Hatstall
Absolute silence in the Great Hall. Then, an outbreak of whispering and tittering. Professor McGonagall inwardly groaned, grim-faced. She knew this would happen, and felt for the poor girl.
True, she was among the other first years, (and indeed it looked as if she made a great effort to blend in) but regardless she stuck out like a sore thumb. A sore, green thumb at that.
Once the din settled down, the Hat began to sing its song for the year. Scarcely anyone heard it, interested as they were in this rare...whatever this was. Even in the wizarding world, people simply just didn't show up with green skin. Perhaps it was a spell? A potion run amok? Or was this a prank, and the girl was attention-seeking, or picaresque?
It didn't seem likely. Hooked-nosed, bony, and insecure, the girl stood stiffly, staring into space, stubborn and impassive. It was obvious she was uncomfortable. It was also obvious that she had expected such scrutiny. Curiouser and curiouser...
McGonagall felt a stir of curiosity too, even as she wished she could protect the girl from such probing eyes. She was only eleven years old, and yet she seemed older, an air of grave maturity about her. She supposed having aberrant skin would force that on a young one. As it was, McGonagall herself knew that the girl was born with that particular ailment. Such an oddity. Even Snape's usual sneer was absent. He had leaned over, his too-protruding nose sticking out even further, coal eyes deep in thought.
The Hat fell silent. Professor McGonagall came to call out the names from the roster, dreading coming to the Ts.
''Arduennas, Galinda!''
Though most of the wizarding families were patriarchal, occasionally there were some very old pure-blood families who insisted on passing the titles down the matriarchal line. The Arduennas were one of them. The girl in question was blonde and lovely, even at eleven; when she grows older McGonagall expected that budding beauty to bloom even more. Already the girl was assured, with dainty airs and graceful movement. If she was nervous, she hid it well. The Hat sorted her in Hufflepuff and she serenely went to sit in her family's favorite house.
''Bfee, Boq!''
The dwarf-sized boy came up next, and McGonagall worried if he might not be able to sit in the tall stool, but somehow he managed. He was of that very humble but resilient stock, one that boded well for her house. Alas, he too was sorted into Hufflepuff and he joined them there. She caught sight of him looking at Galinda hopefully before she turned her attention to the roster.
A Ravenclaw, a Hufflepuff, another Ravenclaw. Two boys, Crope and Tibbett, were sorted into Gryffindor, the very first ones so far. They settled down at the table together, already very good friends.
And then came the Ts. McGonagall inhaled carefully. Exhale.
''Tenmeadows, Avaric!''
There was no mystery with this one. The Tenmeadows were pure-bloods, with title and capital to boot, and almost without exception they favored a more traditional crowd. The boy, handsome and slick-haired, scarcely sat a full fifteen seconds before the Hat bellowed out Slytherin. He went over there jauntily, cocky and self-assured.
This was it. The moment of truth. This time McGonagall didn't hesitate to swallow dryly.
''Thropp, Elphaba!''
Silence, complete and total, filled the Great Hall. The girl's footsteps could be heard as they walked up the steps in her new robes, her silky black hair bound in a braid. She slowly sat down and placed the Hat on her head. Unlike most students, she did not close her eyes. Instead they roved freely, shrewdly, warily about the Hall, as if what the Hat had to say was not of particular interest to her.
McGonagall had met this girl once, at the very tail end of the summer. The Thropps were in fact a very highly regarded wizarding family, and another one who passed titles down the female line. McGonagall remembered the girl's mother, Melena, when she came to Hogwarts. She was a bright enough girl but lazy when it came to schoolwork, and more interested in flirting and conquest than anything else. Barely a year after school she took up with a Muggle minister, Frexspar, who apparently knew and accepted that his wife was a witch, which must have been no easy feat; it spoke volumes as to the love he must have had for her. The Frex McGonagall had seen, however, suggested one softened by the death of his wife the previous year.
Even so, with no reply forthcoming, McGonagall had been obliged to drop by the Thropps and see what the trouble was. As she suspected, Frex was reluctant and suspicious of letting his daughter go to a school of almost exclusively magic; the Scriptures were very decided on the matter of witchcraft. McGonagall, in loyalty to her school, attempted to persuade him that Hogwarts taught more than just magic, and even if it didn't, it was necessary for any proper young witch or wizard to learn to control their powers, or risk doing magic outside of school and breaking wizarding law. She managed to convince Frex, who as it turned out was not as unreasonable as she thought – there was just one issue at work here.
''What do you think, Fabala?'' he had asked her daughter. ''I would hate for you to be gone for so long – but if you truly want this, then by all means. When Nessa goes, you'll be expected to help her along and prop her up. I'm certain accommodations will be provided for accordingly should that happen?''
McGonagall assured him so. Elphaba didn't speak for a long moment. Then she said, ''All right, then. I'll go.''
As McGonagall shook hands with the girl, she had asked her – a rare question on her part – if she was excited to attend Hogwarts and was shocked when Elphaba shrugged.
''Magic per se isn't very interesting,'' she'd replied. ''But I am curious about Herbology and that potion class you mentioned. And maybe even your subject, Transfiguration, which frankly sounds fascinating. Besides, I suppose I can't go on breaking wizarding law every time I get upset.''
And that was that. Now she was here, trying on the Hat, and the Hall waited with bated breath.
Well, from what little McGonagall knew of her, it looked as though she would go easily into Slytherin. Prickly, shrewd, and even a little reptilian, if that could be said, she would fit right in with that house. McGonagall had personally been impressed with her, but then she wouldn't be the only Slytherin who would manage to gain her respect. She might be terribly biased for her house, but she strove hard to be scrupulously fair. She could already tell this girl would be one of those exceptional ones, if she weren't given too hard a time. Who knows? She might even go into Ravenclaw, if her mind was bright enough, which McGonagall didn't doubt.
Personally, the Thropp family hadn't impressed her much. The father was a little kooky, the crippled sister demanding and shrill, and the grandmother raunchy and arch at turns. The girl was sour-faced and difficult, but there was promise there. Well, they would just have to wait and see...
The Hat was taking its time. The silence was already breaking with murmurs and titters. McGonagall checked the hourglass and saw to her shock that it had been nearly five minutes already – nigh breaking her own record, and Peter Pettigrew's. Some students were difficult to sort, it was true, but rarely have they gone long under the Hat. What was going on?
Continued silence. And then –
''GRYFFINDOR!''
The result was so shocking that no one spoke. A couple of people even guffawed. Even Elphaba was shocked; her large brown eyes widened, then narrowed, as if she felt the Hat had said a joke in poor taste, and about her skin, no less.
Some of the Gryffindors, shaking themselves out of their shock, began to clap, struggling at a welcome not all their peers celebrated. Elphaba carefully placed the Hat on the stool and walked over to the Gryffindor table. She sat alone, crossing her legs beneath her, and looked at no one.
Such was the impact of the Hat's strange decision that many missed the next name on the list, a foreign student Tigelaar, Fiyero, who too was sorted into Gryffindor. McGonagall, though outwardly expressing nothing, could not help but shake her head inwardly. She didn't pretend to understand the inner workings of the magic Hat, but she wouldn't be surprised if the Hat had developed a funny bone in the millennium of its existence and decided to give everyone one heck of a trolling. Only Dumbledore didn't seem much surprised, leaning back serenely...but then, Albus had always seen what others could not...
Still. Green or no, a Gryffindor was a Gryffindor. And – though McGonagall would never be so blunt to admit it – that was good enough for her.
A/N: An oldie of mine, relatively speaking, but a goodie, and I realized I haven't posted it anywhere. Just a fun oneshot playing with the (admittedly tantalizing) idea of an HP/Wicked crossover, above all the idea of Gryffindor!Elphaba, which simply brims with possibility. I went for the book!Wicked universe, but there shouldn't be anything here that would confuse musical fans, so I included both. Not sure when exactly in the HP timeline this is set - after the Marauders' era, definitely. Feedback is appreciated!