A/N: Sorry about the wait. This chapter's going to be short because I'm going to be in Texas for a week in a trailer with no technology whatsoever. NOT EVEN A PHONE. This chapter leaves off pretty quickly, but it'll start back up next week, I promise. Thanks to those of you who were patient with me.

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, just borrowing. I'll bring them back when I'm done, alright, J.K?

WARNING, THIS FIC CONTAINS SLASH. THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE HOMOPHOBIC AND ARE EASILY OFFENDED BY HOMOSEXUALITY CAN RESPECTFULLY SOD OFF AND READ SOME G- RATED MARY-SUE FIC, OR SOMETHING.

Thanks to my reviewers, most of all. This chapter wouldn't be up if not for them and their friendly encouragement.

THE TROPHY ROOM

I rushed to the Common Room with a light heart that evening.

I ran up the stares and knelt down to snatch my book bag from the side of my bed and plotted my course to Professor Lysistrata's classroom in the dungeons.

As soon as I rapped my knuckles on the heavy ironbound wooden door, I heard heavy footfalls from the corridor just South of me.

There stood the caretaker, a wide, sadistic grin spread across his jaunt, unshaven face.

"Uhm...." I said, but before I could fabricate a question, the caretaker silenced me.

"Professor Lysistrata sent me here to take care of your detention." He grunted. "First we wait for the other students."

Slowly, over a period of time, one by one, the students miserably collected near the large ironbound door. There were only four of us.

The caretaker's grin slowly grew wider. "Are we all here?" His yellow eyes scanned us all apprehensively. Peter squirmed quite visibly beside me.

The caretaker led us to the entrance of what must have been the Hogwarts trophy room less then five minutes later. He took from his belt a large key ring, on which was strung a various amount of keys. We all waited patiently as he sorted through them and finally retrieved from the myriad of clanking metal a large brass key engraved with small, ornate patterns. It gleamed in the light of the torches that hung in brightly painted sconces along the walls.

As he unlocked the door, he motioned for Severus and I to step forward (my insides gave a small jolt).

"There's a bucket of polish and a few dirty rags in there," He jerked his head towards the doorway, "I expect those trophies to blind me when I return." His grin made me want to spit on him.

We were ushered forcibly inside and the door was shut abruptly behind us with a loud bang. From beyond that door we heard the caretaker say, "The rest of you follow me. There are some bed pans in the Hospital Wing that are in need of some scrubbing." I heard him chortle loudly, blatantly, and I silently pitied Peter for what obscene duties he was about to perform, and not willingly, at that.

I heard a small sigh behind me and I turned around to spy a very tall and emaciated Severus silently rolling the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows. He seemed not to notice me at all, carrying on with his menial tasks of readying himself for the polishing. I followed suit and stepped over to snatch up a rag from the bucket of polish I spied in the corner

I gave a wearied sigh. "I guess we'd better get to work, then." I sadly examined the dizzying amount of oversized trophies and plaques about the room.

Severus said nothing as he tossed back his raven hair and carelessly grabbed the bucket of polish to carry it to its final destination, which was a large brass trophy, awarded to Hogwarts during the year of 1877, or so said the engraving.

I watched as he gracefully knelt upon the flagstones and began to shine the brass surface delicately.

There was a lump in my throat and I swallowed hastily. "So..." I cut off. He threw a look of pure venom at me as he continued his work on the trophy, silencing me almost completely. But I was bold and continued. "I suppose we're polishing the same trophy, then?" Silence followed as he slowly turned his head to face me, shook the hair out of his eyes, and looked up at me with raised eyebrows, scooting over just a few inches to the right as if to say, "Of course..."

Timidly, I knelt down beside him and dipped my rag into the bucket. I looked down at the dampened cloth in my hands and saw the oily bronze polish dripping onto my fingers and onto the floor in a moment of catatonic stillness.

And then I realized that he was looking down at the polish on my hands, too. I slowly looked up and our eyes met. We stared for a moment until he suddenly looked away and reached inside his robes. I wondered what he was doing until he pulled from his inside pocket a white handkerchief embroidered with a small intricate S in the right corner. I gasped as he snatched the soiled rag from my hand to replace it with that of his stark white hanky. Gratefully I cleaned the polish from my hands until I noticed that he was wringing my cloth into the polish bucket. I stared fixedly as his spidery hands moved fluidly about until he stopped, looked up at me, and placed my cloth back in my hands.

His hand remained on mine, still. He looked straight into my eyes. "Here," He said, "Try using portions of your rag and not the whole thing. That polish is Hell to get off your hands."

Thankyou for your patience, the next installment will be posted next week, when I get back from Texas.

-The Absynth Fairy