His Masterpiece

A Portrait of the Artist as He Really Is

Some text taken from The Masterpiece by Émile Zola (published in 1885) and The Cathedral by Joris-Karl Huysmans (published in 1898).

*****

James entered the bedroom and found Lily scrawling out a letter to her sister. I'm so happy, I'm the happiest I've ever been, it said. Her face was set in its permanent frown. James hadn't seen Lily smile in months.

He looked at the looping letters. The note from Snape weighed almost nothing, but it was as heavy as a stone resting in his pocket. "Do you want me to take that to the post for you?" He asked, as if suddenly remembering Petunia detested anything magical, including owls.

"That would be great, thank you."

They kissed. Two pieces of dry flesh pressing hurriedly against each other before pulling away.

James took the letter. He didn't mail it. He instead copied the words over and over until his handwriting looked almost indistinguishable from Lily's.

Of course, I'll come. Sev, you're my best friend. I've had some suspicions... I don't want to write anything here, but I'm scared. Do you think you can get a room at the inn? For privacy? I don't want this getting back to James.

And then, a few days later, a reply-

I'm staying in Room 2. I've booked it for a single night. Meet at three? Just knock when you get here.

*****

I sling my box of paints across my shoulder and tuck my easel, canvas, and sketchbook underneath my arm. I step out of Hog's Head Inn, stamping my feet against the bitter, windy January morning. It's still early, and hardly anyone else is out at this hour. I spot a few witches with their heads bowed, the hoods of their cloaks blown back and flapping like wings, the wind whirling in their skirts, which they can hardly hold down.

I blow out a breath, watch it crystallize, and walk along the wide, cobblestone lane that leads out of Hogsmeade. The village sits below the craggy outcrop upon which Hogwarts has been built. That is my true goal. I've come across a lovely little spot not far from the village that gives me an almost entirely unobstructed view of the castle.

To reach it, I must climb up a zig-zag path above a precipice, scraping my hands against hard granite stone, until I come upon an outcropping where there are no fir trees, no beeches, no pastures, no torrents, nothing- nothing but total solitude and unbroken silence.

I place my easel on the grounce and set up my canvas, stealing glances at Hogwarts all the while. Seeing the castle like this - distant, towering, nearly blending into the jagged oyster rocks it grew upon like a lichin - brought a sense of terror to the school. It's hard to imagine children laughing in a place like this. It's hideous, I think. I start sketch out its towers. The castle looked lonely against that vast, empty grey sky, beseeching pardon for the callous treatment for those suffering within its walls.

I pull out my paints and start to dab at the canvas in varying shades of grey and blue and green. I paint until what little light there is disappears behind heavy, snow-swollen clouds. Only then do I pack up my things and head back to the inn, suddenly conscious of my empty stomach. A quick glance at my watch tells me it's almost five o'clock. I've missed lunch.

It takes me at least another thirty minutes to make it back to the inn. People are already trickling in, looking for an early dinner and a drink. I give a quick wave to the barman, and seeing him occupied I start to turn towards the stairs when I stop and take another look.

It's Severus. He's arguing with the owner. "I told you before, if anyone comes asking for you I'll send them on up," the old man says, very clearly at the end of his patience.