.

Does he miss Voldemort?

The Dark Lord considers all the evils of life which he still has to remedy. He knows that only he can be trusted to put things right for the greater good of humanity, that no dunderheaded politician will be able to do a half-decent job of it. Until The End arrives, either from within or without, he will do what he can. He will bide his time.

He is much too busy to miss Voldemort.

…….

AN: There you go, ending number three! Some differences, some similarities. I think my personal favourite is the second one, where it was all a lie. (Did anyone else see the ending of the 'wonderful' Sunset Beach? Heh heh.)

Thanks for all your reviews so far, I'm pleased you have read this silly little exploration.

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