Alison walked back into her room exhausted and wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. So she was a bit surprised to find Paul sitting in her room, waiting for her.
'Where were you' he demanded, before she had a chance to say anything.
She ignored him. Seeing Brett again had been painful. All the cutting accusations that Oliver had thrown at her had come flooding back. She had spent the better part of the last two hours willing herself not to succumb to the onslaught of tears that were pricking relentlessly at the back of her eyelids. The last thing she needed was for Paul to get on her case for missing the opportunity to meet some incredibly influential and inevitably, boring celebrity.
'Please leave, Paul,' she said, her voice breaking slightly.
Paul looked carefully at her and realized that she was upset.
Realizing that he couldn't forge ahead with his predetermined speech when she was in this state of mind, he decided to change tactics. He draped one arm comfortingly across her shoulders and brushed her hair off her forehead with the other.
'What's the matter, Ally? Something happened…something bad?' he asked
While Alison realised and appreciated the fact that Paul was attempting to placate her, she didn't feel like being placated. She felt like sobbing until the tears stopped to flow. Too long had she bottled up her emotions.
'Paul…it's hard for me to be back in England. I just need some time to myself.'
Paul clenched his fists in exasperation, and fumed inwardly. But on the exterior, he maintained his calm demeanour.
'Sure, Ally,' he crooned, 'just call me when you feel better alright?'
Alison said nothing, but it was no less than what Paul has expected from her. Without another word, he left the room.
No sooner had he stepped into the corridor than a man about his age came rushing up to him, looking as though all was right in the world. The expression on his freckled face struck Paul as being out of place as the English wizarding community as a whole was mourning the national team's loss earlier that night. The man clasped Paul's hand and whispered, 'Pettigrew has been apprehended…Peter Pettigrew, the man who has been believed to be dead for as long as I can remember. And sources say that he might lead us straight to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'
Paul looked at the man, an expression of utter bewilderment on his face. At first, the man looked shocked that this news did not send Paul into fits of excitement and then he chuckled.
'You Americans don't know much about what happened here, do you? Never mind…let it just be said that the capture of this man might signal the end of the reign of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' said the man condescendingly, before skipping away down the corridor, possibly in search of someone else to whom to impart the news.
Paul walked quickly down the corridor in the opposite direction, and unlocked the door to his room. He stepped in and then shut the door behind him, throwing the room into pitch darkness. With a near animal howl of fury, he slammed his fist against the wall.
*That BASTARD!* he thought. *All he had to do was watch that Potter. But, no, he had to go and royally fucking screw up the plan. He just HAD to! I told the Dark Lord that we couldn't trust him!*
He made as if to Apparate, but stopped as pain shot through his forearm like a bolt of lightning. He pulled up the sleeve of his robe, and glanced at the serpent's head that stood out jet black against his pale skin. A shudder ran up his spine. So the Dark Lord already knew.
