Two men waited in a windowless room, a room with rough stone walls and a rough stone floor and a ceiling so very high that it might as well not exist at all. It was a small room, despite the height of the ceiling, in which six or seven men would have found no room for breath, much less occasional movement, but they were only two and even so they both stood backed as far as possible against opposite walls, making room for the oppressing presence of the bitter animosity that had been growing between them for years. Also between them stood a burning pyre, an ancient, funny-looking birdbath filled to the brim not with water, but with green and silver tongues of fire, which every now and then would spill over, licking the rim of the basin, and then the basin's silhouette, before finally disappearing about halfway down the it's intricate marble base. The birdbath was white, with a silver bowl, and the stone of the room itself was gray, but the man who stood motionless, staring deep inside the dancing flames, was cloaked entirely in black and the man who avoided the need to look at anything with almost religious fervor was dressed from top to toe in brown, because he had forgotten his own black cloak at the Potters'.
This fat man's name was Peter, a plain name, the name of a man with no secrets, no threats, no imagination, and his thick fingers were moving in a dance of their own, writhing and wringing, or simply clasping very tightly, then quickly letting go. They had been waiting for an hour, but to him it seemed like even more. His message was delivered. He had done a good job! An excellent job even. Not even the Dark Lord's precious spy had uncovered this gem of information. Peter's shifting eyes darted hastily to the other man, the motionless man, and then away.
Snivellus. Why must he have been chosen to 'watch our guest' while the others plotted for the best way to use his gift to their own advantages? Peter's first instinct had been that Snape had volunteered, jumped on the chance to torment one of his former tormentors, but the other man had yet to say a word. He simply stood there -- glaring at a foe that only he could see -- his hood pulled so far down that his face was a shadow with only a sliver of white at the bottom, his eyes two points of even deeper shadow. Even so, his expression was uncharacteristically easy to read. He was thoughtful. Pensive. Deep in a world of ideas and connections and endless possibilities. Perhaps he too was lost in the landscape of trademark Slytherin scheming. Perhaps guarding Peter was simply a way to acquire a bit of quiet while he plotted for himself.
Peter suddenly realized that he was staring, but not before Snape did. The other man flashed him a look of such utter contempt that if Peter had not already been backed against the wall, he would surely have taken at least two steps back. Snape returned his icy glare to the pyre and another possibility occurred to Peter. Perhaps Snivellus was simply too excited for plotting at the moment, or even any attempts at torturing Peter. Surely he was reveling in the wonderful news. Not two hours before, Peter had handed over the key to destroying James Potter. Yes. That was most certainly it. Even Snape most have his few moments alone, devoted not to cold plotting, but to the necessary minutes he allotted to emotion.
At one end of the room, a door slid open. Both men knew exactly what that meant. The Dark Lord considered it safe to release him. The Dark Lord was satisfied. Peter felt a wave of giddy relief pass through him and he barely even noticed the hurry with which Severus swept out of the room before him. He was quite a rush himself. He was expected for tea at Remus' house in half an hour, and he couldn't raise any suspicions.
Mischief… managed.