Alison curled up on the enormous sofa in the corner of the hotel room. Her hands trembled as she ripped open the seal on the letter. For the past five years, her father's letters had arrived as regularly as clockwork at the end of every month.
*But today's the 15th * she thought worriedly. *Why would he write in the middle of the month?*
She unfolded the letter and read it through. Her eyes widened with shock as her mind registered the content of the letter. She rubbed her eyes disbelievingly and read the letter through again. Finally, she put the letter down. Her only thought was to get to a copy of that day's newspaper.
'PAUL!' she yelled. 'PAUL!!!!!!'
The door burst open and a panting Paul appeared in the doorway, his wand brandished like a drawn sword. His eyes swept around the room, and when he could find no intruder, he lowered his wand and narrowed his eyes at Alison.
'You hollered, madam?' he asked sarcastically.
Ignoring his tone, Alison hissed, 'When EXACTLY were you planning on telling me about the story in today's newspaper?'
'No-one said that you were not to read the newspaper. All you had to do was ask for it,' replied Paul evasively.
Alison opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again in exasperation. Silly arguments were Paul's forte. He could twist her words around like nobody else could and she invariably ended up losing any verbal contest.
'Could I please see the newspaper, Paul?' she asked in as sweet a voice as she could muster.
'Certainly, Ally.'
Moments later, Alison was alone in her room again, this time holding the newspaper in her hand, her mouth open with shock and frustration. "Alison Adams to sing at World Cup" proclaimed the headlines in glaring block letters. She collapsed onto the bed and groaned under her breath. Paul came in and sat next to her on the bed.
'I told you that it would be impossible to keep it a secret. Why would you WANT to keep it a secret?' he asked.
'Because…because the last thing I need is to see anyone from my past.'
'Like Oliver Wood?'
'NO!' she exclaimed vehemently. 'I couldn't care less about him. I meant…other people like…my father…and Harry too. I don't need to see them now, not when I'm just starting to get used to them not being around.'
'And now they know…' added Paul sympathetically. 'And that's what your father's letter was about?'
'Yeah…he was trying to sound calm about it, but he was really excited, I could tell.' She paused for a moment and then said 'Paul?'
'Yeah?'
'Is there any way I can back out of this deal now?'
Paul shook his head sadly but firmly.
'Do you not love him at all, Ally? Your father, I mean' he asked.
'What?!?! I DO! I love him so much. He wasn't around for most of my childhood and it was like they were driving a stake deeper into my soul when people told me that he was…'
'That he was what?'
'All right, Paul. I'll go to England. I'll sing at the World Cup…'
Paul sighed. This was a common fixture of his conversations with Alison. Every time he brought up her father, or Oliver, or England for that matter, she would simply clam up, or as she had in this case, change the subject entirely.
*****
Cedric glanced down at the crumpled newspaper in his hands. The headlines all over the world were the same, Cedric knew, for he had checked. And the last thing that Oliver needed was to know that in four short days, Alison would be back in the country for the first time in five years.
As he watched Oliver stumbling around the room, grumbling about a headache and searching in vain for his shoes that Cedric knew were under the bed, he wondered for the millionth time what had gone so horribly wrong between Oliver and Alison. When Cedric had heard that the two had gone their separate ways, his utter shock and disbelief had known no bounds. The next day, he had arrived in Puddlemere only to find Oliver in an alcohol-induced stupor in his living room. But although in the time that had passed since that day, Oliver and Cedric had grown closer than brothers, the latter had never managed to unearth the secret of that fateful day.
Cedric was startled from his thoughts by a knock at the door. When he opened the door, it was to find Harry standing in the doorway looking as anxious as Cedric felt. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Oliver wouldn't see his next gesture, Cedric shook his head silently and placed his finger on his lips.
'He doesn't know yet…and Harry, tell the team to keep quiet about it. The last thing we need is for Oliver to go off on another alcohol binge –' whispered Cedric.
'What's going on? Who is it?' called Oliver from the bedroom.
'It's just me,' replied Harry, in a forced voice.
'Harry! Come on in…Christ, you look tense. Is something the matter?' asked Oliver.
'You're not ill, are you?' he added anxiously.
'No, no, I'm fine. I…uh, I was just bored in my room, so I decided to come see what you were doing' lied Harry quickly. Fortunately for him, Oliver didn't notice the hesitation in his voice.
'You haven't seen the paper anywhere, have you?' asked Oliver distractedly. 'There should be an article in there on the press conference I gave yesterday.'
Both Cedric and Harry suffered a momentary pang of panic as Oliver looked around the chaotic room for that day's newspaper. Disgruntled when he couldn't find it, he started to make his way down to the reception to insist that they send up a newspaper to his room. Cedric looked around the room frantically as he tried to come up with some reason why Oliver should stay in the room, and almost by some form of divine intervention, he caught sight of the previous day's newspaper lying in the wastepaper basket, looking entirely untouched. Hoping that Oliver wouldn't bother to check the date on the newspaper, he reached for it with a forced chuckle.
'You threw it away, you idiot. Honestly, Oliver, I worry about your sanity' he said as he handed a very confused Oliver the previous day's newspaper. And then, before Oliver could notice the date, the two walked out of the room with promises to meet Oliver downstairs in an hour. Oliver watched them leave bemusedly.
*That's strange* he thought. *I don't remember throwing this away! I must really be losing my mind. That would NOT do! * And with that, Oliver let the whole thing slip and his mind wandered back to the more important matters at hand, namely the preparations for the Quidditch Cup Final that was to be played in four days.
*****
'Hadn't you better start packing, Ally?' asked Paul tentatively when he walked into her room to find her reading a book.
When Alison merely grunted in reply, Paul sighed loudly and pulled her trunk out from under the large bed. He then turned around and stared expectantly at Alison. When he still received no response, he decided to resort to more subtle measures in order to get Alison to pack her bags.
'I'll pack for you then,' he said loudly and moved his hand to undo the large brass buckle on the suitcase. In the twinkling of an eye, Alison stood beside him and pushed his hand away. Trying to hide his amusement, Paul shrugged and walked out of the room, leaving Alison to do the packing.
Alison glared after him. Just as he always did, Paul had managed to get his way again. Alison muttered grumpily under her breath as she struggled to undo the old buckle on the suitcase. She hadn't opened this particular suitcase since she had arrived in America five years earlier and had used it to stow her warm clothes, clothes that she had not needed in the sunny climes of America, clothes that she would need now that she was returning to England.
Suddenly, without warning, the buckle gave way and the trunk sprang open. A little startled, Alison stepped backwards onto a magazine that was lying open on the ground. The next thing she knew, she was lying on her back staring up at the ceiling of her room. Wincing as she got up, she glared at the trunk, partially convinced that the stars were conspiring against her. She summoned a newer, empty trunk from the other room and then began to transfer the warm clothes into it. She had half emptied the old trunk when she came upon a pair of ragged socks.
*Why on earth did I keep that?* she thought to herself as she threw them over her shoulder. The socks hit the wall and then fell to the ground behind her. But in addition to the soft thud that Alison had been expecting, there came a slightly metallic clink as the socks fell to the ground. Puzzled, Alison turned to see what had made the unexpected noise. Her pulse accelerated and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the slender silver chain that Oliver had given her on a moonlit night so many years earlier.
The rational part of her brain told her to throw it away, to keep her resolution to herself not to dwell on the past, but Alison had never felt less inclined to listen to the voice of reason within her head. She stared at the chain for a few seconds, almost as though she were willing it to speak to her, to tell her what to do, but when it remained silent, she let her instincts take over. She bent down and picked up the chain. The silver felt cool and smooth against her skin and memories of the night when it had first rested against her skin threatened to overwhelm her. Almost as a compromise, Alison tucked it back into the old socks, which she then tossed into the trunk that she was packing. She then continued to pack, pushing all thoughts of the past firmly from her head.
*It's a nice chain. That's the only reason I'm keeping it. It has no sentimental value whatsoever* she argued silently.
*Tsk, tsk* said a small voice within her head. *You really shouldn't lie to yourself, Alison*
'Oh, sod off!' she cried out loud, and then chuckled.
*Wow, I'm talking to myself now. I must really be going nuts* she thought.
*****
