Title: Wicked
Author: Elfalas
Genre: drama, angst
Pairing: Bellatrix/Andromeda (implied)
Rating: Sallittu / G
Disclaimer: All of the pretty girls here belong to J.K. Rowling, L. Frank Baum, Stephen Schwartz or Winnie Holzman, and I don't get paid for this stuff.
Summary: Are people born Wicked? Or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them?
A/N: FF100: Miksi?
So this one morning I was listening to the soundtrack of Wicked, and Bella/Meda hit me right in the face. The fics that attack me randomly usually end up pretty weird, but I think this one caught the spirit I intended. I don't know if any of this makes any sense to someone who doesn't know Oz or Wicked.
/ Saa myös korjata kieltä, koska kukaan ei ole kahteen vuoteen opettanut mulle englannin kielioppia.
Wicked
On a bright, dreamy spring afternoon in May 1961, Mama caught us playing the Wizard of Oz again.
Maybe it had been a mistake to start playing in the first place; it was such a beautiful day Mama was bound to come look for us, if she didn't see us prancing through the garden after birds and butterflies the way she had done when she was little. She always told us to at least come outside with our books. Not that she didn't approve of reading in general. She just couldn't bear seeing us swallow whole shelves of books that could very probably have caused Aunty Walburga to have a fatal heart attack upon just hearing their titles. Most of all she resented The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - mainly because of the fact that Bella and I loved it so much.
Bella had found the book in Uncle Alphard's room at Grimmauld Place. It was a peculiar book for a wizard to have in his bookshelf; however Bellatrix was overwhelmingly fascinated by the tale of Dorothy, Toto and their friends traveling the yellow brick road to see the Wonderful Wizard who, as it turned out, was not so wonderful after all. Soon enough we would be lying on her bed on rainy days, reading from it to each other, marveling silently at Silver Shoes and Winged Monkeys. We found it utterly amusing how completely wrong Muggles had got it all, and yet how entertaining their misconceptions of our world were. But more than anything, more than Dorothy, more than Toto, more than the posing Wizard, Bella loved the four Witches of Oz.
We would first play in the hall - that ended the day we accidentally turned Uncle Orion's favorite owl into a tiny tamarin with fluffy little wings on it back. - It was really an accident, though Cissy claimed otherwise; the poor thing had panicked and buried its little fingers deep into her hair. - Later on we would close the door to Bella's bedroom and suddenly see before us Munchkinland or Emerald City.
Bella would always play the Wicked Witch of the West. She would smear green finger paint all over her face, wave the book in her hand and laugh like a maniac. I was usually the Good Witch of the North, though occasionally Bella would permit me to be the Wicked Witch of the East who, of course, would never die but always avoided the house crashing on her. Cissy would be allowed to play Dorothy if she was good; if she wasn't, Bella would cast her as an unfortunate Munchkin whom the Wicked Witch then ate. - Those days she would run screaming to Mama right away, the baby she was.
I was the Wicked Witch of the East that day. My sister and I were roaming through the tiniest alleys of the Emerald City, running from the Wizard's men. Of course, we knew the Wizard was an imposter, and were about to let all of Oz know of our discovery. We were completely oblivious of the chatter of the birds and the blissful spring breeze that shook the darling buds of May outside; until Mama knocked on the door, that is. The green towers of the Emerald City disappeared at the sound, revealing the white walls of Bella's room, covered with elaborate vine patterns, piles of books and pillows on the floor - and Mama, standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Cissy clung to her robes and smirked at us.
"I thought we discussed this already", Mama said quietly.
We had; this game had a bad influence on Cissy; she couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't; soon we'd all be asking for winged monkeys for our birthdays. We knew it. We also knew the real reason behind the fuss. But we had ignored our little talk this time, because Bella had said so. I couldn't help feeling a bit guilty, but Bella seemed rather annoyed by Cissy telling on us. She hissed at our sister.
"We're just playing, Mama", she said then.
"Playing witches, darling? Real witches don't wear their face green." Mama sighed. "Real witches are not afraid of water, and they most definitely do not attempt to cook their little sisters in rosemary and mustard broth."
"But she would taste awful without the broth!" Bella exclaimed. I didn't dare open my mouth.
"You're a big sister, Bella. You're responsible of Cissy. Responsible of Meddy. I want you to teach and protect them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama." I could read from her face that she didn't, and I'm quite sure Mama could see it too. Still, she nodded, her eyes soft again.
"Stop teaching Meddy those silly things, won't you? We're counting on you, your father and I. Now, come outside, you two." She left the room, half leading, half carrying Cissy, who was making a face at us. Bella slammed the door shut and threw herself on the bed.
"Are we going?" I asked, though I sort of knew the answer already. Bella lay quiet, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving agitatedly. I sat down next to her but couldn't reach her gaze. I nudged gently at her arm. "Bella?" She didn't respond.
After a while, she spoke, "I still can't grasp that they melted her."
I sighed. There we were again; Bella never tired of expressing her frustration over the fact that the Wicked Witch had been killed when the book was barely halfway through. "It's a story. Real witches don't melt when you pour water on them", I reminded her.
"I know that!" Bella hissed. "But why would they melt her?"
"Don't start", I said and got up, "I'm going outside."
She grabbed my arm. "No."
"Mama made lemonade." I tried to shake her off, but she held on to my arm so hard her fingers left aching, red marks all over my skin. I glanced at her quickly though I didn't want to; her eyes were black again. "You're hurting me."
"Tell me first. Tell me why they melted her. Then you can go."
It might have been either the thought of the sweet lemonade waiting outside or Bella's fingernails digging deep into my flesh, but I lost my temper at that moment. I'd never understood her passion for the Wicked Witch, and now I looked at the pink sweat trails on her bright green face and her black, furious eyes, and yelled at her at the top of my lungs, "Why? Because she was wicked, that's why!"
She looked at me, her face so grave that it frightened me. "And that's a reason to rejoice when she dies?"
"Stop that, Bella", I said, "it made the Winkies happy. Even the Winged Monkeys were happy!"
"So?"
I tore myself free and ran for the door.
After that, I was not allowed to play the Wicked Witch of the East any longer. Not that I'd wanted it so much; I'd rather be the Good Witch, whom I imagined much more beautiful than the owner of the Silver Shoes ever. We'd still play from time to time, but we would always be sure to see Cissy had something else to do and Mama was nowhere near.
When Bella turned thirteen, we stopped playing altogether.
When she was eighteen, she cast off the book and told me to stay away from such baleful "Muggle lit".
Years and years later, I went to see Wicked in West End with my grandson. The role of Elphaba was sung by a black-eyed girl whose face was tinted with emerald greasepaint. Her long, jet black hair glistened in the stage lights and made me think of how birdsong could disappear into another world through the power of mere thought. The way she held Glinda's hand reminded me of the world on the edge of war. And how vain Glinda seemed to me now, just a cloud of pale pink foam under those voluminous, blonde curls!
I had never thought the memory would still be so overwhelming. I could barely restrain myself to stay still until the end of the play. I struggled to sit quietly as Elphaba tore herself free of all bonds, and it all wound itself around that one dreamy, carefree day in May 1961, and as Glinda said the final goodbye to her friend, I found myself crying silently after all these years. "Are people born Wicked?" she asked. "Or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them?"
The Wicked Witch released the Cowardly Lion from his cage. She turned her sister's husband into the Tin Man when his heart failed and he was dying. And Fiyero, whom she loved, she turned into the Scarecrow to keep the Wizard's men from hurting him.
