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.

Severus sneers, but I can see he's nervous. Tense. There's an uneasiness clinging to him, spelled out in his stiff, unyielding posture. "See that you do," he snaps, and sweeps upstairs, his black robes trailing behind him.

I follow after him and watch him duck into one of the rooms available for rent, just a few doors down from where I'm staying. I linger outside his door for a few seconds, my heart beating loudly, before deciding to knock. I shuffle my stuff awkwardly, thinking perhaps I should head back to my own room and drop it all off but already knowing I'd never be able to work up the courage again if I did.

My knuckles barely touch the wood when the door swings open. There is a wide, open smile on Severus's face. He's almost glowing. "Lil–" He starts, and then stops, his face dropping. The glow is snuffed out like a candle. "Oh, it's you," he says, repeating those same words he first said to me.

"Hi," I smile nervously. "Can I come in?"

He frowns, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and glances at the clock. It's almost six. He sighs and steps aside. I enter.

"Is there something you want?" He asks as he shuts the door.

I wonder if he ever thinks about that night. I think about it all the time. "Dinner?" I suggest.

"Dinner," he repeats flatly. "Why would you want that?"

"You know. You must know." My voice cracks. Merlin, I must sound desperate. "I'm in love with you. I wanted to talk to you, all the time I was painting your portrait, but Malfoy was always there, or the Black cousins, and I– You always acted so distant–"

Severus must grow tired of my rambling, because he scoffs and snakes his hand underneath my arm to steal my sketchbook. "Love," he sneers as he flips through it, stopping when he sees his own figure scratched across the paper in charcoal. They're the preliminary sketches I made when I painted the nude. His dark eyes linger over his own naked body, his expression growing angrier the longer he looks.

"You repulse me," he spits violently. "You say you love me? You love nothing. You love dust, some colour spread over a canvas! Look at him, look! See what a monster you've made of me? Does any man legs like that, bodies like that? Open your damn eyes!"

He shoved the sketchbook back at me with enough force that I almost drop my easel. I obey his imperious command and look. The Severus that stares up at me from the paper looks strangely flat. My stomach flops as I look back at my old work, noticing the imperfections along the way. The limbs are a little too long, the expression too soft to belong to the real Severus.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," he hisses and stalks towards the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm meeting someone," Severus says, throwing it open. "She'll be here any minute now."

I can feel my face burning. I flee, tail tucked between my legs, and dart into my own room. I spend the next hour flipping through all my old stuff. The things that I had worked so hard on, that had made me proud, are now grotesque. The proportions are wrong, the colours are off, everything is flat and dull and lifeless even as the pictures move and laugh and smile.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. An hour maybe, when a commotion outside my door spurs me into taking a peek outside. I crack open the door and see the barman dragging Severus down the stairs. "I just came up the wrong way," he protests, and even I can tell it is a lie. There is another open door a little further down and I give a start when I see Headmaster Dumbledore and a young woman with large glasses and curly hair tied up in a scarf watching the scene unfold. The woman stares with unabashed interest. Dumbledore… the expression on his face is cold. Unfeeling. Nothing at all like the kindly headmaster from my childhood.

"I paid for a room!" Severus shouts. "It's mine until tomorrow!"

"Not any more it's not!" The barman snaps back. He has Severus by the back of his cloak and pauses just long enough to point at one of the patrons sitting at a table in the corner. "You!" He says to the young man with dark brown hair and wide eyes. "You're a lucky one! You were asking for a room, yes? Well, it looks like we've just got a vacancy."

Severus curses. "I have an interview with Headmaster Dumbledore–"

"Reschedule it. Somewhere not at my tavern. Now, out! Out!"

He pushes Severus out the front door and I watch as Severus smooths out his cloak and draws it around himself like a shield. With one last look, he disappears and I go back into my room and close the door.

I wake with a jolt, my breath coming out in pants. I'm confused. I don't know what woke me up, but my skin is clammy and I'm shaking. I fumble around the bedside table for my wand, lighting it up just enough to peer at my discarded watch. It reads 2:36 am.

A muffled thump echoes through his door. Night sounds, nothing to worry about, I think, but my breath is coming faster. I get up from the bed and creep to the door. I look out into the hall.

One of the doors slowly opens, the un-oiled hinges letting out a long, drawn-out groan. That's the room Severus had rented. I catch a glimpse of a face – is that James Potter? – and hold my breath as it disappears completely, as if an invisible veil had fallen over him, and although I can see nothing I can still hear the faint sounds of footsteps. Minutes pass, the footsteps grow fainter and fainter until they're gone. Slowly, I step out from the safety of my room and inch towards the open door.

Oh, he's sleeping, I think. The young, brown-haired man – the lucky one, as the barman called him – lays on the bed with his head buried on the pillow like a weight. Sickly moonlight pours in from the dirty window. No breath comes from his mouth, which is pulled wide and taught, the skin discoloured, and his glassy eyes are wide open. Dark stains seep into the mattress.

For a second, I stand there, completely thunderstruck. The glassy eyes seem to exercise a spell over me the longer I stare into them. At first, I resist the idea that takes shape within in me, but I can't shake it off. I creep quietly back to my room, light a candle, and pull out my sketchbook. The passion for art has fully overtaken me. The melancholy I felt before, the disgust at my own work has vanished. In seconds the icy corpse has become just another model, a subject. The Lucky One… that's what I'll call it… I think, darkening the man's hair until it is black, adding a hook to his nose, even though I know I'll never be able to show it to anyone.