Severus shook his head with a soft sigh. "You are anything but." He feared Sappho might have thought he was growing impatient with her self-deprecation, but nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, he was attempting to screw up his courage to present her with the poem he'd written. The thought had first occurred to him when she said something about being a consolation prize, but he really didn't think of her that way, and he hoped this might prove it. Of course, he'd never shown anyone else his poetry (mostly because he'd burnt the majority of it), and the prospect of doing so petrified him.
On the other hand, if nothing else, this small act of daring on his part might encourage Sappho to show him some more of her drawings. She had said she would, of course, but she it seemed more out of resignation than because she actually wanted to. And she hadn't yet, either, but he hoped to put her at ease by ... well, making himself vulnerable to her criticism first. Clearing his throat, he reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew the parchment. "I, ah, have something for you," he said, in barely more than a whisper, as he slid the still-folded parchment across the table.