"Would you like to share some of them?" Aislinn regarded Severus carefully over the top of her wine glass, and watched with interest as emotion played across his face. She didn't know what she was thinking, asking him that; of course he didn't want to share any of those memories. He'd already told her, and just a second before, that there was little he wished to remember about his past. Still, it didn't hurt to ask. She hoped. Though, judging from the shifting kaleidoscope of his face, Aislinn wasn't so sure.

"It's a long story," he said, his lips curving into a half-hearted sneer.

And was that an invitation? She wondered. It was, after all, the same excuse she'd given. Her excuse, though, had really been an offering to him, to give him a chance to back out of hearing her story if he didn't want to. What was his excuse? "I have the time," she replied softly, and he looked at her for a moment, and she thought that perhaps she'd given him credit for more than he deserved for the second time in the night. She cleared her throat softly and leaned forward, setting her glass on the floor and laying a hand on his knee. "Severus," she said softly, keeping her eyes on his, "if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to. But I will listen."

He nodded silently, and she gave his knee a firm squeeze, then straightened, drawing her legs beneath her once again before she realized she wasn't in her own rooms and Severus might not appreciate her feet on his furniture. He seemed to notice, though, and stood suddenly.

"Is it cold in here to you?" he asked, glancing at the fireplace, which was cold and dark. "I don't know what I was thinking, not lighting the fire."

Aislinn glanced at the fireplace and frowned. There was a thin layer of dust on the log in it, and she wondered just how long it had been since he had last had a fire in it. "I…" she faltered. She was cold, but she didn't want him to be uncomfortably warm, so for a moment she was at a loss. He made the decision for her, though, and a faintly acrid smell of smoke permeated the room, soon replaced by the fresher scent of a burning log.

"Why don't we move closer to the fire?" he suggested, bending to pick up her glass from the floor. He walked over to the sideboard, and she shrugged slightly, taking his advice and settling onto the floor by the fire, which was popping and crackling merrily now.

When he returned, there was a brief flicker of confusion on his face, and she belatedly realized that he might have been suggesting moving the chairs, but before she could offer to rectify the situation, he was placing her glass back in her hand. "I'll go get a couple of blankets," he offered, placing his own glass on the floor. "Make youself comfortable."

She breifly considered the implication of blankets on the floor in front of the fire, but put the idea from her head. No, she told herself firmly, you are not going to protest a suggestion he never made. That decided, she sipped her sherry, and tucked her legs under her, covering them with her skirt. A moment later, he had returned with a couple of quilts that looked battered and worn, but neatly folded, and he shook one of them out then settled it around her shoulders. "Better?" he asked.

She smiled up at him, her head craned back to meet his eyes. "Much," she admitted, pulling the coners tightly around her shoulders.

"Good," he whispered, and looked about to sit, then seemed to change his mind. One more trip to the sideboard, and he came back with the bottle of sherry, nearly empty, and another unopened bottle with a corkscrew. "I thought we might need this," he shrugged, placing the bottles aside and then settling, close enough that she could have leaned into his arms if she wished.

And which one of us has her mind in the wrong place now? She chastised herself. This is delaying tactic on his part, trying to make you forget the question. Even knowing that, she was determined she wasn't going to repeat it. If he wanted to answer then…

"Let's see," he was saying. "My past." Aislinn gave him a slightly surpried, but hopefully sympathetic and encouraging look. "And," he said suddenly, looking at her, "don't expect me to tell you everything. Not tonight." He took another sip of his sherry, "Not without the help of considerably more alcohol." This last was muttered softly enough that Aislinn wasn't convinced she was even meant to hear it.

He sipped his sherry again. "Hrm… let's see. I grew up in a small flat in Muggle London," he said matter-of-factly. "My father worked for the Ministry of Magic—when I told my schoolmates about my family I left it at that," he confidded, "but it was nothing grand and prestigous. He worked in the owlery, delivering messages to people who were too important to check for messages themselves. My mother was a full time wife and a sometimes mother. She was reasonably attentive when I was a small child, at least while my father was at work. But it was never any secret that she was, first and foremost, his wife, and I was just one of her duties."

Aislinn listened intently, sorting through the sarcasm and trying her best to hear what he was saying. She sipped her own sherry and smiled encouragingly.

"To say that my father disliked me would be putting it mildly. He apparently didn't take well to the intrusion of a child in his life, and seldom lost any opportunity to tell me how inconvenient I was. And he was disappointed in my appearance. I think," Severus paused and looked thoughtfully at Aislinn, "that he was the first man you saw the night…" he trailed off and Aislinn nodded, "well, incidentally, I'm going to want you to tell me how you did that, but suffice to say that he was a big man, and he was rather… disenchanted with me. I took after my mother, I suppose. She was a beautiful woman, and from all accounts, I was a beautiful child. Hard to believe now, isn't it?" He snorted softly.

Aislinn reached over, not a far reach at all, and placed her fingers under his chin. He lifted his head agreeably, and she studied him for a moment, looking past the more obvious appearances. That nose was most unfortunate, and he had the look of a man who didn't eat enough by half, and she still had a strong urge to dunk his head under the water and scrub his scalp until his hair was either clean or fell out from her efforts. But there was a pleasing angularity to his face, and she could imagine his hair clean and his eyes without dark circles and his cheeks a little less gaunt… and she could imagine that he might be something approaching attractive if not quite handsome. "Not so hard to believe," she said softly, moving her thumb against his cheek. What are you doing! Don't encourage attentions you don't want! Aislinn ignored the voice, but did drop her hand back to her lap.

"Well, I fell somewhat short of his hopes, I think. My mother's delicate bones, her face, her general slightness. All things which, while quite lovely on a woman, do little for a man. The only things I seemed to have inherited from my father were his nose and his eyes." He sipped his sherry again. "And his temper." Aislinn watched him carefully, but he wasn't looking at her. "I was possibly three years old the first time I remember him beating her, for something I did, and she was crumpled in a heap on the floor and crying, and there was nothing I could do about it. After that, she scolded me for anything I did to make him angry. In retrospect, I suppose she wasn't that wonderful a mother after all, but I can't say I blame her for it. And, when I was seven or so, he stopped beating her and turned his attention to me."

Aislinn felt her heart aching for him, and suddenly felt guilty for having made so much of her own past sorrows. For all she could complain about about her parents, at least they had never beaten her. She'd always known that they were there, and would see to her needs.

"Anyway," Severus took a much heftier sip of his sherry this time. "They both died when I was in my sixth year, and I never had any other family."

Placing her glass aside again, Aislinn reached for him, sliding a hand onto his shoulder. He looked over at her as though realizing suddenly that she was there, and placed a hand on top of hers. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close, and this time, she noted with some satisfaction, he didn't take quite so long to relax under her touch. She held him for a long moment before letting go, and when she did let go, she had the distinct impression that he wanted to pull her back into his arms, but if it was an accurate impression, he did a fine job in suppressing the desire.

"Well," he whispered thickly, and then cleared his throat. "Like I said a minute ago, I want to know how you saw those faces," he said softly. "If you don't mind…?"

Aislinn smiled a bit. "I'm really not sure I can explain it," she commented idly. "I have a friend who insists it's a psychic ability, and maybe she's right. I often have dreams I don't think are mine, but it's seldom I know to whom they belong."

Severus frowned slightly. "Legilimency?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"No, nothing that consicous. It isn't something I try to do, but rather something that is…" she paused trying to think how best to explain it. "I hate to say it's something that is inflicted on my, because that implies being a victim of it, and I don't particularly like that implication. But that might be the best I can do. It's like sitting in a crowded room with hundreds of people talking," she offered. "You can't help but overhear some people. Particularly if they're speaking loudly."

Severus nodded thoughtfully. He didn't look convinced, precisely, but at least he didn't look like he was about to argue with her about the impossibility of it.

"I have a friend who likens it to a radio antenna," she ventured. "I'm more 'receptive' than most people."

Severus took another drink of his sherry. "You know," he said softly, "if it weren't for the fact that you were talking about images I'd had in my head, I would probably think you were either a liar or a lunatic," he admitted, and Aislinn smiled.

"You wouldn't be the first," she commented dryly, "and likely not the last. Although I don't know why it's so much more difficult to believe than… say… electricity or…" she shrugged, "or magic."

He smiled a bit. "I guess I'll give you that."

A silence embraced the two of them, and Aislinn watched as Severus inched his hand closer to her. It was almost amusing, and a rather juvenile action, she thought; after all, most adults who wished to touch someone just did so. But then, from her limited experience with him, she wasn't sure he'd been touched by many people in his life. Perhaps, in that respect, he was still a child. A far too philosophical question for this late at night, came a practical voice in her head. Really, though, she knew that late at night, or in the small hours of morning, her mind was most likely to touch on questions of philosophy. Severus' hand was only inches from hers, and, in a fit of impishness, she suddenly moved, reaching for the bottle of wine. She could almost taste his frustration as she settled again, closer to him, but his hand now hovering near her foot instead of her hand.

Don't tease him, she scolded herself, but she couldn't help hiding a smile as she uncorked the bottle. "More?" she asked him, holding up the bottle, and he nodded, offering his own glass.

She steadied the bottom of the glass with her fingertips and tipped the bottle, but he suddenly stopped her, his hand over hers. "You don't have the slightest idea what you're doing, do you?" he asked softly, and she stared at him for a moment.

"I'm pouring…" she stated the obvious, and he laughed softly, making her eyes flash indignantly.

"I can see that," he whispered. He took the bottle from her hand and picked up her glass, tilting it towards the bottle, then tipping the bottle slightly. "Wine is not punpkin juice, Miss Ichalia," he chided softly, and she found herself blushing, but she refused to ask him what the difference was. "You don't simply splash it into a glass. It requires more care. More subtlty." The golden liquid flooded gently from the bottle, cascading down the side of the glass and pooling in the bottom, and he tilted the bottle deftly away, stemming the flow, then held up the glass to the light.

"Sherry isn't so prone to bruising as other wines," he said softly, "but all wine is delicate." He put the bottle back in her hand, then moved to sit behind her, and reached forward, picking up his own glass and wrapping her fingers around it. "Tilt the glass towards the bottle," he whispered, his breath warm on her ear and sending shivers up her spine. She followed his instructions, though not to his satisfaction apparently. His hand closed around hers and tilted the glass to a nearly 45° angle. "Then bring the mouth of the bottle almost to the rim of the glass, but not touching it," he instructed, and she grimaced as the bottle clinked musically against the rim. "It's all right," he said softly, his breath still caressing her ear, "slowly… there." He sounded satisfied as the liquid began to slip silkily from the bottle, swirling to a rest in the bottom of the glass. "No more than three-fourths full," he told her, "but at least two-thirds. And slowly tilt the bottle back again…" He reached forward and took the glass from her, his fingers curling casually around the bowl, the stem dangling between his fingers. "Perfect," he breathed, and she felt herself smiling in spite of herself, feeling almost as giddy as she had the one time he had praised her in class.

As he set the bottle aside, Aislinn realized suddenly that she was in his arms, a fact that had escaped her somehow when she was receiving instruction from him. Very good, Professor, she thought idly. Maybe you aren't so adolescent as I had thought. The speculation, however, lasted only until she realized that he didn't seem to be making any effort to move at all, which might have been more effective had his arms actually been around her still. As it was, he now seemed torn between sitting awkwardly close (awkward, given that they weren't even touching now) and moving away (which she had the distinct impression he didn't want to do). Or maybe that wasn't a ploy after all, she thought.

She lifted her glass to her lips, and took another sip of the sweet liquid, batting her options around in her mind. At length, she came to a conclusion, and leaned back fractionally, her back coming into contact with his chest. She felt him stiffen, and she set her glass aside again, then reached behind her, taking his hand in hers. "Are you afraid of me?" she asked him softly, looking up into his eyes. She pulled his hand around her waist, and reached for the other hand. Finding that it still clutched a glass of sherry, she softly flicked her fingers against his, and he put the glass aside, then, of his own will, moved his arm to circle her.

"Not precisely," he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair again.

She crossed her arms and touched his elbows, drawing his arms more tightly around her. "Then what is it?" she asked quietly.

He opened his mouth, as though to say something, but seemed to change his mind. "I suppose," he replied, almost inaudibly, "that I'm unsure what you want from me. It hasn't been long at all since you were telling me you had no interest…"

Aislinn nodded, and considered sitting up, backing away from him. You're drunk, Aislinn, came a rational voice in her head. Just because it doesn't taste like whiskey or vodka doesn't mean it isn't potent. You were safer when you were shivering in the chair. She knew it was probably the truth, but a part of her didn't care. A big part of her. "God help me, Severus," she whispered into the air, staring at the fire, "I'm not sure I know what I want from you either."