All this talk of getting old, it's getting me down my love

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

*Like the foundation of every absolutist, no matter how resolute he stands there is at least one thing out there that can shake Crouch Sr.'s otherwise unyieldingly monochromatic world. Until recently, whenever he needed to he, could be view his wife's health with the same rational thought process that the rest of the universe can be viewed in. Each separate ailment was a problem that needed to be repaired, each pain an unknown to be solved, and each test a routine assessment to assure everything was in order. He has never considered this view to be heartless, but rather efficient. There is rarely cause for dawdling comfort, after all, and Bernadette has never been without the care of an experienced and discrete Healer. Her needs have been met and her condition managed the entirety of their marriage, he had seen to that at every step of their relationship and of his career.

However, he is not a man that can let failure go unnoticed, it is in his nature to assess success and anything below that stands out at him like a glaring red mark on an otherwise spotless existence. When it can be managed and kept up with, the Cloaked Distemper of his wife's blood is nothing more than unavoidable upkeep, but any rational man knows that two fairly invasive treatments for two severe incidents of internal bleeding within such a short time as this means something much too dangerous to successfully analyse and file away. When a disease, something intangible, unintelligent, begins to get the upper hand, Bernadette cannot be just a machine with parts that need fixing. She becomes the person he married, and his fear and frustration at the possibility that losing could ever be a probability make it difficult for him to function as usual. It is never seen by anyone outside their family, and never spoken of within it, but even the Minister for Magic contains a piece of a man who doesn't know the next step and who cannot plan ahead and move forward in the face of anything. Even Crouch Sr., in a twisted and unusual and unaware way, is a concerned husband. Fear and all.

He will never realise this part so separate from the rest of him, but it's there, because even though the weekend has never been a time of rest to him this Saturday the study door has yet to be opened and all pressing business has been brought in to the livingroom. A fire is lit and Bernadette and her blankets moved from their bed to a couch. The house is quiet without their son in it anymore, all apart from their conversation and the scratching of his pen. Even his writing is slower and less militant than usual, and for the time being that husband is more visible than he has been for some time.*