The scrap of doggerel had been written when he was thirteen; it spoke of Love, and of his fear that she would never suffer "ensoilment" by gracing him with her presence. No, only her palest incarnation might deign to permit his audience, to hear his entreaty, to slake his pain by conveying his plea for love to Love, herself; of that, his younger self had been certain.
Severus gazed at the tear-stained parchment and tried to remember where he'd found the thesaurus to aid his maudlin adolescent pursuit—and why he'd kept at it for so long. Posh words hadn't helped him commune with his childhood deity, after all. He decided not to dwell on such things: he was no longer a boy in need of feeling worthy; he was a man who knew his worth.
Tucking the bit of parchment away and Vanishing it with the last of his childhood relics, Severus rose, his lips twitching as he heard Hermione's sharp instructions to the builders. Now there was a woman fit to embody many concepts.
But for me, she's . . . the veriest avatar of—
He shook his head. No, he wouldn't resurrect his inner poet to venerate Hermione. For one thing, his poetry was crap and she despised it. For another, it was time to contemplate paint chips, carpet samples, and room expansions. Selling an improved Spinner's End meant financing a comfortable cottage further south, which Hermione wanted to be their "tidy temple of domesticity."
Severus smirked. He had enough faith in both Hermione and himself to know that domesticity, they could easily achieve—especially now that their business was practically running itself.
But when the triplets come, the last thing our home will be is tidy.