Ilsa: A Tiny Tale in Forty Acts

June, 1999

Act I

1. Introduction

My introduction to my husband was, arguably, not under the best of circumstances. I was filthy and depressed, chained up with some sort of 'magical' bindings, terrified and shattered. We hadn't eaten in days and I hadn't slept since our capture. My companions were on the verge of hysteria.

I was attempting, without success, to stay optimistic. The mind is everything. What you think you become. The Buddha.

And just how a runaway American hiding out without a visa in the slums of London became embroiled in the Ministry of Magic's scandal of the decade—well… that's the whole point.

2. Dreamer

None of us had seen it coming. Jules, Ami, Renee & their pet American runaway, Ilsa. We were squatting, of course, in derelict apartments scheduled to be demolished in the autumn, windows popped out and rooms already stripped of plumbing and electrical. But it was June and we had time.

I had picked out a train route to the North York Moors. I had a camp stove, a rather nice used sleeping bag, and the money for some food. I was fleeing the London summer with my filched sketchbooks and stubby pencils.

Ilsa the dreamer; Ilsa the artist; Ilsa the naïve.

3. Memories

The night it happened, and of course it happened faster than you could blink, I thought someone had cut the weed we had smoked with something psychedelic. Of course, you don't think you'll get jumped by people who can just appear and disappear with a pop. That's just not possible.

They came into the flat in spurts of two or three, brandishing little sticks that shot sparks, dressed in uniforms I didn't recognize.

Renee fell ass over elbow trying to make it to the window. Where she thought she was going from this third floor hellhole I've no fucking idea.

4. Exhaustion

The room we were brought into after our three-day-long incarceration was rather emaciated looking men sat at a center table: two were matching platinum blonds, one older and one younger, and one was a dark youth. The fourth was pale man with a rather impressive nose and fierce scowl who sat slouched broodingly.

Ami was spitting tacks until they waved their little sticks and she couldn't talk.

Jules took a different tone, "Got any smokes in here?" The young blond shook his head mournfully.

I felt physically ill, sure that my deportation was the inevitable end of this meeting.

5. Pretense

A large man with greying hair stood up at the other end of the room. "So, you must be wondering why you're here."

Ami was struggling silently. Renee looked like she was going to faint.

"No shite," Jules hissed through clenched teeth.

He looked altogether too pleased with himself. "I am Hubert Cumberpatch, Minister for the Rehabilitation of Pureblood Supremacists through Marital Muggle Connections."

God, pretentious much?

"What the fuck is a Muggle?" Jules was getting red in the face.

Cunningham coughed delicately. "Why you, my dear, are a Muggle."

Renee really did faint dead away then. We. Were. Fucked.

This story is an Alternate Universe Tale and disregards much of the last three books, especially Book Seven. You've been warned.

This story is also a drabble fic. This means that the chapters are short (five 100-words-segments-each short). I realize that some people don't like drabble length stories & I get that: if you don't like that format that's alright. However, I'm not going to respond to comments/critiques about the length.

Prompts, with some major alterations, from 'Scribbling on the Computer' a wordpress blog. Heading: 100 Themes Challenge Writing Prompts. I selected the "Original List".

I have always wanted to write a Marriage Law fic. They range from darkly-amusing to cringe-worthy-angst to heart-rending-woe and back again. This is my, admittedly, rather lighthearted & foul-mouthed take on the subject.

A debt to my stalwart beta renaid, for editing this foolishness en mass and answering my awkward, flustered emails so graciously. Not to mention Hubert Cumberpatch's name is all her creation. I am so in debt.