Word Count: 1286
For Amber for GGE. This is a little odd but I hope you like it. The concept of this AU is based off an idea I read about in The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. She describes an "Age of Glass" in which everyone has a part of them that is… well… made of glass….
"Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you."
It's Madam Pomfrey who figures it out.
Barty tries out for the Quidditch team only to hear the shattering of glass inside his chest as a he catches a Quaffle by hugging it tightly to his body. The sharp pain like a twisted knife hits him just below the collarbone and he's forced to land on unsteady feet. He's finally carried up to the Hospital Wing and it doesn't take long before Madam Pomfrey confirms it with a grim smile.
"It's a wonder this has never happened before," she says. "But I suppose these things grow fragile over time."
She heals him as well as she can. She gathers the broken shards and pieces them together, whispering "Reparo" under her breath. She wishes him well because that's all she can do now. He tries to be grateful.
But as he attempts to fall asleep he lies on his back, splays his fingers across his torso in wonder, and cries.
Ribs.
If one were to attempt to count them, they wouldn't have to try very hard. Paper white skin stretches over a cage of glass, and with every heartbeat, Barty waits for the inevitable. He waits for them to shatter.
They say you can die from a broken heart, but in the end it will be his ribs. He can see it now. They will crack under the pressure. His heart will act as the battering ram; it will pound its way out of his body only to be pierced by the structure meant to protect it.
The irony. The unfairness of it all.
He doesn't tell his father. It's as if revealing this weakness would make it more real, and he doesn't want to be weak in front of the great Barty Crouch, so he stays out of the way. He does as he's told and he doesn't talk back because one must adapt or be crushed. Literally.
He does tell his mother though, and when she goes to hold him she hesitates, and he thinks that is what hurts the most.
He goes back to school with a newfound sense of self preservation. He is more aware of elbows in the corridors and prodding of wands and well-meaning friends patting him on the back. Such simple gestures are a threat, so he keeps to himself, wrapped in heavy cloaks and loneliness, and he gets by.
Until…
The first time Regulus hugs him, he feels it. He feels the shift, hears the scrape of glass against bone as each rib moves against his spine.
Regulus pulls away, startled, and Barty stutters over an explanation. "My ribs," he finally says, and he looks down at his feet, ashamed.
"All of them?"
"All of them."
Barty mumbles an apology and turns to leave but Regulus only pulls him back into his embrace, ensuring that it is a gentle one.
"My knees," he whispers.
"Both of them?"
"Both of them." He presses his lips to Barty's cheek before speaking quietly into his ear. "So don't let me fall."
Barty grips the front of the other boy's robes as his heartbeat pounds, and he knows this could not end well. But he supposes there are worse ways to shatter. So he nods his head in agreement and says, "Only if you hold me gently."
"I will," Regulus promises. "I swear I will."
And he does. Some nights, he buries his face in Barty's neck and traces the curvature of each rib with his fingers with reverence. Some nights he trails kisses down his chest – barely-there caresses that bring tears to Barty's eyes.
Yes, Regulus is a gentle lover despite all his violent tendencies and Barty wishes that this could last forever. He hopes that this won't kill him in the end. But he is violent, too. And men of violence seek forever by taking it away from someone else, but that's not the way life works.
They never learn, do they?
Barty watches as the Dark Lord burns Regulus' skin. He taps his foot impatiently, waiting for this torture to be over, holding his breath as he notices Regulus' legs begin to tremble.
The ache of his heart is nothing compared to the crack! of glass separating from bone as his lover's knees give way, and he rushes forward to catch him.
The Dark Lord only laughs. It is high and cruel and chilling and Barty expects to be punished for his act of compassion, but to his surprise, he isn't. Instead he is healed with a lazy flick of the Dark Lord's wand.
"Just this once."
And later, when they finally stumble through the door of their flat, Regulus wraps his arms around Barty's waist, kissing him fiercely, whispering a thousand thank yous into his mouth.
"I promised I wouldn't let you fall," Barty reminds him.
"I know. But thank you anyway."
Then there is no more talking. They climb into bed, moving with a practiced cadence, fingers and tongues entwined, and if Barty's heart feels like a fist inside his chest, he doesn't say anything. Because truthfully, he doesn't mind. Not like this. With Regulus.
(And if Regulus does fall, it isn't Barty's fault. And if he doesn't, Barty will never know.)
Barty swears that this won't break him.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't lose control. Don't crack now.
But he hears his father deny him, (No son of mine!) and the weight of it is just too much to bear.
Crack!
He knows that it's only the beginning. That it'll be slow.
He only wishes that it would have started with Regulus . Maybe then, somehow, it will have been worth it.
The Dementors are welcome visitors. They suck the happiness, the goodness, the beauty out of him, and all he can do his remember. His heart not longer swells with joy; his head only pounds with regret and while that might not be ideal, the weight is lifted off his chest.
He clutches the bars of his cell, hears the echo of the couples' screams, hears Bellatrix laughing, hears his father's disappointment. He calls out into the darkness, his own voice joining the memory of the others and it seems that his madness has saved him.
For now.
A glass eye for a porcelain ribcage is a beautifully unfair trade. Barty has never breathed so deeply, has never felt his lungs swell to their full extent. He almost passes out, and he laughs to himself like the madman he is and thinks if only Regulus could see me now.
If only, if only. But if onlys are worthless now. He has a job to do and he swears that he won't fail. The Dark Lord will reward him well.
The Dark Lord will rise and Barty won't be broken anymore.
Barty laments as the electric blue eye falls to the ground and he feels that old familiar ache. He feels the creak of his joints and the scrape of glass against bone. The fractures claw at his insides and he doesn't have long now.
He's always known it would end this way. He tried to hold out hope, but in the end, he's always known.
The truth comes out and it hurts. Merlin, it hurts and he finally hears the call, the demand for a Dementor to do the deed, and he is grateful. But someone asks the dreaded question just as the chill and the voices reach him, and it is the final straw, the weight that breaks his fragile ribcage.
"Did you care for anyone but yourself? Anyone at all?"
"Yes," is the ready reply. "I did care for someone. Once."
The Dementor lifts its hood.
"But then he fell," Barty says.
And shatters.