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Severus Snape sat at the desk in his underground classroom. Before him lay three things.
The first was a letter from Dumbledore — elegant handwriting, a cheerful little lemon-drop smiley face drawn at the bottom. The parchment smelled faintly of honey.
The second was not a letter. It was the Dark Mark searing itself into his forearm. Come. Now.
The third didn't exist either. Only the shards of the cauldron Harry Potter had blown up in Potions today, still stuck to the hem of his robes.
He looked at all three, and was suddenly struck by the feeling that he was a complete cad who had arranged dates with three people at once.
The problem was, he hadn't arranged anything. They had arranged him.
I. Dumbledore
Dumbledore's letters always began the same way: "Severus, my dear boy…"
Every time Snape read that line, he paused for exactly one second. Not from being moved. He was calculating how many layers of meaning were buried beneath it. The first: tender concern. The second: a gentle reminder that "you owe me." The third: "So you'll do it, won't you?" And the fourth — that insufferable twinkle.
The old man never issued direct orders. He simply offered you a sweet, patted you on the shoulder, and fixed you with that look — the one that said "I know this is terribly hard for you, but I believe in you" — and off you went. And afterwards you'd somehow convinced yourself the whole thing had been your own idea.
Snape set the letter down and pressed his fingers to his temple. If this manipulative old sod went into insurance sales, the entire population of Britain would buy a policy from him. And then go bankrupt.
II. Voldemort
The Dark Lord's summons were considerably more straightforward.
No pleasantries. No smiling faces. Just the sudden, searing burn on his forearm — as though someone had pressed a red-hot brand against his skin. The meaning was perfectly clear: Now. Immediately. Kneel.
Snape stood, straightened his robes. He knew exactly what would follow: the high-backed chair, fingers tapping the armrest, a long silence. Then, without warning — screaming. "What did you hear at Dumbledore's?!"
Snape would kneel. Lower his head. Answer in the most measured voice he could manage. Voldemort would suspect. Would threaten. Would cast a Cruciatus, calling it a "test of loyalty." Then — quite suddenly — "Well done, Severus, you haven't disappointed me," and a pat on the head.
The whole ordeal took roughly twenty minutes. Rather like soothing a volatile toddler. Except this toddler committed murder.
Snape sighed and walked towards the fireplace. He genuinely wanted to hand in his resignation. He wanted to, every single time.
III. Harry Potter
And then there was Harry Potter. The boy had blown up another cauldron today — the third time this term. Third.
Snape had docked twenty points on the spot and told him he was "as arrogant and useless as his father," then set him to copying an entire chapter of Advanced Potion-Making by hand. Harry had glared at him. Those eyes — hideously, piercingly green. Lily's eyes. James's face.
Every time Snape looked at that face, he felt like a man who had received a badly packaged delivery. You ordered A, and they've sent you A bundled together with B — no instruction manual, no returns, and B blows up cauldrons in your classroom three times a week.
He didn't want B. He only ever wanted A. But A was dead, and all that remained was this two-for-one boy, turning up in front of him day after day, reminding him: you can only ever have the memory.
He wrote on the mark sheet: "Performance significantly below expected standard. Attitude careless. As per usual."
Closed the book.
IV.
Snape put all three things away in the drawer — Dumbledore's letter, the fading burn mark on his arm, and the cauldron shard, which he couldn't quite explain not throwing directly in the bin.
He found himself thinking of a Muggle concept: polyamory. Maintaining multiple relationships simultaneously. Though typically, that required informed consent. And his three — one was emotional blackmail, one was a hostage situation, one was unresolved historical baggage. Not a single one was voluntary.
He let out a cold laugh, picked up his quill, and began to reply to Dumbledore's letter.
"Dear Headmaster, but of course. I remain at your disposal. — S.S."
Brief. Professional. Utterly without feeling.
He sealed the letter, handed it to the owl, then stood, tugged his sleeve down an inch, and walked to the fireplace.
Another day in the life of a cad begins.
The Scoundrel's Guide to Survival
How to maintain three simultaneous relationships, none of which involve informed consent:
Regarding Dumbledore — Always say "Yes, Headmaster." Accept the lemon drops (then discard them). Maintain the fiction that everything you do is entirely voluntary.
Regarding Voldemort — Always say "Yes, my Lord." Endure the Cruciatus. Maintain the fiction that you are enjoying every moment of it.
Regarding Harry Potter — Always dock points from Gryffindor. Maintain the fiction that you despise him. Protect him covertly, then continue maintaining the fiction that you despise him.
The core technique is simple: never let any of them know the others exist. Should Voldemort discover you are working for Dumbledore — dead. Should Dumbledore discover the full extent of your devotion to Voldemort — also dead, though with marginally more dignity. Should Harry discover you have actually been protecting him all along — social suicide.
Welcome to the daily life of Severus Snape.