She could hear Rodolphus laughing in her brain right now. She couldn't wait to write him when she returned home that afternoon. "Oh, I do hate the Death Eaters," Orla said, her face brimming with honesty. "And I must say, Minister, I'm absolutely flattered that you'd consider asking me to work for you."
She was going to make herself ill.
"My parents were killed at our vacation home the summer I was fifteen. My uncle handed them over when they refused to grant You-Know-Who use of our homes and money." Her sob story really was quite convenient. "Things never were quite the same after that. What would you have me do?"