Snape did not sleep that night. It was imperative that he act now, before the situation grew out of control. By morning, having covered his floor with torn and scribbled-over pieces of parchment, he had finally managed to compose a message that did not give too much away:
I have information which may prove useful to you. Lives are at stake. Send your reply with this owl – it will know where to find me.
He did not sign it, of course. He may be desperate, but he was not foolhardy. It was the work of a moment to attach the note to his owl's leg, but there were several minutes of deep, thoughtful silence before he released the owl at an open window. And then, as the owl soared northwards and the sun rose over the hill, Snape slumped back onto a chair at the kitchen table and, finally, fell asleep.
Hours later, he awoke, ravenous and confused. What had he done? As he piled slices of bread and cheese onto a plate, he tried to recollect. He'd had a dream – something about a hilltop, a decision, a message... He froze, the sandwich halfway to his mouth, as icy horror flooded his mind. That was no dream. How, why had he taken such a risk? What if the Dark Lord were to find out? He always seemed to know what his servants had done. How could Snape hide this from him, if he couldn't even tell a straightforward lie about the children?
Unconsciously, he began to scratch at the mark on his arm – a habit he had acquired before it had completely healed. Now it was just a patch of dark red skin, hairless and slightly wrinkled. Scratching achieved nothing, but the action was oddly comforting – it seemed to make him feel better to try even this small, pointless attempt to remove the Dark Lord from his life. At least he had taken some real action now. No matter how foolish it had been to send a message so openly to one of the Dark Lord's enemies – events were now set in motion. Whatever happened now, he could be certain that his days of service to Lord Voldemort were ending – either in death or freedom.
The remainder of the day, what little there was left of it, Snape spent vainly trying to do the tasks set by Lord Voldemort. He had to contact the Lestranges, saying just enough to make them understand the importance of their new mission, but on no account mentioning either the prophecy or the Longbottoms. Normally, Snape would find this kind of thing easy – a cryptic puzzle which they would be able to unlock, using pre-arranged ciphers.
Tonight, however, his mind couldn't settle to the task. Every sound – a twig snapping, a moth beating its wings on the window, the furniture creaking comfortably as the temperature dropped – caused him to jump from his chair. In the end he simply left the back door open, so that the owl could fly straight into his house with whatever reply it might bring. By midnight he had managed to write one inelegant and inadequate sentence, and had almost decided to stick his head in the fire and use the Floo network to contact Bellatrix (nevermind the risk of being overheard by Ministry spies). He got up to make a drink – needed to keep his head clear – and heard, as he did so, a low hoot behind him. There on the kitchen table was his reply.
Leaving the owl to eat his leftover sandwich, Snape settled himself back into his chair, moved the lamp closer, and quickly scanned the message. It did not take long.
Hog's Head, Thursday, 8pm, ask the barman for a pint of shandy.
For Snape, the next few days disappeared in a blur. He could never afterwards recall what he'd done. They were blank territory in his mind. And perhaps this was for the best, for they were days full of doubt. He had hoped to attain some kind of peace by making contact with the other side. But instead he was doubly afraid. What if it was a trap? What if his trust was misplaced? What would happen if the Dark Lord discovered his betrayal? What if the mark summoned him when he was at the Hog's Head? Perhaps it would have been easier to say what he had to say by owl – avoid any kind of meeting at all. No. He would lose the only thing he had to bargain with – his inside knowledge. Too late, he thought of making Polyjuice potion. Impetuous as always, he had missed the chance of using the perfect disguise. Of course, he could always postpone the meeting – but his information would lose its value the longer he delayed.
By Thursday morning he was frantic. He considered wearing a disguise, and almost settled on wearing his Death Eater mask – it would at least obscure his face. On second thoughts, though, he realised that it would probably scare the customers of the Hog's Head – to them, Death Eaters were the enemy. This thought halted his agitation. He was the enemy to these people. Therefore it was important to be prepared. He packed a small bag with money, Floo powder (for a possible escape), strong poison (for a final escape), and checked that his wand would be easily accessible. He bewitched the hood of his robes to make them impervious to any other human touch – no-one but himself would be able to pull the hood back to reveal his face.
At 7:55pm he Disapparated, and appeared a moment later a couple of dozen yards down the street from the pub. This was it. Possibly the most important conversation he would ever have in his life. He patted his pocket for reassurance – the bag was still there. So. He walked as steadily as he could towards the Hog's Head. Fifteen yards. Ten yards. Seven yards. A few more paces. He opened the door...