year one.

When Kurt remembers his mom, he remembers color: brilliant pinks and misty greens rising around her in vaporous swirls, a haphazard scattering of spell-dyed cauldrons simmering artfully across her study. Her more natural hues, the exact shade of her eyes and the tone of her skin, have faded slowly from Kurt's memory since her death. Even pictures, life-like and moving, can't make them stick; they recede immediately in favor of the saturated images his mind still so easily conjures up. He thinks of her always now as she was at her happiest, veiled and illuminated behind those synthetically pigmented fumes, oscillating between shimmery tints of oranges, lavenders, and cyans as she glided around her pots, stirring here, dropping a root there. Always shooting Kurt bright, close-lipped smiles where he sat just a few hazy feet away, eyes wide and face awed as he just watched. 

Kurt thinks of her every time he shrugs his plain black Hogwarts robe on, as he does now, comforting himself with the knowledge that she too bore this dreadful monochrome uniform once upon a time. He turns to consider himself in the mirror of his dormitory, absently straightening the green-and-silver striped tie that stands as the only permissible pop of color in this whole wretched get-up. They are colors he's already come to resent in his brief week here, and he's found himself staring longingly at the dominating yellows, reds, and blues adorning the necks of his non-Slytherin peers. He wonders if he'd be less judged in another House for the obvious signs of the Muggle upbringing his father was forced to give him after his mother passed. Had he known the Sorting Hat's booming proclamation of SLYTHERIN was going to doom him to seven years surrounded by pure-blooded bigots, he may have demanded that it reconsider. 

Well, he thinks to himself, tightening the tie around his neck with a forceful jerk, nothing to be done about it now. He tactically schools his facial features into the upturned, stone-eyed look of barely contained disdain he'd perfected during a few years of Muggle primary school. As long as no one looks too closely, he is exactly what he appears to be. And that will have to be enough.

He notes with a twist in his gut that he'll need to head out shortly to make his first Potions lesson. The stakes feel impossibly high. He's spent so many years poring over the rainbow-stained pages of his mother's potion books, marveling over the cleverness of her creations and yearning for the day when he'd know enough to add his own to the pages still left blank. When Kurt imagines his future, he sees himself encircled within swirling clouds of color, powerful and gracious, bubbling cauldrons of his expertly mixed achievements at his feet.  

Kurt exhales slowly, willing his heart rate to stabilize as he straightens the swoop of chestnut hair resting over his forehead. He stares intently at himself, mouth steady and eyes glinting ice green above the emerald of his tie. You will be brilliant, he thinks, determination building like concrete in his chest. He breathes in, wraps a hand around the worn heavy textbook at his side, and heads out, black robe flowing gracefully behind him. 

year two.

Kurt is sitting cross-legged in the Slytherin common room, back determinedly straight as he exerts all his remaining mental energies into keeping his body from sagging in undignified relief and exhaustion. Classes have finally ended for the winter holiday, and an especially grueling Transfiguration session with Professor July has made everyone exceptionally grateful for that fact. Kurt is idly considering retiring to his bed while he waits for the appropriate time to board his train home when Rachel Berry makes her customarily dramatic entrance, excitedly squeaking Kurt's name before bouncing over to him, white teeth bared in a manic beam. 

Rachel knocks his arm from where it's resting, ignoring his indignant huff as she hops up and casually takes a seat on the armrest of his chair. 

“So,” Rachel begins, buzzing with joy (the eventual revealed source of which will be undoubtedly irritating, Kurt's sure.) “Professor July asked me to stay back after class.”

“I know. I was there. Sitting next to you.” 

Kurt knows he should contain the vexation that so often seeps into his tone when talking to Rachel. After all, before she'd tentatively extended a hand of friendship to him, Kurt had been so desperate for human interaction he'd actually taken to holding regular conversation with the few portraits around the castle willing to entertain his loneliness. Kurt and Rachel had bonded surprisingly quickly once they discovered that tapping the power of their combined venom was a more worthwhile effort than the petty rivalry they'd opted for during those initial months in first year. But sometimes Kurt's originary instinct to distrust and resent still wins out. Like now.

Rachel begins excitedly yammering on about how Professor July had finally conceded to her incomparable talent or some such nonsense, but Kurt is immediately distracted by the presence of Santana Lopez and Sebastian Smythe passing by, menacing and cool-faced as ever. The dim green-tinted lighting of the Slytherin Dungeon has always suited them in a way it never had himself. He feels Rachel tense next to him when she too notices the pair, but she only allows herself a brief pause before launching back into her boastful tale of Transfigurative power finally recognized, voice only growing louder and loftier. 

If either of them are bothered by Rachel's story, they show no sign of it, opting only to shoot twin contemptuous smirks in their direction before heading out wordlessly, large luggage bags trailing behind them. Holiday spirit, maybe. Kurt rolls his eyes as they make their exit, wondering if he too should be heading toward the Hogwarts Express already. 

It isn't until Rachel's knocked him softly on the arm that he realizes she's stopped talking entirely, staring at him expectantly.

“Oh, yeah, that's great, Rachel, good job.” He tries to sound enthusiastic, he really does. When Rachel only frowns, he sighs. “I'm sorry. It's been a long day, and The Diabolical Duo distracted me.” 

“Some time away from them will be almost better than going home,” Rachel agrees, face darkening before perking up again. “Home, though! Are you excited?”

“I am,” Kurt replies, finally feeling truthful in his speech. “I've missed my dad.” 

Rachel nods at that before something seems to occur to her. 

“You know, my dads are gay,” she declares, dark eyes scrutinizing him carefully. Kurt watches expectantly, sure that more will be following this unexpected utterance, but nothing does. Realization hits him, cold and funny. 

“Oh,” is the only reply he can manage. He feels like there's something else on his tongue, but it's murky and wordless, inarticulable. “I-- well, thank you, Rachel.” 

It's awkward, and he's not entirely sure what he's thanking her for, but it still feels true. He can sense his cheeks going a little pink when Rachel leans in to wrap her arms around him as best she can given their position. When she pulls away, they're both a little shy and misty-eyed. 

“Well,” Rachel says, the blinding white of her smile returning. “You should probably think about heading out, I have to speed-pack a few last minute things but I'll meet you on the train.”

Kurt smiles back, feeling suddenly, achingly grateful for her. He'll try to force himself to tell her that before he gets off the train, he decides. Rachel's bounding off before he can properly reply, and so he stands up, retrieving his luggage from where it was sitting beside him.

He takes the long route toward the school's entrance, quietly appreciating the ever-shifting walls and floors of the castle surrounding him. He even pauses to catch up with a few of his old portrait friends. By the time he's made it to the Great Hall, he feels light and airy, the ever-nearing promise of home giving every step renewed purpose.

Maybe that's why the sight of Blaine Anderson sitting forlornly at a table all by his lonesome inspires Kurt to stop. He's never exchanged words with him before, but he's always exuded a certain warmth that Kurt has been inexplicably drawn to in all his own coldness. Blaine looks up where Kurt has paused beside him, his fingers moving to toy with his Hufflepuff necktie which, Kurt excitedly notes, he has impressively fashioned into a bowtie. Kurt eyes it appreciably, resisting the urge to draw attention to the elegant scissor brooch he has himself donned and breached uniform regulation with. 

Kurt must stare for longer than he's fully conscious of, because Blaine speaks first.

“Yes?” He asks, eyebrows raised and voice a lot sharper than Kurt's ever heard it before. Kurt startles internally, suddenly nervous.

“Are you not going home for the holidays?” Kurt asks, accidentally emulating Blaine's own tone in his newfound anxiousness. He frowns, crushing regret sucking the lightness out of his chest.

Blaine's face darkens. Kurt has severely misconstrued this situation, it seems. He grips onto the base of his bag a little tighter, willing his face not to color.

“If you're hoping to make fun of me, don't bother. Your little friends have beat you to it.” 

His little…? Oh. He must mean Santana and Sebastian. His little tormentors, more like. Kurt feels his face redden despite himself. He looks down and away from Blaine's accusing face. 

“No, I…” Kurt shakes his head, deciding there's little point in defending himself to a complete stranger. “Never mind. Just. Merry Christmas. Or happy holidays, or. You know.”

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Kurt walks off too quickly to catch whether or not Blaine bothered to reply.

year three.

Kurt is sitting at the Slytherin table and watching Blaine from a distance. The two of them never interacted again after Kurt's disastrous attempt at making conversation a little under a year ago, and Kurt has done a good job of expunging that unpleasantness from his memory entirely. But it's hard to right now.

Fully decked out in his golden-yellow Quidditch robes, Blaine is bouncing atop the Hufflepuff table, a group of shrieking admirers swarming around and beneath him. And for good reason: Hufflepuff has just won an incredibly important match, thanks in large part to the remarkable efforts of third-year Keeper Blaine Anderson. 

That Hufflepuff's win was Slytherin's devastating loss would be immediately apparent to even a Muggle outsider peeking in. Where the Hufflepuff table is housing screaming cheers and flailing wands emitting celebratory sparks of gilded color, the Slytherin one is still and silent as stone, food before them all but untouched. Sebastian (Slytherin's lead Chaser) has never looked more blood-hungry, mouth hardened into a pale thin line as he determinedly tries to ignore the festivities happening just across the hall. Kurt would maybe be amused by his misery if not for the fact that Rachel is currently sobbing into his shoulder, tears now beginning to seep through the fabric of his robe. He doesn't have the heart to push her off, though, and knows he'll likely be comforting her all night, sharply reminding her that Hufflepuff's lead was so great that Slytherin wouldn't have won even if she had caught the Snitch.  

Much as he's grown to hate seeing Rachel unhappy, Kurt can't say he shares the misery of his emerald-clad peers. Watching Blaine move out there had been thrilling; still was thrilling, in fact, because Kurt can't seem to tear his eyes away from his grinning face, his shuffling feet, and his triumphantly swinging arms. He's red-cheeked and golden and Kurt half-wishes he could join the group currently at his feet. He settles for tightening his grip around Rachel's thin frame and shooting Sebastian an acidic scowl.

A sudden dip in the noise level coming from the other end of the hall pulls Kurt's attention back to Blaine's form. Professor Pillsbury has scurried over to his table, making gentle gestures that kindly request that Blaine please step down. When Blaine laughingly nods and moves to the edge of the table, there's a split-second of eye contact as he glances across the length of the room. Kurt stiffens, carefully keeping his features as blank as humanly possible. An unreadable something flickers across Blaine's face for just a moment before he gracefully hops off and into the arms of his adoring friends. 

When Kurt replays the memory in his mind that night (a still-sniffling Rachel curled into his side), he works very, very hard to convince himself the queasy flutter in his belly is envy and nothing more.

year four. 

It's something about watching Professor Pillsbury cheerfully demonstrate a Scouring Charm in class that inspires Kurt to finally accept that his life has spiraled out of control. He's taking more courses than he can reasonably fit into his schedule, doing an additional independent study with newly-appointed Potions professor Isabelle Wright, and co-leading the increasingly competitive Dueling Club with Rachel. Between all that and news of his father's waning health flying in from home (he's stabilized now, and he has that new woman in his life, but still), Kurt feels stretched dangerously thin. He's going to have to make the development of an efficient skin-brightening potion his next creative project, because the frequent sleepless nights spent studying (or worse, unproductively stressing) are starting to take a perceptible bodily toll. He worrisomely rubs at his flaky-dry chin and groans under his breath.

Somehow worse than anything, though, is the undeniability of his burning crush on Blaine Anderson. It's stupid, Kurt knows. They still haven't exchanged any words since that afternoon in second year that feels retrospectively more awful every time Kurt thinks about it. And yet here Kurt goes again, staringat him from across the classroom, heart rate escalating just a touch every time he smiles or shoots his Charms partner, fellow Hufflepuff Sam Evans, an amused glance. Kurt chest clenches with resentment. Why does Sam Evans, Blonde-Haired Blockhead Extraordinaire, get the privilege of Blaine Anderson's affection when all Kurt ever got was a clipped tone and suspiciously furrowed eyebrows? Adorably suspiciously furrowed eyebrows, but. Suspiciously furrowed nonetheless. 

Kurt exhales slowly. Get a grip, Hummel, he mentally chides himself, wringing his hands beneath the table. He forces his eyes back on Professor Pillsbury, trying to convince himself the S-shaped hand movement necessary to work the spell is information worth paying attention to. Disconnected as he'd become from his magic side before Hogwarts, this was a spell he'd watched his mom use on her cauldrons often. He could perform it in his sleep. 

His eyes slowly trail back to Blaine, almost of their own volition. He's practicing the hand gesture with an endearingly concentrated look on his face, bottom lip between his teeth. Kurt's neck warms. He just wants to grasp that tanned hand in his and watch Blaine address him in that aggressively peppy way he has with most people. He wants to feel their chests pressed together as he whispers pained confessions into Blaine's ear and then listens rapturously to Blaine's own. He wants to cheer him on from the Quidditch sidelines, wants to show him the worn pages of his mother's potions books, wants to ask him why it is that he can't go home for the holidays. He just wants, with an intensity that frightens him. 

You don't even know him, Kurt reminds himself. 

He's blessedly snapped out of this pathetic downward fantasy spiral when Professor Pillsbury closes her book with a tidy snap and dismisses them, bright as ever. Kurt runs off immediately, not even bothering to wait for Rachel. He'll explain later. Right now he needs to put as much distance between himself and Blaine Anderson as he can.

A few rushed steps out of the door, he feels a hand at his shoulder. He spins around, greeted by the sight of Sam Evans standing behind him, brandishing Kurt's wand in his hand. Blaine is standing next to him, looking wholly disinterested, the little bastard. 

“I think you left this behind,” Sam's smiling kindly, but there's a glint of intent in his eye that's making Kurt want to nervously shuffle his feet. He resists.

“Thank you,” Kurt says, taking it in hand, relieved when no trick immediately reveals itself. 

“It's nice. Alder wood, yeah? I can see that, I think that fits.” Sam's smile has lost none of its kindness. Somehow it's even more unsettling than the cruelty Kurt has come to expect of most of his human interactions. 

“Yes,” Kurt confirms with a short nod, tucking his wand into his pocket. He feels detached from his body in the thrill of Blaine standing just a few feet away from him. He'll feel embarrassed about that later, but rational thought is inaccessible to him right now.

“You know, my friend Blaine here is really into wood,” Sam says, suggestiveness laced into every syllable. 

And there it is: that twinkle of intent in his eye fully realized. Kurt's mouth drops open. He's pretty sure his heart stops. If his body was capable of processing anything right now, he'd definitely be beet red and drenched in sweat. He's spared the agony of formulating a response when Blaine exclaims “Sam, oh my god” and pulls them both away without another word, eyes downcast and cheeks pink. 

Kurt stays rooted to the spot, mingled embarrassment, fear, and something that feels treacherously like hope washing over him. 

year five. 

Brittany Pierce is a glitter-eyed Ravenclaw best known for her penchant to spout gibberish that somehow always ends up leading to the discovery of some new, world-altering spell. Kurt has been hesitant to ever talk to her for fear that she might accidentally inflict some unknown and potentially gruesome curse on him mid-conversation. (Rumor has it she once let out a peculiar verbally-inflected sneeze that had rid everyone within a one-mile radius of all their bodily scars and discolorations. Not a malicious thing, Kurt supposes, but with that kind of unpredictable power, who knew what else she was capable of effacing with only a misplaced syllable or two?)

So he was understandably a little nervous when she'd approached him over breakfast earlier that morning, waving a couple of flyers in his face that looked, oddly enough, to have been drawn up with what looked like Muggle crayon. She was advertising “The Unicorn Union,” a club she'd described to him in terms Kurt didn't immediately comprehend but which he slowly realized was meant for queer-identifying Hogwarts students. Brittany had asked him to put the extra flyer up in the Slytherin common room, conspiratorially whispering that she was pretty sure at least one other person in there needed to see it. After adding a sentence of his own in thick black ink that made the purpose of the club explicitly clear, Kurt had honored her request, peeking nervously over his shoulder as he did so. He sincerely doubted any of his Slytherin brethren would be joining him, but he had hope. (A dangerous thing, he now knows.)

This is how Kurt finds himself nervously lingering a few yards away from the classroom where the group is supposed to meet, watching students wander right in with a confidence he's struggling to emulate. It's not that he's ashamed. He just hasn't exactly come out formally in any way yet to anyone besides Rachel. People assume, of course, as Brittany had assumed. But walking into that classroom will be a step in more than just a literal way. 

With a deep inhale and a broadening of his shoulders, Kurt grips onto to his wand where he can feel it through his robes and walks forward, each step feeling heavier until he's finally inside, blinking away the vague sting in his eyes. People glance at him as he takes a seat in a quiet corner, their blinking looks curious but not unkind. He doesn't immediately feel the full-hearted sense of community and belonging that he'd hoped to, but he doesn't feel unwanted, either, and that itself is new enough to loosen a knot in his spine he's been carrying for five years now. 

Casting cautious eyes around the room, Kurt notices with a chest-tightening jolt that Blaine is at the center of the room, an arm wrapped warmly around Brittany as he talks animatedly to the small group of people surrounding them. The sting in Kurt's eyes returns, heart racing. So he is into wood, then, Kurt thinks wryly. A couple of days after Sam Fuckass Evans had dropped that mystifying bombshell at Kurt's feet, Blaine had approached him quickly in the hall, muttering a nervous apology for his friend's behavior and assuring Kurt that Sam had been making fun of Blaine and not him. Blaine had scampered off with an apologetic smile before Kurt had had a chance to say much in reply, and Kurt had felt the fragile hope he'd foolishly allowed to balloon in his chest deflate with a sickening pop. 

The fiery blaze of his crush has since dulled into a desolate ache, but he can never help the adrenaline-spiked leap at his navel he still feels literally every time the two of them make eye contact across a classroom (Blaine will sometimes smile before quickly looking away, but sometimes he doesn't, and Kurt isn't sure which of the two feels worse.) 

Kurt pulls his eyes away from Blaine's high-spirited (and handsome, so, so handsome) face to continue scanning the room. It seems that whoever Brittany had been vaguely referring to had disappointed her, because Kurt is the only Slytherin in the whole (moderately sized) group. He sighs.

After a few minutes of loud, scattered chatter, Brittany steps up on a chair to announce that today's meeting is reserved for getting people to talk to one another. Kurt frowns at that. Initiating conversation has never been his forte, and people seem to have cliqued up already. He awkwardly folds his hands in his lap and settles for turning to the small group of Gryffindors nearest him, hoping that active eavesdropping will create the illusion of participation.

He's considering quietly slipping out when he hears the distinct sound of someone dropping into the empty chair next to him. Heart quickening with relief, he turns around and feels a flare of surprise-bliss-terror so profound that the tip of his wand warms where it's resting against his ribcage. Because there he is: Star Hufflepuff Quidditch Team Captain Blaine Anderson, arm draped casually over the back of his chair and a wide smile brightening up his face. A smile brighter than he's ever even seen him shoot Sam, Kurt notes a little smugly, heart fluttering. He's so close and so gorgeous and came up to Kurt by choice and Kurt feels like he's vibrating. 

“Hi,” Kurt manages, voice shy in what he can only hope is an endearing manner. 

“Did you know that Merlin was a Slytherin?” Blaine responds, leaning in close, unnecessarily close, hazel eyes wide and intense. 

“Oh,” Kurt breathes, surprised and a little baffled by the question. Blaine looks enchantingly excited, though, so he can't find it in himself to tap into the steely sarcasm that he often defaults to when confused. “Yes. That was my major source of comfort after I'd been Sorted and read into the otherwise murky history.”

Blaine laughs at that, looking delighted, and Kurt feels like he's passed a test of some kind. As long as Blaine keeps that sunny beam of a smile on his face, though, Kurt's comfortable. In a terrified kind of way.

“You know, Merlin was gay,” Blaine states confidently. Kurt doubts the validity of the statement (he's sure he'd have come across that significant factoid by now were it true) but smiles encouragingly nonetheless. “At least, that's my theory,” Blaine continues. Kurt isn't sure either of them have blinked once in the past minute.

“Oh?” Kurt tries not to wince at the inadequacy of his response. The faint smell of raspberries wafting off Blaine's clear, bronze skin is dulling his usual sharp wit, he's convinced.

“I wrote a whole essay about it for History of Magic,” Blaine says, chest puffing up with pride. “You can read it, if you'd like.”

“I would like,” Kurt feels breathless and light-headed and he hopes it isn't obvious. Blaine Anderson is gay. Confirmed gay. Confirmed gay and actually talking to him. Kurt's pretty sure he can feel all his organs squirming inside him. He's practically perspiring from the effort of not allowing his external parts to follow suit. 

“Great,” Blaine says, looking genuinely thrilled. “Meet me at the library tomorrow afternoon? I can give the essay to you then, and maybe we can read for Potions together. I hear you're the expert.” 

“Yes,” Kurt's smiling stupidly, cheeks warm. “Let's do that.”

“Anyway, I actually have to head to Quidditch practice, but I'll see you tomorrow,” Blaine stands up, smoothing his robes down. “I'll have to convince Brittany to schedule the rest of these meetings on a different weeknight.” 

Kurt mumbles something hopefully coherent in response as Blaine walks away, heart thrumming. He feels restless in his seat, a squeal bubbling up his chest, and decides he'll stick around for just a couple minutes more (enough time to make it look like he's not simply following Blaine out) before heading back to tell Rachel everything. 

He fiddles with his fingers as he waits for an appropriate amount of time to pass before happily springing up, moving past a morose-looking Brittany as he heads out. She stops him with a hand to the shoulder. 

“Can you tell Santana I say ‘hi'?”

Kurt blinks at that. Absolutely not is the response that immediately springs to mind, but he's never seen a look this shattered on Brittany's cheery face before, so he bites his tongue and nods. He knows he should thank her for putting this together, but he can't find the words. He manages a sympathetic smile before finally allowing himself to step out, taking a moment to ensure that the hallway around him is empty before bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet and flailing his arms around, unbridled ecstasy flooding through him in sensory bursts. He stills at the sight of a crotchety looking old man in a nearby portrait eyeing him strangely, but grants himself one last giddy twirl before he sets out on his quest to locate Rachel. 

He's not even halfway to the library when the bounce of each step grows a little leadened. Careful, Kurt, he reminds himself. Don't read too much into this. Expect nothing. He repeats this like a mantra in his head, each weighty reiteration wrapping itself around him like steel. 

By the time he reaches Rachel, he decides it's best to not tell her anything at all.

year six. 

Hope is a mistake. Kurt had known this from the beginning. 

He'd tried to resist. Truly, he had. But it's hard to extinguish anything, turns out, in the kindling presence of Blaine Anderson. As their friendship grew closer, their conversations more profound, and their light touches more intimate, Kurt had let his guard down. The shallow thrills and petty devastations of the crush he'd once harbored had evolved into something uncontainable, all-consuming, and utterly stupid. 

If Kurt had only been more careful, maybe he wouldn't be here right now, cross-legged in front of a gently simmering cauldron as he angrily crushes a chunk of moonstone, undignified tears streaming down his face. It shouldn't matter, really, that Blaine is currently on a date with some slack-jawed Gryffindor Kurt can't be bothered to remember the name of. Kurt had already known that his affections were tragically unrequited; had learned that the mature way just a few weeks ago, sitting on a sunny patch of grass as he'd allowed a wavering confession to bubble out of him, revealing his blood-drenched innards to a kind-eyed, regretful Blaine who had let him down so gently that Kurt had almost forgotten to be sad. 

But he's on a date now. Interested in someone else. Someone, not Kurt. And somehow that sun-soaked rejection had never felt real until this moment. Kurt sprinkles the fine powder into the grey-toned mix before him, frowning down at it as he wills himself to exert all his mental faculties into the now-completed potion. He's spent enough time feeling sorry for himself.

He quickly locates a small cup and carefully ladles a small amount of his creation into it. He downs it in a single gulp, noting with disappointment that it doesn't taste like much of anything at all. He knows it's not going to work before he even sees the already-muted colors of the room around him fade even further.

Kurt sighs and discards the entire batch with a mournful wave of his wand. Yet another woeful effort. He groans and crumples the recipe he'd tentatively scribbled down earlier this morning. 

It's a project he's been working on for years now, pointless and a little silly but nonetheless of the utmost importance to him. It's been an obsession of his ever since he'd happened upon a strange, tall mirror in the castle after getting inexplicably lost one night on the way back from dinner. Kurt had peered into it, immediately compelled, and the sight blinking back at him had made his eyes fill with blissful tears within seconds: he'd seen himself, looking more or less the same but for the swirls of vibrant color suddenly both obscuring and highlighting his face, body, and even the backdrop behind him. He'd stood there staring at himself for a full hour, elated by the billows of pigmented mist that sketched over his ordinary hues with animated shades of rainbow color. He'd never felt more beautiful or more at home in this cold castle than he had in that moment, eyes bright and shifting rapidly from cyan to lavender to pale pale pink and back again. 

Kurt had never been able to find it again after that night, and his vague inquiries about “a magical mirror that cloaks its onlookers in color” had only ever gotten him confused stares. He figures that if a mirror was capable of doing it, though, there had to be a way to get a potion to as well, a clever little perception-altering mix that would cast bursts of oscillating color around everything. 

Frowning, Kurt stares down at the empty cauldron before him and considers giving up for the day. His bed is tempting, lying just behind him. He could curl up under the covers, eyes closed and mind blissfully blank…

But of course, blankness is never an option. He knows exactly where his mind will go, and Kurt refuses to cry anymore today. Kurt stiffens his spine and rearranges the materials lying around him with a sharp flick of his wand. He rips himself off a new scrap of parchment and starts re-configuring measurements and ingredients. 

Kurt may not be sure of much these days, but he knows he can figure this out. Blaine may not want him, but Kurt at least has the certainty of this. 

He works determinedly, newly fueled, chopping, grinding, stirring, and smelling, until the thick mix simmering beneath him is a warm, glittery orange below him, scent sweet and a little tangy wafting off of it, and, oh, this is new, this is promising. Kurt's heart beats very fast in his chest as the color grows more and more alluring with every purposeful stir.

Kurt places his wand down when the color is so deep and bright it almost hurts to look at. He presses his face closer, relishing the gorgeous fumes, body tight and brain humming as he readies himself to sample it. Hope is dangerous, hope is dangerous, hope is dangerous, Kurt repeats, but he feels it now anyway, sees it reflected in this glinting orange, hands trembling as he retrieves the same small cup from earlier.

Dipping the cup into the mix below him, Kurt slowly raises it to his mouth and gulps it all in one shot, body tense. It tastes lovely, warm and a little stingy, almost like the firewhiskey Blaine had smuggled in for the two of them to share a few weeks ago. 

He closes his eyes as he feels it make its way down his throat, warmth trailing with it. Kurt feels tingly and bright, and he knows it's worked before his eyes even flutter back open.

Kurt squeaks and jumps up to his feet, eyes moving around hungrily as he drinks in his newly-pigmented surroundings: it hasn't quite captured the particular look of simmer-induced fog, but it's even prettier, almost, with bright see-through splotches of color dancing around and over everything in every imaginable shade. It's like a filter has been draped over Kurt's eyes, not quite perfect yet but he's done it, brought pinks greens and blues to this damp dark room, its natural bare colors shifting beneath these spellbinding, elusive bursts. 

Kurt is standing in the center of the room, hands trailing up and down the bare skin of his forearms and still staring animatedly around him, when Blaine bursts in, beautiful, unexpected, cloaked in shimmering golds and pinks and oranges. 

“Kurt,” Blaine greets him, a little breathless, eyes bright when Kurt can catch glimpses of them unobscured by clouds of color billowing atop him. “Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude -- Rachel let me in and I wanted to talk to you.”

Kurt's smiling at him, eyes a touch watery. “I did it,” he says simply, voice trembling. 

Blaine's eyes drop to the mess of ingredients on the floor, the scribbled bits of parchment, and, finally, the bubbling cauldron. His eyes widen in realization.

“Kurt! Oh my god! How does it look? Can I try it?” Blaine is beaming, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moves closer to pick the discarded cup off the floor where it's lying by Kurt's feet. He looks as elated as Kurt feels, and he's the only person who knows how important this project has been to him, and now he's here, and multicolored, and perfect, and it doesn't even matter, really, that Kurt can't have him, because he at least gets this. 

“Of course,” Kurt breathes, eyeing him closely as Blaine guzzles a small amount down and smiles around the mouthful with a quiet mmmm sound. 

Blaine turns to him, smiling wide, and the potion-induced colors are fading a little (Kurt will have to work on making the potion last just a little longer, ten minutes seems reasonable), but Kurt can't even be disappointed because the golden hue of his skin is prettier even than the warm oranges weakening around him. 

“Wow, Kurt, this is amazing, everything looks so weird and beautiful,” Blaine's looking around the room himself now, but his eyes keep falling back to Kurt, and Kurt wonders if he's included that, if he looks beautiful, but that's a selfish thought, and Blaine has just been on a date and Kurt needs to ask about that no matter how much it hurts because Blaine is so happy for Kurt right now and Kurt should be happy for him. And he is. Really. Somewhere, he's sure.

“How was the date with the Gryffindor?” It hurts less than Kurt maybe expected, but the colors around him dim even further as he says it, and it feels related, somehow. 

“Oh,” Blaine's smile falters slightly, and he turns to Kurt completely, shuffling closer, eyes on him as intense as they always are. “It was...I don't know. It was nothing, really. A bit of a bust.”

“I'm sorry,” Kurt replies, voice soft and he does kind of mean it, because Blaine deserves someone who will love him as much as Kurt does right now, who will make everything around him look as vivid as Kurt's synthetic potion had managed. 

“It's okay,” Blaine laughs softly and steps closer. Kurt wishes he wouldn't do this, sometimes, because it's all much harder when he's so near, the clean smell of him in Kurt's nostrils, but he holds himself steady. “I'm just happy for you right now. This is so incredible. I bet people would pay for this, it's so nice. Brings the magic out of everything.”

“Even me?” Kurt asks, mouth tipping up playfully. 

“Especially you,” Blaine replies, and Kurt's mouth drops because he sounds serious, dead serious, suddenly a little nervous and scanning Kurt's face in a way he's never done before. Kurt feels light-headed.

“Oh,” he manages, because he's not sure if that means what he wants it to mean, and he doesn't need to make an idiot of himself again, not when he's still so happy.

“The greens seem especially drawn to you,” Blaine smiles again. 

“The Slytherin in me, I guess,” Kurt's mouth quirks back up, and he can't tell if he's more relieved or disappointed that that strange moment has passed.

“I'm feeling...um.” Blaine looks down, cheeks pink (and Kurt is pretty sure that's happening naturally, because the colors have otherwise faded almost completely.) “Especially drawn to you myself.”

Kurt's mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. He feels his blood whirring.

“My date was fine, but I just kept...thinking. About how much I'd rather be with you,” Blaine pauses, and takes a deep breath. “And not just how we've been. I want more. I want you.”  

Blaine's breathing hard, eyes terrified, and Kurt's eyes are burning. 

“Then have me,” Kurt manages after a few moments of labored breathing, tilting his face just a little closer.

Blaine's hands move to either side of his neck, warm, strong, and soft, and then his lips are gently pressing into Kurt's, bringing a hot jolt to Kurt's navel as he allows his own hands to wrap around Blaine's waist. 

Blaine is kissing him, lips pillowy, wet tongue tentatively poking out to stroke against Kurt's mouth, and he tastes of Kurt's potion, warm and sweet, a little bit of a burn, and when Kurt allows his eyes to flicker open for just a second the colors are all back, brighter than before. 

Kurt giggles into Blaine's mouth, tingly all over, and moves his tongue to meet Blaine's own.

year seven.

Kurt is lying on his back on the squishy-soft mattress in Blaine's Hufflepuff dorm room.

He's lying on his back, and that would be fine, and normal, except that he's naked, buck-ass naked, with his legs raised and wrapped around Blaine's hips. Blaine, who is lying on top of him, hot and heavy. Also naked.

It's not that Kurt's regretting this. It's just that it's more than he thought it'd be, and his chest is tight and his cock is hard and Blaine's is big and thick and pressing up against him, and they've been dating and lightly fooling around for over a year now but nothing could have prepared Kurt for this. 

He's breathing fast and deep, thankful for the fact that Blaine's body is mostly obscuring his own, but he's very, very conscious of the fact that his legs are spread and he's already wet and slippery and sensitive inside from the self-lubricating spell he'd blushingly discovered in a book in the Restricted Section of the library. 

“You okay?” Blaine asks, voice shaking. He's pressing a little desperately against Kurt's belly and oh god Kurt wants to feel that elsewhere, where he's slipperily quivering, but he's scared, a little short of breath, and worries he might asphyxiate if things escalate any further just now. 

“Um,” Kurt replies, legs squeezing, and he's not sure what to say. What does one say, in a situation like this? None of those Muggle romantic comedies or musicals he'd enjoyed so much as a child had granted him a script for this. He's trying not to panic.

“Hey,” Blaine whispers. “Tell me what you're feeling. Tell me what you need. We can stop, remember.”

“No!” Kurt sounds a little harsher than he means to. “I mean, no. I don't want to stop. I just need a few moments.”

“Tell me what you're feeling,” Blaine repeats, voice so low and so close to Kurt's face. God, he's naked. His cock is pressed against him. Kurt shivers. 

“A little, I don't know. Panicky?” Kurt looks up, and Blaine's face is soft and gorgeous, hair a little loose, but there's a subtle worry line working at the side of his mouth. “Not bad panicky.”

“Okay,” Blaine's brow furrows, clearly trying to understand. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Um,” Kurt hesitates, cheeks heating. “Can you maybe...lie on top of me for a little bit? Like, fully?”

Blaine drops his arms and collapses softly onto Kurt, heavy but not overwhelmingly so. Kurt hums and wraps his arms up around him, pulling him even closer. Blaine's face is nestled against his neck, puffs of breath tickling his earlobe. 

Kurt's breathing steadies and after a few moments of being comfortingly weighed down he's gently rocking his hips up, eager again for friction and skin and that rock-hard piece of flesh resting roughly at his hip. 

Blaine joins him, circular hip movements matching Kurt's own, and they're touching in so many places, sweaty and tight, Blaine's soft skin against Kurt's cock making his eyes roll to the back of his head as he pants and feels everything go a little hazy, the weight of Blaine on top of him anchoring his panic somewhere down deep where Kurt can't feel it anymore. He feels light, suddenly, hungry and open, a gasp stuck in his throat. 

“I'm ready,” Kurt chokes, the room around them feeling smaller, suddenly, safer. Kurt feels altered, eyes and nerves responding to the stimulants around him differently, touches shooting up to his brain like colors in the dark of his closed-shut eyelids.

Blaine whispers something Kurt is too lost in desire to hear, his mouth sucking hard at Kurt's neck for a few seconds before he's raising himself just slightly, just enough to get Kurt's legs up around him again and his hand down to the slick split of Kurt's ass. Blaine presses a fingertip against Kurt's hole and Kurt writhes, yellow-orange-yellow blooming in his head as the finger circles around, pushing harder, then softer, until Blaine's asking a question and Kurt's moaning yes before he's even processed it. 

Blaine's finger is quickly pressing in, bright orange-pink filling up the black of Kurt's vision, getting darker as Blaine gets deeper, finger tentatively thrusting until Kurt's mumbling pathetically and the thrusts come faster, a second finger slipping in along the first and this is all happening so fast but Kurt's so far gone and grateful for the speed. He's incoherent in his pleasure, pushing back against Blaine's hand and throwing his head back against the pillow behind him, half-formed sounds and words leaving his body and under any other circumstances he'd be horrified that he can't hear or control them, but it's fine because it's Blaine, whose fingers-deep inside him and quick but gentle and now he's hitting a spot that feels especially, impossibly good and words leave Kurt completely, fuschia-hued pleasure undulating there and everywhere. 

Blaine slips his digits out, gives Kurt's crack a quick hard up-down rub, and the emptiness feels exquisite, like anticipatory relief as he tightens and then dilates in an ever-quickening pattern, body moving of its own accord as Blaine spreads the lube lingering on his hand onto himself, exhaling hard.

“Still good?” Blaine asks, shifting near Kurt where he's most desperate. 

“Yes, thank you, yes,” Kurt forces out, because he needs Blaine to know how good this is, how special, how lucky and loved Kurt feels right now. 

Blaine laughs, the sound quiet, and Kurt's eyes open, questioning. 

“Sorry,” Blaine smiles. “You're just very…unraveled like this. I like it.”

“I like you,” Kurt babbles, eyes closing again, head tilting back. 

Blaine kisses his neck and then there's dripping weight nestling between his ass cheeks, and the bright bright pink is back as Kurt twitches, legs widening as far as they can.

There's a few suspended seconds of tense waiting before Blaine's cock is easing its way in, and Kurt gasps, a loud oh, because it's different from the fingers, very different, bigger and more aggressive against his insides and crimson pain spikes through him. He exhales, long and hard, bearing down, and that helps, crimson fading to scarlet as Blaine drives in further, his grunts of god Kurt you feel so good intensifying the delicious friction of his dick against Kurt's innermost nerves as he drags against them. 

Once Blaine's settled in Kurt's groaning more, needing Blaine to move so he can relive the aching pierce of that inward plunge. Blaine's whimpering, and it's more helpless than Kurt's ever heard him, Blaine unraveled too, and then the thick stuffing of Blaine inside him is retreating and sinking forward once more, fresh crimson sparks crawling up Kurt's channel until the pull back makes them fade and crop up again, brighter and stronger every time, and then Blaine's found whatever patch inside Kurt his fingers had found earlier, crimson flaring into electric blue-green as Kurt's screaming yes, right there, more, don't stop. And out it goes again, color paling before re-illuminating up in Kurt, purple-red then bright turquoise, deep feeling and sensory color pulsing in the wide-open voids of Kurt's ass and head until he's going tight, colors mixing, begging Blaine for something he has no words for as kaleidoscopic shades explode and he's coming hard, hard, hard against Blaine's belly, clenching down with his mouth wide open in a soundless scream. 

Kurt is gasping and going still as he comes down from the high of his orgasm, feeling Blaine thrust forward a few more times with mangled cries until he's spitting out Kurt's name, loud and broken and collapsing down back on top of him with a labored shaky exhale.

Blaine's full weight is on him, grounding him into the mattress, and Kurt's head goes happy-blank, arms moving up around Blaine, sweaty and heaving. 

“I love you,” Kurt whispers into Blaine's ear, breathy and charged, and, yes, his Muggle rom-coms had trained him perfectly for this moment, at least.

He feels Blaine's smile against his neck. 

“Love you, too,” Blaine breathes, muffled and low.

“My, my,” Kurt begins, voice smug like he's not still trembling and catching his breath. “You sound wrecked.” 

Blaine digs his head playfully into the crook of Kurt's throat before popping his head up and resting it on Kurt's rising-falling chest. 

“Do you have any idea how much mental energy it took to not come midway through thrust number one?” 

“Oh god,” Kurt's giggling. “Well, I appreciate your bold accomplishment.” 

“I wanna sleep,” Blaine's slurring, nuzzling his cheek against Kurt's sparsely hair-flecked skin. 

“We should get dressed. Your fellow Hufflepuffs will need access to their dorm eventually,” Kurt pauses at that. “How did you get them to agree to leave us alone, anyway?”

“It wasn't hard after I told them why I needed the space. The phrase ‘gay sex' is all it takes to drive a bunch of hetero Hufflepuffs running scared, apparently.”

Kurt cackles at that, trailing a hand down to grab the ample mound of Blaine's ass. 

“Well, we can get more...creative in our coital backdrops from now on. I just wanted my first time to be on a bed, stupid as that is.”

“It's not stupid.” Blaine cranes his neck up to give him a sloppy kiss that Kurt pretends not to enjoy. 

Kurt closes his eyes and shifts against the pillow beneath his head, so soft and inviting. Blaine interrupts him with a forceful jostle of his shoulder.

“No sleeping!” Blaine reminds him. “We should get showered and dressed. There's somewhere I want to take you.”

“Oh?” Kurt's eyes flutter open in interest.

“Come on, the faster we move the sooner you can see what it is.” 

“Blaine, you know I despise surprises. Tell me.”

“Kurt, no.”

“Blaine.” 

“You really don't want to be surprised?” Blaine sounds resigned. Kurt smiles.

“No. I'm too sore to walk anywhere anyway. And that's your fault.”

“Fine,” Blaine huffs, eyes nonetheless excited. “I found the mirror!”

“The mirror?” 

“The mirror, Kurt,” Blaine's face has fallen slightly, but it quickly regains its old determined excitement. “The one with the swirly colors! You used to talk about that thing all the time.” 

“Oh!” Recognition hits Kurt, followed by a wave of buzzy thrill. “Oh, wow. Blaine.”

“Get this, though, everyone sees something different in it. I asked around and, turns out, it shows people what they most desire. Thus your colors, I guess.”

“Oh,” Kurt's surprised by that. He wonders if that's what he'd still see. Something like nervousness creeps into his chest, and then it occurs to him: “Wait, so what did you see?” 

“I saw you,” Blaine flushes, head drooping sheepishly.

“Shut up, no you didn't. You're just trying to get into my pants again, before I've even had a chance to put them back on.”

“I did!” Blaine defends himself, sounding scandalized. “I mean, not just you. Other people, too. Friends and family, and stuff.” 

“What were we doing?” Kurt's voice is light and a little teasing to cover over the burning curiosity driving the question. 

“Um,” Blaine looks down, the curve of his mouth mingled with fondness and some embarrassment. “Nothing, really. Just...looking at me. You looked, I don't know. Proud, or something.”

“Aw, Blaine,” Kurt's heart clenches, and he covertly pinches the bridge of his nose to keep his eyes from watering. “I am proud.”

“Well, I'm glad you are,” Blaine wiggles his chest against Kurt's, grinning.

“I'm very moved that you found the mirror for me, Blaine,” Kurt begins, and Blaine watches him nervously. “But I don't want to see it. At least...not today.”

“Oh,” Blaine frowns, disappointed. ‘Why not?”

“I've had my fill of desire for one night, I think. You're all I need to look at right now.” Kurt trails his hand softly up the inward curve of his back.

“Wow, now whos trying to get into my pants?” 

“Shut up,” Kurt laughs, bringing his hands up to his face in an effort to disguise the deep red of his blush. 

Color, he thinks with an embarrassed giggle, dropping his hands to let Blaine see before letting them find their home at the soft curve of his lower back.