Melena jumped up from taking a small nap at the table when she heard someone enter. “What is it?” She asked, blinking some sleep from her eyes.


The young daughter approached her mother, quietly … almost completely silently, in her way, from the doorway. Elphaba had just begun walking a few months ago, but it was hardly noted as cause for ruckus, for she was still as quiet as a church mouse … she would rather impersonate the wildcats in the fields, or look at the ants that crawled across a sunlit marsh … or sit, and pounce, and then drop down and silently break the legs off a twig than she would run about and cause a fuss like most children. She was a late bloomer in the talking business, it seemed; although she was quite perceptive and intuitive, and so it was not an intelligence problem … that much was clear. Melena often seemed to think her boring, really, but Nanny knew better; she had a fear of being overheard by such a child.  And rightly so — for little green Elphaba often seemed to be trying to make sense of the things her mother said … that of which even those lucid and full grown could not always do. She was a mystery child, boring or exciting …  or, perhaps, even unsettling … alas, the mystery never retreated.

She had something behind her back as she trekked forward, slowly, and she eyed her mother, as though she might be in trouble for whatever it was. And yet she yearned to bring the thing inside.  She waited, a bit, staring up at Melena, both arms clutched behind her torso so as to conceal whatever it was. She seemed to be wondering what her mother had been doing. 



       Eleazar must force his demeanor into
       indifference following a trice too long
       of glaring. Glaring which is inevitably
       misunderstood as abhorrence, which
       in reality is nothing but intrigue. His
       ensuing sigh is brief.

              ❝My name is Eleazar. You are a
              witch, are you not? I sense your
              gifts. You’re a remarkable force.❞

               ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ;

Ah, so he was a flatterer. Elphaba had no patience for that. What a flippant act, flatterers — it was one of the worst things anyone could be. Horrible, horrible silver tongues, they were — liars and manipulators — making you believe in your excellence while smiting you down the back as you were busy basking in their words … dishonesty.  Elphaba abhorred it.

❝ My gifts Yes. Morrible had called them the very same thing. ❝ My gifts, ❞ Elphaba repeated, allowing her tenseness to release a bit, gripping tightly onto the spell book she had so fervently hissed out in order to protect, ❝ are a matter of debate. Truthfully I am not sure exactly WHO they are gifts intended for, as all they’ve appeared to be capable of is destruction and chaos for each party involved. ❞ She had meant this as somewhat of a threat, but she could tell it wouldn’t work on him … he seemed … intrigued.  Intrigue could overcome many things, she knew.  Elphaba narrowed her eyes at him still, refusing to let him closer.  ❝ Either way I suppose remarkable is a fitting word. Eleazar.  … What have you come for. 


Good day to you lot, and whatever comes with it. I am, unfortunately, terribly plagued with the matter of political debacle today, and an acute responsibility toward removing a silver-tongued Wizard from his idiotic throne.  So. Do excuse me if my replies are not as curt as you may wish. They are coming.

Then again, do not excuse me; it does not matter either way.  I don’t need your patience. Isn’t it funny, how that works. And yet I am asking for it anyhow … 



     ”No. Those shoes are mine, and they’re new.”

           ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ;

    Don’t play stupid with me, girl. They are mine.
      And I’ve no idea what your perception of  new
        is, but  they  have  been PLUCKED   from   my
        sister’s  twenty  six  year  old  feet.  



    he hoped that with his lack of a face,
    the side-eyeing he’s doing is less 

                The woman almost sounded sarcastic,
                or if she was he didn’t want to be
                judgemental out loud. What he said was
                only a mere observant, and quite frankly,

    “I think it’s a wonderful choice.
    Emerald is an excellent colour
    —reminds me of nature.”


           ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ;

Elphaba had seen many strange creatures in her time … but this one certainly gave the rest a run for their money.  He … if it so happened to be a he, of course … would send the elven back in Rush Margins running with their tails between their legs, and they would be none the wiser because of it.  But would Elphaba? Time would only tell.

She had no reason to be afraid.  This creature bore no resemblance to anyone she had ever known; held no crest of the Gale Force across its breast.  There was almost something she found soothing in it, whatever it was.  Was it a phantom?  A spectre? Perhaps something between the two …  but for some reason she found herself standing still, tilting her head with a certain calmness in her frown as she addressed him.  He did not make her uneasy.  Rather, curious … it was the same sentiment she held toward the Animals.  The half things.  They made her wonder.

❝ Well, it wasn’t necessarily a choice I made voluntarily.  But is it ever?  I should think if it were so, no one would ever come out with their skin in any sort of extraordinary unveil, seeing as how the rest of society behaves.  They can hardly handle themselves as is. One evening I could suppose, some wretched spelldoings or gaggling went amiss — people were careless and happy — perhaps both — and I was conceived.  It just sort of happened.  My color. And I suppose that’s the thing about green — it can either remind you of the grass or the poisonous snakes that slither within. 

She eyed him a bit from the side of her angular face now, her eyes narrowing.  If he wasn’t sent for her … who .  . . or what … WAS he?

❝ Who are you … why have you followed me? ❞ She pressed, both arms out in front of her slightly hunched over body, as if she wanted to edge forward and stalk a preyed being. ❝ You do not look like a tiktok, and yet I am wary.  Or perhaps you’re one of Morrible’s trickeries, out to slit my neck and carry me back on a roasting stick when I am least expecting it. Either way, I’d like to know. 

"The real thing about evil,” said the Witch at the doorway, “isn’t any of what you said. You figure out one side of it - the human side, say - and the eternal side goes into shadow. Or vice versa. It’s like the old saw: What does a dragon in its shell look like? Well no one can ever tell, for as soon as you break the shell to see, the dragon is no longer in its shell. The real disaster of this inquiry is that it is the nature of evil to be secret."

— Gregory Maguire, Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (via cafeintheskye)
                         VERSE : ϟ HARRY POTTER

After the twisted hardships endured in Oz, Elphaba is burnt in the unexpected showdown with the the farm girl, Dorothy Gale. But instead of meeting death as she melts, she is somehow transported between worlds …  and finds herself in the Other World — a part of England. After recovering from her burns and her drained stamina, she eventually discovers the wizarding community which, to her extreme disbelief, is full of those who believe in, practice, and accept magic.

She seeks out the famous Dumbledore, said to be powerful, in order to learn more about this strange, new force of magic that does not stem from the Grimmerie, but Dumbledore has already been expecting the verdigris Witch.

- - - - 

❝ But this — this is magic?? How can this be MAGIC? ❞ A confused Elphaba retorts, her mouth open in shock, her eyes following the silver Patronus.  ❝ There is no Grimmerie spell … there are wands … and … theatrical trickeries …  

Dumbledore smiles gently through his half-moon spectacles.  ❝ This is magic, Elphaba.  It is a different kind of magic. 

Elphaba swallows, frowning.  Magic; magic … pah … a magic extraordinarily electric … extraordinarily foreign and different, but she feels it … she knows … how can this be … her palms spread in front of her, she stares into them … 

❝ I believe you are exactly what we need, Miss Thropp. Dumbledore says, kindly.  If you’ll have it, I should like that you stay with us. Join us; teach us. Teach yourself.  You may learn. And I think you will find that many of us are much the same as always … but many of us are extraordinarily kind.  You will have a home. I have one simple request. 

Elphaba looks back up to meet his eyes after a few long moments, but her tongue is caught. Dumbledore takes the silence as an invitation to continue, and does so, softly; simply.

 Teach us.  Teach us of your magic.  Teach me about the Grimmerie. 

- - - - 

Elphaba is now Hogwarts’s advanced broom instructor; a class that takes place separately from Madam Hooch’s athletic-based broomstick lessons — it is offered for students interested in the more specialized field of flying warfare, and in learning how to handle more dangerous, intense situations while airborne.  She also studies the magical creatures on the grounds, researching their ecologies and keeping scientific record on their behaviors, though she does not teach a class; she would much rather study the animals alone than face another classroom of children.  

Elphaba is a harsh-tongued and authoritative professor, and she can be unpleasant, but there is a certain sadness to her demeanor; she is not unnecessarily nasty, like Severus, but rather, hard to impress.  She is extraordinarily introverted; she would rather not deal with students, and can be very sarcastic, but she is worn down by her former life in Oz, and simply wants to live a peaceful life. 

*This verse will be considered AU, as will all relationships within.



     “ — I reckon one with a bit of — understanding? Compassion?” he said, risk in his tone. It was worth a shot. “Honest, Professor, classic case of bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time — I was just looking for my brother, see.” The seemingly virtuous boy put an emphasis on the word, strange and out of place but his eyes cleverly dashed to the private store room of the class as he spoke, almost as though he were apprehensive that something might pop out. He was careful, however, to do this only when the other might not notice, and with extreme caution as to how brief his sight stayed. After all, this wasn’t a Professor the Weasley twins particularly fancied crossing. Snape was bad enough. 

     “Safe to say he better get out of wherever it is he’s gone off to — we’ve got loads of potions homework due tomorrow…”

     What she didn’t know, however, was that his words were slyly directed toward an identical head that bobbed in her private stores, seeming to be scrambling for a way to slip out of the cupboard undetected before George’s latest emphasis seemed to jog his memory of something. The silent figure ducked back and snatched a small pink bottle from the shelves before pocketing it with the utmost quiet precision, heading out of the storage room on tip toes once more.


           ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ;

     Just looking for his brother, pah — what an old wive’s tale!  Or in this case, Weasley tale.  Elphaba stared him down, both brows raised in clear indication that she was not buying into his presentation … listening to him ramble on with derision.  One with compassion; oh, now, that was a good one.  Funny, how that went; they scorned and jeered and called you wicked when you attempted to be anything but, or at LEAST better SOME form of life … and then they stuffed you and tacked up their idealistic, imaginative image of you with their hopefulness when you hadn’t done so much as ask not to be disrupted … and suddenly, a whole new gabble of words were being thrown around in relation to you … words like COMPASSION, and u n d e r s t a n d i n g 

     What utter bunk; that was what Elphaba liked to call it.  And furthermore, the less time she had to spend around students, the better … damnable things … she had NEVER been good at dealing with children … why Dumbledore had insisted she take a teaching job, Oz knew, or didn’t . . . for Oz hadn’t known anything … and she leered at George through narrowed eyes, saying nothing until there required a bridge in the conversation. 

❝ You sure do hold a talent for pedantic babbling, Mr. Weasley — perhaps if you used it for half of the things you had to accomplish in your lifetime, you might realize— 

And suddenly, a glimpse; a movement, from her storage quarters. Ceasing all conversation at once, Elphaba lifted her neck so as to look past George; craning her neck to see.  She was almost hawklike in her way.

❝ Hey The Witch hissed out, upon realization; she opened her mouth to protest, the angular edges of her face pointed toward the instigator. ❝ You cursed fool; I see you back there! ❞ She started forward, still clutching her broomstick in her green hand, teeth bared  against her thin lips in anger. Touch nothing; I will have your hide! 

                 {{    HER ROYAL CONSORTS    }}

                     [ —— aka the people who I consider the closest to me  &&
                      good friends without whom this blog would be a waste. ]

              themagnificenthatter  assilat-vojjor darkmajestylamia merchantfinesse
                             maimedlion isoutthere kovotojas lilmisslydiamartin 

                  {{    THE ADMIRED ONES    }}

                     [ — aka the people who I seriously admire and look up to  &
                      even if  we  aren’t  that  close  oocly,  I  still  stand  in  awe  ]

      quietgravedigger  shatteredwhitecrow decoris-onos dragonstallion clawsofwit 
sandsofchaos alotofapologiestomake tellthewolvesimhomex sergeantjamesbarnes
                        whoresnboars itselphie notanordinaryfairy scalesandflesh

                  {{    THE ROYAL COURT    }}

                     [ — aka the people who make my dash/ plots what  they are.  
                     ones who make everything worthwhile. for  regina  &  me  ]

                       thetasteofinnocence herunfailingkindness thebiqbadwolf 
              sarcasmandbatsaremyonlydefense thelasthalebeta impossiblesass
            hillsidegravestone yoursaviorhasarrived xvictorvondoom andrea-malfoy
              knightwithoutbanner strongerperfectkiller drainedred incredible-zim
          incissam ravxnism queenxcersei xbaratheon betawithascarf onceatraitor
   thelocalpsychopath thelastofthelostboys withpureheart gentlemanthiefofsherwood
           dreamshadeandlillies silkssongsandchivalry greywindking brideofwintxr
                  theoneandonlyoriginalhybrid dontxprayforme goldeneyesofcamelot
             theeternallycursed dedecoratio captjaztkirk elenaishuman smokinshield
                                  archer-of-durin onemansinsanity-onecatsreality 



    “i've met many witches,
          though none of which with
          their skin like emerald.”


             ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ; 

              Have you, then. I’ve made it somewhat
                 of a goal;   a   personal   motivation,   if
                 you will, to be known as much more  a
                 witch …   to   be   seen as much more
                 a     witch     …     much    less   wicked.
                 Much                less              green.


                                   I suppose emerald is a step in the r i g h t direction. 


                   Sudden influx of followers …
                    what’s gotten you lot so riled?
                    I   don’t   recall  promising  any
                    sort        of        camaraderie
                    or,       well,       perhaps       with
                    one’s       birth,      such    things
                    are                                required.  



              ❝Ay. Forgive me.❞

       Such odd skin…

           ≺ ✘ ≻ ——  ; 

She calmed, a bit, at his tone and apology; her expression falling into one of suspicion instead.  She didn’t like how this one was eyeing her.  But it was not a dislike she was unfamiliar with; most people had eyed her that way since she could remember. She had built up a certain tolerance for such things.  She had to.

                              ❝ Well, that depends, doesn’t it. Who are you?