In Twain
Chapter 2: Kurt
They loved him, absolutely loved him; he was singing and leaping in gravity-defying moves across the stage and everyone loved him and wouldn't let him go when the fun ended. The sea of hands crackled and he was frozen and breathless on the stage. Then Kurt Hummel departed the stage for the conscious world and he was chilled to the bone and smoke burned in his chest and the rustle of burning wallpaper crackled in his ears.
He was clearly having a nightmare, the only kind worse than a monster chasing you in a locked room. He couldn't move or breathe or scream at Hermy-ninny to come help or run away to Mommy. Eyes shutting only for a moment, Kurt blinked and found himself in his daddy's warm arms. Daddy did not hug him or kiss him like Mommy, and this lasting contact gave him the courage to wake up. He hoped this was not a dream, too. He hoped the feel of safety would not pass.
His hopes came with a price.
The witching hour struck and Burt Hummel and his sooty boy had yet to move from the green embers. Four mugs of hot chocolate staged a cold and lonely vigil.
"Why aren't they here?" Kurt asked, reaching his hands out to the fire as though he could fish out his mother and his twin sister.
A grinning silver skull then appeared in the flames and black hands rose from the hot ashes to drag him in and back. Kurt kicked his bare feet wildly, the carpet rasping his belly and his arms. He looked to his dad, pleading, but a green bolt hit Burt in the chest and he was fallen with his empty eyes. "DADDY! MOMMY! NO!" The hands liquefied to oozing black slime that coated Kurt's mouth and his eyes and he knew nothing, and that was the worst of it. Not knowing if Daddy lived. Not knowing if Mommy and Hermy-ninny had lived, gotten away miraculously, magically.
With a gasp, Kurt sat up in his bed, ironically drenched despite the memory of flames and ashes searing his body. He shivered despite the heat of the summer and went to have a drink of water, or he would have, had his steps not taken him into the scene of his nightmares-the living room. Somehow, the black recess of the fire place, the total absence of magic, comforted him. The nightmares bothered him from time to time, though it had been just him and his dad for three years.
The school bus would arrive in a couple hours, and he was not likely to sleep. Kurt sighed and padded into the kitchen to fix himself the usual glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal. His dad was in his chair, staring into the cup of black coffee.
"What's up, kiddo? You don't have to be up yet," Burt commented, also noting Kurt's rumpled hair and unwashed face.
"Bad dreams. That's all, really," Kurt explained. He ignored Burt's incredulous look as he passed over the Raisan Bran and reached for the Cookie Crisps.
"Oh. Same thing?" Burt asked, touching his son's arm. "C'mon, Kurt, you can tell me. It'd be good for you."
Kurt felt his dad's eyes on him as he juiced the orange and added cold tap water and pinches of sugar. He changed his mind about breakfast and made up two bowls of oatmeal with milk and nutmeg and cinnamon. He pointedly pushed one steaming bowl to Burt, who grumbled about a warm breakfast in the heat wave. June was unusually hot, but Kurt made sure that two-thirds of Burt's breakfasts consisted of more than Slim Jims and energy drinks.
"Why do I have to eat this to get you to talk to me?" Burt grumbled. He was about to dump in heaping tablespoons of sugar to the oatmeal until Kurt's little fingers slapped his hand away.
"It would be good for you," Kurt said, smiling angelically.
When Burt dipped in his spoon to Kurt's satisfaction, Kurt haltingly described his nightmare. "This time you died, Dad. The bad wizards came to our house after, and they pointed their wand at you."
"Jesus," Burt muttered. The spoon clanked in his empty bowl and he stood over Kurt and wrapped his arms around Kurt's shoulder. "I wouldn't do that to you. I won't leave you, you have to know that."
Kurt breathed in the smell of motor oil and grocery store soap and took comfort in it. "Sure, Dad. I know."
Burt sighed and Kurt tried not to twitch when he let go. "No, you don't. You're, what, eleven now? What happened with your mother and your sister- it was damned unfair and wrong and evil. You have no reason not to think something wouldn't happen to me, haven't since you was eight."
He was wringing his hat in his hands as he made a conscious effort to look his son right in the eye.
"Just for today, do you want to come with me?" Burt asked.
Kurt stiffened in his chair. "I'll be alright, Dad. You already talked to my homeroom teacher."
"I made it worse, didn't I?" Burt said, practically strangling his hat. "No, don't answer, I know it. When I was eleven, I was a rotten little bastard."
"I'll be fine. The year is almost over," Kurt said. Then he looked at the clock and Burt followed his gaze to the time displayed.
"Alright," Burt said, deflating a little. He tried on half a smile. "Let's get dinner tonight, and we can do the... the thing afterwards."
After his dad rushed out of the house fumbling around for the car keys, Kurt brushed his teeth, washed his face with cold water, and tugged on a Power Rangers T-shirt with a grimace, even though he loved the pink ranger. As much as he loathed mass-produced graphic shirts, his usual winning combination of button-up and bow tie would be unbearable in the heat. Plus, he was going to make an effort to be normal today. Maybe if he was tacky and unarticulated, he could avoid getting whaled on and spare his dad the headache.
For Kurt, recess at the school of hard knocks involved a great deal of being chased down, cornered, and having boogers smeared on him because he screamed like a little bitch. And the teachers somehow couldn't tell the difference between horseplay and fearful shrieks arising from danger to life and limb.
"FAGGOT MAGIC. FAGGOT MAGIC."
Kurt was currently on the verge of breaking his neck, caught between the highest monkey bar and the main players in the game of "Pummel Hummel." Perhaps climbing higher up to evade his tormentors wasn't his brightest moment; however, he'd counted on the weakened infrastructure of the monkey bars to dissuade his two chubby bullies, Karofsky and Azimio, from swiping at him. Then the fastest runner on the playground had to go and suggest the pair of troublemakers to shake things up.
"I really, really hope that something bad happens to you!" Kurt shrieked as Artie Abrams flipped him the bird and resumed chasing Brittany Pierce, who was hopping in uncertain patterns, wondering if the rules of tag had changed.
"Hey homo, show us your powers. Just sprinkle your fairy dust everywhere and we'll lay off," Karofsky said, cracking himself up.
"Hocus pocus! Higgery jiggery!" Azimio jeered as he rattled the bars and Kurt's sweaty hands slipped. "Where's your gay magic now?"
To be fair, he had brought this on himself in the third grade by telling his ex-best friend Santana Lopez that he believed in magic, and his mum was the coolest witch who fought bad guys with a wand. That pivotal recess in third grade wasn't even over when Noah Puckerman shoved Kurt inside a recycle bin and sat on the lid skeptically waiting for Kurt to disappear out of the box. Now he was going to fall and bust open his pretty little head and break his dad's heart.
"Please!" Kurt howled, his heart bounding up his throat.
"That's not the magic word!"
"Nice, bro!" The two bullies paused to bump fists, and the jarring stillness screwed his balance. Kurt hung on by hooking one trousered leg over the bar, but it left him dangling like Spiderman, in significantly uncool circumstances.
This was worse than the time that Quinn Fabray mounted a "witch hunt" and a couple boys tied him up; fortunately the teacher did intervene before matchsticks were struck.
"Punch faggy, no punch backs!" From the sheer look of evil on Karofsky's face, it looked like his birthday had come early. With a screaming pinata. The last thing Kurt saw before curling his arms around his head was Karofsky with his fist in the air, torn between Kurt's face and Kurt's stomach. Today was not a good day to be a pink Power Ranger.
The next thing he heard was their cries of pain and confusion. His little ears, flushed from all the blood pooled in his brain, picked up the sound of fluttering and a muffled "Hoo!" Shortly after, the pounding tempo of his bullies running away gave him hope and disbelief to see what was going on.
With a skill that belied years of daring escapes, Kurt got himself swinging far enough to grab at the nearest rusted bar. He hated how the metal flaked under his hands, but the friction aided his grip and after a precarious moment of potentially shattering his elbow, Kurt flexed his hand, flailed for a second in the air, and landed in a shaking tangle on the tan bark.
The sound of fluttering alerted him to a barn owl beating its wings impatiently, with a look in its eyes that suggested that if its beak wasn't full, it would like to bite him.
Kurt then realized that the square paper in its beak was a piece of mail, with his name on it:
Kurt Eugene Hummel
In Mortal Peril
Liberty Elementary School
338 West Kibby Street
Lima, OH 44452
He snatched it immediately, if only to cover up his other given name. Kurt didn't ask questions or thank the owl for scaring off those nasty boys because the owl took off immediately, the shadow from its body blocking the sun from Kurt's view momentarily. Somehow, he knew that magic had saved him, after all.
As much as he wanted to sit still and recover his nerves, Kurt knew that being out in the open was asking for trouble. He kept his head down and sneaked to the dumpsters. There was garbage, but that would serve his need for absolute privacy. Plus, the breeze was blowing the smell up-wind and if he scrunched himself out of sight, he'd be out of the range of spoiled meats.
Dear Mr. Hummel,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
The remainder of his acceptance letter outlined all these names and titles that had his head swimming. While Kurt possessed the precious memories of his mum taking cookies out the oven with a flick of a wand and charming the shoelaces of nasty little boys where Kurt and his sister used to play, he'd never realized that she had learned it at a fancy school. This was fabulous news! He would return to England and wouldn't be teased about believing in something that was real.
Kurt was going to be the most beautiful wizard ever. He would hex off his freckles if it was the last thing he did, unless hexing off one's freckles made the spell caster more hideous, in which case, he'd stick to muggle remedies. Goodbye baby fat! Off with ye, braces! Au revoir girly voice!
If there were room in his hiding nook, Kurt would have jumped up and down and cheered. While all the possibilities with his hair alone could have sent him through the atmosphere, the best idea ever came to Kurt.
All those boys pushing him into toilets and hanging him on the doors by his suspenders- he didn't have to like them anymore. He could use magic to fix himself. No more wanting to touch Noah Puckerman's hair; he could be friends with boys, since girls had proved themselves rubbish in the friendship department.
The owl from Hogwarts had saved him in more ways than one.
Kurt was never coming back to Lima ever again, and he was elated. This was so much better than New York! He was going to have couture and culture in Europe, heck yes!
Except that he couldn't picture his dad in London or Milan. With his heart sinking, Kurt read the line about how first-years weren't allowed to bring their broomsticks. From what he scrounged up about England in Lima's Free Public Library, boarding schools were not uncommon. He would have to leave home and come back for the holidays.
Who would take care of Dad?
Kurt would never forget the night the evil wizards had broken into their home and taken his mother and sister. He hadn't said goodbye or kissed; he'd awakened in his father's arms and their lives were ruined. Dad hadn't eaten or slept for months after, and raising Kurt had prevented him from flying out to England and tracking down Mom and Hermione. His dad was terrible about picking up his cell phone when not at work and he didn't like computers; Kurt would have no way of keeping in touch with him if Burt roamed Europe without a kid to worry after.
Dad couldn't be trusted by himself. Absolutely not.
He'd already lost his mother and his sister, and if magic hadn't brought them back in three years- it was time to let go. Some nights, Kurt convinced himself that he could feel his twin, could feel the bond between them stretch and strain, but not once break. Then he woke up from the worst of the dreams- dreams of them playing dolls and him badgering Hermy-ninny to put her book down and have tea. He woke up from the good memories, too stricken to cry.
He might lose his dad if he went to Hogwarts. It was time to let go. Before Kurt could talk himself out of it, he ripped up the letter and he tossed the pieces in the dumpster to make sure he wouldn't tape it whole the next time he had a bad day.
A strange pain flared in his throat, and Kurt lied down in the nurse's office, shaking and pale and the woman had called Burt Hummel to pick up his kid before Kurt could object. Kurt had wanted to tell her off from yanking him out of work like that, but the temptation of leaving school on this horrible day and having the rest of the night with his dad fussing over him won out. While Burt did not carry Kurt to the car, he had touched the back of his hand to Kurt's face and held his son's hand on the way to the truck.
"I'm sorry you're sick, kiddo. I meant to run out to the store and grab some cake, but that's not good for your tummy, right?"
"No," Kurt numbly replied as he was buckled in. Then his eyes watered, snot and tears choking him as though he'd lost his mother and sister all over again, but he didn't cry as he'd done enough of that ages ago. "The cake is important. If we can't buy it, let's make it. It's Hermione's birthday, too."
"You're right, completely right," Burt said. He gave Kurt's little shoulder a quick, but earnest squeeze. He'd learned a long time ago not to tell Kurt "Happy Birthday", but he could still say this: "I love you, you know. Both of you."
"I love you, too." More than magic.
Two years later, he still meant it, in spite of the sudden and unwelcome changes of his body. At 13, almost every part of him changed. His waistline expanded, his complexion blotched, and he developed a nasty underbite that could only be fixed with braces and a heavy chunk of Burt's wallet. Every part of him changed except his voice. Even his heart changed; it got heavier with each passing day as his peers forgot about him being magical and aimed their insults at his waistline, his face, and his voice.
It was much easier for Kurt to retreat into the auto shop that his dad ran. He could sing to himself with all the repairs going on, and being around Burt reminded him of why he had to make things work in Lima until he grew up and built a better life for the both of them elsewhere. Whatever Kurt thought of Lima, Burt was not ready to move on; the fireplace was constantly dusted and swept and the woman's vanity remained in his parent's bedroom.
Indeed, the shop ran like clock work. Nothing unexpected happened, except for the Gran Torino that had rolled in last week. What a thing of beauty.
At least, nothing unexpected occurred until Kurt looked up from the hood of a Chevy and saw his dad grab a dark-haired woman and sweep her into a passionate embrace. Kurt dropped the wrench in his hand and the racket of it skittering into the tire jack did nothing to deter his father from putting his hands all over her.
Kurt couldn't decide what horrified him more: his dad making out like a teenager or the outfit the woman wore. She was dressed like a nun, which just made everything his dad was doing terribly, terribly wrong.
"DAD, WHAT THE HECK!" Kurt yelled finally. He marched up to them, wishing that he still had that wrench in hand, or better yet, a crowbar to peel his disgusting father off of the woman.
The woman pulled away bodily, or rather, got Burt to stop kissing her. In spite of her pallor, two red spots burned in her cheek and when her mouth gaped open, she did not appear to have any teeth.
"Kurt?" she asked breathily and then Burt let her go to draw Kurt into a desperate hug. "Oh, Kurt, honey."
She smelled like what the woman's vanity in his parent's bedroom smelled like, but more than that. So much more. She was pulse and heat and everything that would be okay.
"Hey boss, you got a- uh, is everything good?" Clint was a nice guy, but he was better with cars than people. Whereas most employees would get the hell out with the intense atmosphere, Clint stood there, looking from the boss's kid to the boss to the-
"Holy crap, lady, you look like," Clint trailed off, waving a rag at Kurt.
She smiled coolly, though her flushed cheeks did not abate. Clint was unreasonably nervous about how she stood next to the welding torch. "I am Hestia Jones, but it won't matter that you've seen me." She swished her hand and a stick slid from inside her sleeve to her fingers.
Obliviate.
Clint's eyes fogged over and he wandered to the water cooler, muttering to himself.
Her brown eyes narrowed as she pointed her wand at each individual car, murmuring Reparo until each misalignment and broken gadgetry resolved itself.
Burt whistled and he took his cap off to rub at his bare head. "Shop's closed, I guess."
In record time, Burt kicked out his mechanics and technicians, sending them home with bonuses to smooth out what was little more than a thinly veiled evacuation. As he did so, Hestia pulled a hanky out of the air and rubbed at a streak of grease on Kurt's pert nose, so much like her own.
"Mommy," Kurt said, trembling with his fists bunching the loose fabric of his work coverall.
"Come hither, love," Hestia urged, before pulling him into a proper hug.
After that, Kurt wasn't aware of much else, not the weather or the time of day or that he was thirteen and crying like a baby. He was steered into the truck and he was squished against her, but Burt beat him to the punch in putting an arm around her. He was a little angry about that until his dad squeezed his shoulder. As for Hestia, her head turned constantly between her husband and her son.
Kurt switched off the radio and was content to ride in silence. He was free to study the freckles dusting her nose and the part of her hair and her slight underbite.
She shushed him gently, but urgently when he asked her where she'd been.
"Not outside of an unplottable area," his mom said, her wand out and her eyes skimming the road. Though Kurt saw nothing but school children and far too much plaid, she did not relax even when Burt pulled into the driveway. Kurt unlocked the door and she swept inside with an unexpected grace. Only when Burt latched the chain did the wand return to its hiding place.
Before Kurt knew it, he was being twirled and squeezed within an inch of his last breath. "I've missed you so so so much, little darling, you cannot know." She turned to Burt and put the death grip on him as well.
"Where the hell have you been? Where's... where's Hermione?" demanded Burt when he could get a word in.
A skeletal hand dug into Kurt's heart.
"She's safe," Hestia answered immediately. "With a lovely pair of muggles. They are all preparing for the school term, and I didn't want to tell her that I'd been looking for you until I found you again."
"Why is she with them? And not you?" Burt demanded.
Kurt numbly plopped on to the couch; he tugged at his bow tie which felt like it was cutting off all air. Hermione was at school. Hermione was at Hogwarts. He could have-
"It'll be a long one, and I'm already knackered. Please, I'll rattle out the good bits, but a spot of tea would help immensely towards that end," Hestia said. "Would you mind putting the kettle on, Kurt dear?"
She could have asked him to fly; Kurt hurried into the kitchen willingly, except that when he did come out with a tray of steaming mugs and some buttered toast, his mom and dad were curled up on the couch and speaking in low voices. His ears burned, wondering how much they would leave out if he demanded answers.
"What's going on? What are you and Dad talking about that I can't hear?" Kurt licked his lips nervously, running his tongue over his braces out of habit.
"Darling, I'm sorry. I did not intend to alienate you from the conversation," Hestia said, reaching for her mug. She took the first scalding hot sip and sat up straighter. "Before I start, could I ask you something?"
Kurt nodded, dread in his stomach.
"Did you, perhaps, get a letter from Hogwarts?" Hestia probed.
"He didn't," Burt said, sounding a little sad. His expression turned to one of shock and more than a little hurt when his son nodded again. "When? I would have booked our flights if you had!"
"I thought- I thought Mom and Hermione were dead. I didn't want to go and leave you by yourself. On a scale of one to ten, ten being REALLY REALLY, how mad are you?"
"I'm at one hundred," Burt said, strangling his navy cap. "But not at you, kiddo. I should have asked, because there were signs, but I didn't and now, you're stuck here."
"It's not your fault, Dad. I didn't want to go," Kurt said. "No offense to you or Hermione, Mom, but magic sucks. I was a freak at school, and I still am."
"Are you certain? You are a wizard, Kurt. You don't want to try?" asked Hestia.
Kurt shook his head, recalling his original plans as an 11-year old to change pretty much everything about himself with magic. "I've got some things figured out, unlike the stupid boys in my class. I want to go to college in New York and be a star." He winced at how conceited he sounded, but was reassured when his dad clapped his shoulder.
"Geez, you are full of surprises," Burt said, shaking his head. The little smile playing on his thin lips spoke volumes.
Hestia gazed at him for a long moment. "You have really gotten by without it. If you want to be like your father, I will not stop you. I'll have to tell Hermione. She was looking forward to a study partner, but she will respect your decision as well."
"So, we can still be together? All of us?" Kurt asked, hope dawning in his blue-green eyes.
Her smile faded. "Well, yes and no. Thanks to Minerva, I have located your whereabouts... but mostly, I wanted to find you and warn you. We're all in danger. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is alive, possibly hiding in Albania."
"Holy fuck," Burt uttered, and Kurt knew it was bad when Hestia did not tell him to mind his language in front of Kurt.
"Who?' Kurt asked.
"Do you remember what happened the night we were separated?" Hestia inquired, a strange pallor draining her face of all color.
"I don't, but Dad told me. Really evil wizards tried to kill us," Kurt said, gulping.
"They tried because I made enemies within the families involved in black magic, or the Dark Arts. If the Hummels were to reunite once more and you attended Hogwarts, they would come after us again, to get at me. You and Hermione and your dad would be in constant danger. Hermione is safe in the wizarding world because her parents, as far as anyone knows, are muggle dentists. By that token, you are safer as a repairman's only son..."
"Wanna bet?" Kurt muttered, thinking that magic was really, really bogus.
"Sweetie, I am trying to tell you that you did the right thing in protecting your Dad. We are still a family. When Hermione can get away for the hols, she will come here, to this house. With all the security measures in place, You-Know-Who can't sic his followers on you. I hope that I'm terribly, terribly wrong, but there's going to be a war. There will be an all out magical war in England, and many lives will be at stake."
"What about yours?" Kurt demanded, and he looked to his dad, who was sat hunched over beside his mom, his rough hands clasped over his mouth as though in prayer.
"I don't know how to tell you this. Kurt, honey, I have to fight. I'm doing it for you and your sister and everyone we've ever loved. I wanted time together before all hell breaks loose, pardon my French."
"Dad, you're going to let Mom get killed?" Kurt yelled, pushing away all attempts at hugging. "How could you?"
"Calm down, son. I knew what I was getting into when I married your Mom," Burt said, putting a sure hand over his wife's trembling ones. "We were in love when You-Know-Who was in power and your Mom was always doing things for the resistance, for the Order; it's worse if you and I keep her from her job."
"If he's really so bad, then why won't you say who he is, then? Stop with the You-Know-Whoop nonsense and just say his name! He's one stupid wizard and you're letting him keep us apart."
"Voldemort," Hestia spat, and it was hateful and bleak and wrong coming out of his mom's lips. "Voldemort and his blasted Death Eaters. I can't be with you until he's vanquished and his toadies rot in Azkaban."
She stopped her rant abruptly and and reached for Kurt; this time he didn't squirm away.
"Baby boy, I will do whatever it takes for your sister and me to come home. I swear on Merlin's beard. I swear on my wand. I never stopped looking, never stopped loving you and your father. Please understand." Her voice wobbled and Kurt's resolve not to cry too much went to pieces along with the both of them.
Hestia brought all of their hands together, her dark eyes feasting on the sight of Burt's red fingers and Kurt's chubby littler ones and her tapered ones joined as one. Over her shoulder, father and son stared long and hard at one another, and then inclined their heads as one.
"Voldy's doomed. He shouldn'tna messed with the Hummels," Burt said, sounding like he did when rooting for his team on Monday nights.
Kurt rolled his eyes at that, but deep, deep down, he wanted to believe, in a way that he'd never had to believe in anything.
A/N: HEY! Sorry for the slow update. I'm currently planning out "Chapter 3: Hermione" which delves into Hestia's suffering, hahaha. I know, I know, it's just background but Miss Bossypants won't shut the hell up so I need to write her. Then chapter after that is when they finally clash- I mean, meet. Hopefully, friendship, love, and daring-do shall follow! With song!
Thank you SO SO much for all of your input. I am full of good ideas- and most of them are yours! Keep sending them in, or flame me for my crap British-isms! Bad publicity is good publicity!
THANK YOU!
I don't own HP or Glee.