The first thing Snape did upon returning to his home was to check the Veritaserum -- hoping to find a problem. With still almost ten hours to go, it was simmering quietly and the colour was beginning to turn -- a sure sign he had made it correctly. How could he think of a new hindrance to present to the Lestranges, when he was so worried? Nothing would settle. After that extraordinary meeting, he needed to stop, have a bath, rinse away his self-disgust and rest. He could not enjoy this small indulgence, however, until he had informed Dumbledore of Voldemort's plans. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Snape picked up his quill and pulled a bit of parchment toward him. He tried to write, but he was shaking so much -- from shock or exhaustion -- that he accidentally pushed the quill right through the paper to the table beneath. He breathed deeply, willing his pulse to slow down, trying by sheer force of will to diminish the effects of the adrenaline that was pumping through his body. Feeling calmer, he dipped his quill into the inkpot once more and started to write "Dumbledore". Looking down, he saw that he had produced only a smear of ink across the top of the parchment. Snape sighed heavily, threw the broken quill across the room, and searched through the kitchen drawers. He knew he had a spare somewhere ...
Half an hour later, a fresh quill having been found, Snape settled back down at the table. The searching and scrabbling around in drawers and cupboards had at least distracted him from worrying. Now, when he wrote "Dumbledore", he was pleased to see that he was not shaking anymore. He finished the message:
"Phoenix red. Serpent awake. Days only. Waiting."
Trying to remember Dumbledore's instructions, Snape folded the parchment down the middle, and then folded each half lengthways again. And again. It didn't look right. From what he understood, the end result was supposed to resemble a phoenix in flight. Irritably, he unfolded the paper and started again. Somewhere, after either the second or third lengthways fold, he was meant to fold the opposing flaps diagonally. Was this the right way? It looked like a lop-sided frog. Obviously not, then. Curse the man! There must have been an easier way than this of keeping in touch! Owls? But Snape recollected that he had waited several days for a reply from Dumbledore, last time he had sent a message in the traditional way. How about taking the second fold in the opposite direction, and then the diagonal? The finished result seemed better, this time -- it did bring to mind a bird of some sort -- although it was by now very crumpled, and only had one wing. Eventually, after innumerable variations on the order of folds, Snape managed to arrive at what he hoped was a satisfactory bird-shape. He retrieved the phoenix-feather from his safe and inserted it along what he assumed was the backbone of his paper sculpture. There remained only the question of actually sending it, now. He had better be outside for this. And so, feeling utterly ridiculous, Snape stood in his back garden, with the low autumn sun to his back, and threw his message into the sky -- expecting it to come crashing down against the hedge at the far end of the lawn. Instead, a flashing gleam of gold, it shot high into the air and was gone.
After his bath, Snape hunted around for more tasks with which to fill the waiting time. He hoped, anxiously, that Dumbledore would reply before the cauldron of Veritaserum flared purple (the sign that the potion was ready). The Dark Lord had intimated that he would alert the Lestranges of its imminent completion, and Snape knew that they would be expecting to hear from him later that evening. The steam from the potion was making the whole house airless and Snape occupied himself with opening all the windows, allowing an unseasonably warm breeze to waft through all the rooms. With the sound of birdsong drifting into the kitchen, he prepared a meal, drank a cup of bitter herbal tea, and tidied away the clutter on the table. The damaged swan's feather on the kitchen floor caught his eye. Picking it up, he preened the ragged edges of the feather back into shape, and examined the blunt, snapped end. A sharp knife would do the trick.
Snape eased himself into an armchair and began restoring the quill to a sharp point. It was a delicate task but he was making good progress -- until he was startled by a sudden burst of song from what sounded like a chaffinch. His hand slipped and he clumsily sliced a sliver of skin from his left thumb. He tore a strip from the bottom of his robes -- who would notice? -- and wrapped it around the wound, pressing hard to staunch the flow of blood. Silently cursing all songbirds, Snape returned to his scrutiny of the swan's feather, searching for inconsistencies, weak spots. The low hoot of an owl came in through a window on the far side of the room. Snape frowned. An owl at this time of day? Had Dumbledore replied already? What had happened to the phoenix-feather? No owl flew in, however. Perhaps he had imagined it. He was tired, after all. He stood up, intending to check outside to see if there really had been an owl.
"Drop the knife, Snape," growled the man who had suddenly appeared at the back door. "The house is surrounded. I think you'll find we've got you."
In one swift movement, Snape flung his knife and quill to one side and reached into his robes for his wand. Did they think that he could be taken without a fight? The door behind him swung open, and he turned instinctively at the noise. Too late, he realised his mistake, as the man at the back door shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"