Lorraine Winters was born into a secretive death eater family. They were known for being spies for Voldemort and so far no one on the outside knew. She was the youngest to wear the dark mark on her arm, having gotten it when she was a year old. When...
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WORD COUNT: [1767]
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Lorraine was lost in her mind. Her own self-made penitentiary composed of all the guilt she felt and bad thoughts she ever had. Every scream she caused and every drop of blood she spilt plagued her mind like some chronic illness. While she had not directly hurt someone—and would hopefully never do so—she had led to numerous deaths at the hands of death eaters.
Most days it was as if she was put in Palliative care by her own mind. It was a surprise to her and everyone she knew that she was still sane.
Her company certainly didn't help.
"My dear, Lorraine," her mother spoke sweetly, lacing her voice with a tone she was all too familiar with whenever she wanted something.
"Yes, mother?" Lorraine spoke bluntly, glancing up from her dinner plate. The Malfoy boy beside her also glanced up from his plate at the sound of his friend's name being called. The two looked at each other before her eyes met her mother's reluctantly.
They were used to the Malfoy and Winters dinners being a cage composed of unspoken words. It always made everything so much more exciting when someone did speak.
"Lucius has discussed with your father and me about moving into their Manor in Wiltshire, England. We want to hear your opinion," her mother finished, looking quite proud of herself.
"I would leave Ilvermorny," Lorraine pointed out. "I like it there."
"Oh, but Hogwarts is so much better! You would be there on business, of course. We wouldn't move if that weren't the case. You see, we need you to spy on Harry Potter. Draco failed to befriend him in their first year, but I know you, my darling, are much more capable. We need to know what he's up to—to help the Dark Lord."
Draco hid his embarrassment by staring down at his plate once more, picking at it miserably with a fork.
"He's dead," Lorraine stated. "I don't work for ghosts."
"Oh, but he's far from dead, my foxglove," her father butted in. She scowled at his name for her but allowed it nonetheless. If telling him no ever worked, then he would've dropped the name years ago.
"Okay," Lorraine said, "say he was still alive. Why me?"
"My dear, without you, we would've never found as many blood traitors as we did," her mother said softly. Lorraine had heard that too many times. It was all she ever heard—how amazing she was. Draco would always say it got to her head, that all she ever did was act as if she were better than everyone. If that was actually the case though, then Draco was more pathetic than she thought. What kind of fool would stick with someone who made them feel bad?
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