Love in the Time of Carnaval

Snape awoke the next afternoon feeling rested and determined. He had come to a decision in the night, or perhaps it would be better described as a realization.

He dressed quickly and stopped to comb his hair. How foolish I have been, he thought, casting his mind back. It was as if he were looking at some stranger's past. It certainly had no bearing on the future of the man who now walked resolutely toward Bellatrix's room.

He practiced the words in his head. 'I felt so sure of myself before I met you. Being near you in these past weeks has made me realise how incomplete I am. How much I need someone to fill that part of me that I've denied, or lost. Someone...' He knocked but no one answered. Trying the knob, he found the door opened easily.
'Hello?'
The room seemed empty at first. Then he heard a splash of water from the bath.
Snape silently approached the door, listening, his heart pounding. It was not exactly how he had imagined this moment--but the idea of soft, soapy, wet skin did appeal to him on a level he was loath to acknowledge. He was deliberating whether or not to check the keyhole when a voice came from the little room.
'Bella, did you use my soap?'

It was Regulus. Regulus fucking Black. Snape opened the door. Black stood naked before the mirror, dripping water onto an abused towel.
'I say,' he said.
'What are you doing here?' Snape hissed.
Regulus looked at Snape as if he were mad, and then recalling what Bertha Jorkins had told him about the man, quickly covered his privates with a shaving bag.
'Get out, you--crazy bugger!' squealed Regulus as Snape trembled with wrath. Severus could see Bellatrix return from last night's sleigh ride, giddy and laughing, only too happy to relieve her tension through a quick game of hide-the-wand with her own cousin. God, he looks enough like her. That was probably a turn-on.
'A close family? Snape spat. 'You make me sick, you incestuous twit.'
'Now hang on a minute, Sniv--Severus!'
Snape's hand snapped through the air, its knuckles reddening Regulus' cheek. Black stared at him in open-mouthed shock.
'Were you a man, Black, and not that woman's creature, I would kill you. But today you warrant less of my attention than I have already bestowed.' Snape turned quickly on his heel and, white with rage, slipped out of the room.
For a moment Black stood motionless, unsure what to do. Then he began to brush his teeth.

It had been dark for some time when Bellatrix reached the fairgrounds. She had left the rest of the party behind to enjoy this one last night of Carnaval.

She bought herself a sticky ice cone and wandered amongst the exhibits. Couples and children smiled at her and she smiled back. It began to snow lightly and she tightened the side flaps of her dark pommed hat.

She had wandered thoughtlessly for an hour, maybe two, when she came to the Ice Palace--a massive magical construct with a frozen moat and high turrets. She crossed the drawbridge and explored the halls, reaching out with her mittened hands to touch the beautiful sculptures with childlike awe.
In the Snow Queen's chamber, she brought her face close to the ice mirror which hung on the frosted translucent walls. Cold blue torches lit the room in shadowy arcs behind her. She could almost make out her reflection in the false looking-glass. She leaned closer to it.

'What do you see?' asked a strange voice. She turned but saw no one.
'What do you see in the mirror, Bellatrix Black?' the deep voice asked again.
Bellatrix moved for the door. 'Who's there?' she whispered, then louder, 'Who are you?'

A figure stepped out from the shadows. It was a tall, rounded stranger with a hat. Bellatrix laughed nervously when she saw it was a man dressed in a thick white snowman costume with a bright belt.
'You never answered my question, Bellatrix.'
'Nor you mine. Who are you that you use my name?'
The figure tilted its large head. The smile that hung on its face seemed like a leer.
'I am Bonhomme Carnaval. This is my palace. I am the Spirit of Carnaval. I am all the snowmen children create before they lose their youth,' it said, walking toward her.
Bellatrix backed away. 'Be careful, little snowman, that I don't melt you.'
Bonhomme laughed unpleasantly. 'Yes, you have a fiery temper, but your heart is cold like ice. How fitting for one so frigid to stand alone in the Snow Queen's room.'
'How dare you speak of my heart, you sexless toy!'
'I dare because here you are nothing, and I am everything. You have stumbled into my domain. You have no power here. Look into the mirror!' commanded Bonhomme, his voice at once mysterious and familiar. Bellatrix obeyed. She stared at her own distorted visage, her face smeared across the ice like a blotted watercolour. She felt him draw nearer.

'You have no power here, Bellatrix,' he told her quietly, 'but I will protect you. Don't be afraid. Now, what do you see?'
Listening to the soothing tones of his voice, she found herself relaxing against her better judgment. 'I see myself.'
'Really? Is that blurry mess you?'
'It's my reflection.'
'It's not the real you?'
She knew Bonhomme was close behind her, but she had lost the will to move. 'No, it's not me.'

Bonhomme began to circle her slowly. 'Describe yourself to me, Bellatrix.'
'I'm beautiful,' she told him, her eyes fixed on the blob in the ice mirror.
'Beauty, physical beauty, never lasts. You know that. How long do you study yourself in those other mirrors, looking for wrinkles, hunting out grey hairs? Your beauty is marked by cruelty, Bellatrix.'
'No,' she argued without force.
'You know it's true. One day you will no longer be beautiful.'
'Will they love me still?'
Bonhomme stopped and looked at her. 'Yes. Some would. Even without your beauty. Or perhaps especially without it.'
'Why?' She inched closer to the glass and, removing her mitten, tried to wipe away her reflection. 'I have nothing else.'
'Don't you, Bellatrix?' Bonhomme watched her.
'I have nothing else. I'll be old soon. Soon.'
'And then?'

She slid to the floor slowly.
'What do you see in the mirror, Bellatrix?' Bonhomme asked, his black eyes and smile towering over her.
'I see...nothing. Help me.'
Bonhomme crouched next to her. 'How, Bellatrix?'
'I'm so empty,' she sobbed. 'I have nothing. I can't eve tell if I'm feeling anything or pretending I do. I...I don't exist.'
'I can give you meaning,' Bonhomme promised her. 'Love me, Bellatrix, and I will give meaning to your life.'
She rocked back and forth, crying. 'Yes, I will love you. Oh, please, God, just give me something to fill this void.'
'Love me.'
'Oh, Bonhomme, it's so cold. I love you, but it's so cold.'
Bonhomme cradled Bellatrix in his arms as she cried, her tears freezing as they hit the ground. With his soft, fingerless white hands, he brushed away her hair.

When the figure in the snowman costume staggered out of the Ice Palace, Rodolphus ran to him.
'What happened?'
Severus Snape shook off the Bonhomme head and whispered something.
Rodolphus stared at his friend in alarm. Snape's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and his eyes were red.
'What, Severus?'
'Go to her, you fool! It is done.'
Rodolphus laughed, pulling on the head of his own Bonhomme suit, and did a little jig as he sprinted into the Ice Palace.

When Lestrange was out of sight, Snape dropped to his knees and retched in the snow.
Some drunken shouts went up in the distance. It was just after midnight. Carnaval was over.

Epilogue

Sitting at a writing desk at the Chateau Lestrange, Severus Snape gulped from a small silver flask. He gritted his teeth as the bitter Draught of Lethe crept down his throat. The imperious-looking owl he had borrowed hooted at him impatiently. He toasted with the flask and drank again. Then, picking up a quill he wrote, 'Ash Wednesday, Quebec'. He checked the clock. Soon the potion would do its work. There was such little time.

My Dear Mister Ambassador,

I write to you as per your wishes but also for a more personal reason. I believe that you alone among men might understand that strange tale that I am about to lay out before you. I am confident that you will not judge me too harshly and in some way I might receive from you some sort of absolution or perhaps a benediction...
The story is one of Carnaval and its revels, of youth, and most dangerously of love...