Disclaimer: I only own the plot, Celestial Requiem (see disclaimers), and all characters you do not recognize.

Case #546: Harrison Evans
Claudia K. Matchison

"I don't get it," she moaned into her cell phone, one finger in her ear to block out the noise of the London traffic around her. She interrupted her conversation briefly to hurl curses at a tall man in a business suit who had collided with her as he was talking on his own cell phone. It was to be noted that the Englishman's comeback of 'bloody idiotic bint' paled in comparison of the vulgar profanity that she flung back at him. Dimly, she could hear the man on the other end of her conversation chuckling at what he could hear. She scowled at the phone – of course he would find that amusing. She was the one doing the major investigative work while he got to stay in the 'jolly good' States. Probably sitting at his desk, was the thought going through her head, maybe reading a Victoria's Secret magazine. Or a Playboy. "Adam! It's not funny!"

"What do you mean it's not funny, Claude?" her partner, 3000 miles across the Atlantic Ocean, replied back innocuously. "I'm sure you're educating the English in the ways of the New York American fantastically." There was a brief pause – broken by the sound of a page turning and a low whistle (introduce the rolling of eyes here) – before he answered again. "You've already cursed someone out. Have you run across a subway station really really fast, dodging everyone else with incredible skill? What about stealing someone's taxi? Proclaimed that rugby sucks and baseball is the true sport of men?"

She felt her patience waning as Adam continued to rattle off the stereotypical – and, for the most part, true – views of a common New Yorker on the move. She shivered slightly in the brisk November chill while waiting for Adam to…finish. The woman, athletically fit and toned, was standing against a building at Trafalgar Square, glaring at her cell phone with an intensity that caused others to stare. That could be the reason. It could also be because she was barely five feet tall in height – and she was not going to bother putting that in metric. She knew that she was short, but damned be anyone who dared mention it. The petite woman was a mature (so she thought) thirty years old, with short shoulder-length gold blond hair that looked as if she got caught in a fight with a scissor. Like she was going to spend upwards of fifteen dollars just to get a decent haircut when she could do it on her own. Her face was oval shaped, her lipstick a bright red, her hazel eyes narrowed in a dangerous combination of frustration, fatigue, annoyance, and utter rage. The part that she hated most about herself: her nose. She hoped to high heaven that if she ever had a child, that he or she would never inherit the large 'snoz' that she was supposedly gifted with.

Her nose was the only thing worse than her height that a person could use to thoroughly piss of Claudia K. Matchison, private investigator.

Many a criminal got a hefty punch for making fun of her about that particular feature when she joined the NYPD after graduating from college with degrees in forensics, criminology, criminal justice, and computer science.

It was one of the reasons she left the force after a few years. All those credentials and she was shunted to a thankless beat in Harlem. It wasn't so much that the people in the area where horrible – most of them were great with colorful stories and history. She had a lot of good times. However, there were always the bad eggs – pimps, drug dealers, gangs, the works. But when you're in a knife fight with some wannabe thug and all you have for backup is some pasty fat guy who could barely fire a decent shot much less help when it came hand-to-hand, then you'd leave too. Especially when said fat guy would steal your meager breakfast consisting of a bagel and a Starbucks coffee that did not taste as good as the ridiculous price demanded.

Yep, good ole Paulie deserved that black eye when she left.

"Adam, focus with me here and let's get back to work," she growled. Adam was certainly a step above Paulie, there was no denying that. But Adam Taylor was…a geek, to put it mildly. Tall, thin, Dungeons and Dragons obsessed, girlfriendless geek. But it was his…geekiness (largely with a computer) that enabled them to do their job. "We've got to find this guy or else we won't get that $75,000." And I could really use that money. Money like that didn't come 'round often in the world of private investigators.

Or at least to a small time firm like Wide Eye Investigators were.

"I know, I know," she heard him whine, followed by the telltale pounding of keyboard keys. As he typed away on whatever he was looking at, she tore savagely at the glazed donut she had bought from a vendor when leaving platform seven at King's Cross from Heathrow. Claude grimaced at the foreign taste, tearing her gaze over the milling crowds of native English and loud tourists to look at the pastry as if it were from an alien world. She was a cop – or was a cop, didn't matter. Donuts were sustenance. Donuts were life. And this…thing was not a donut.

But what else did she have? Apparently, these people needed to be introduced to a good NYC donut. And if she couldn't take the donut, then she was definitely staying away from the churros.

Claude's attention was turned back to her partner by his loud profanity. Which she had the pleasure of teaching him mostly, but they really didn't sound all too impressive when coming from him. "Nothing, Claude, absolutely nothing. I've got articles and various public appearances, pictures, critiques, some sites dedicated to him. About his life or origins, nada. Only way to contact him really is through boxes at the post office and an e-mail address: harrisonevans on Yahoo. There was more frantic typing. "Seriously, I can't get anything concrete on this guy. I was only able to pinpoint one thing."

"That is?" she prompted.

"The addresses of the major newspapers that he writes for," Adam elaborated. "He probably mails his articles to them. Or, if not, then they need an address to send the checks to." He cut her off as she was opening her mouth. "I know, I know, the P.O. boxes. But he was bound to leave his real address around somewhere. You know, before he got so big that he had to get them. He's a kid. I doubt he thought that far ahead to conceal his identity in the beginning of this foray of his."

Claude smiled grimly. Finally, we're getting somewhere. "It's something. Where to first then, Adam?"

"The home of the London Times," was the amused response. "Do put in a good impression. The Times here at home already flee at the mere sight of you. We don't need to be ruining years of companionship with Mother England because you go bursting in all with guns and fury."

"You just ruined the moment, Adam. Seriously, ruined it." Expertly balancing the phone on her shoulder while taking out a small pad and pen, Claude wrote down the address that Adam read off to her before ending the call. Knowing how newspapers were about their writers and sources (and believe it, she knew very well), they'd probably only give her a general area and not the direct address that she would have preferred. But if she could narrow it down to a smaller area, she had much more to work with. After she got what she wanted from the Times, she hit whatever area she was given the next day for more info.

It was a start considering what information that she did have on Evans amounted to what was listed (or rather, considering her quick hand, scrawled) on her pad.

Case #546
Objective: find Harrison Evans (writer), deliver to Mr. M.
Amount Due: $75,000 each to Claude and Adam

What we know:
-writer, extremely popular, quirky, intelligent
-good speaker, makes public appearances
-famous, and modest about it
-from England – town uncertain (suburban?)
-bad reputation, troublemaker cousin
-works under an alias – classmates do not know
-student – most likely high school, crashed a car on the grounds at one time
-single
-15 to 16 years of age, black hair (messy), eye color believed to be green or hazel
-friends with writer Helena Crawford (she rules!J)
-wears sunglasses most of the and post office boxes


Reason for Search:
-unknown, just told to locate and deliver (forcibly if necessary)
-something to do with gov't? Mr. M. a bureaucrat? Gov't agent? Gofer?
-Definitely a stuck-up snob (manicures his hands).

Little Whinging, Surrey prided itself on being the epitome of normality. Everyone had around the same income, the houses were clean and presentable, the people greeted each other with faux friendliness while talking behind said neighbors' backs and peeking into their rosebushes. There were soccer games and the occasional cocktail party. They wore the latest clothes (after a sale) and the adults bought expensive lattes as they left for work, while the children played and the teenagers indulged in typical teenage scruples. Completely and utterly ordinary, and that was exactly how the citizens of Little Whinging liked it. And they would train their children to like it, as their parents had, and therefore ensure a tiny community of 'well-meaning, civilized, normal folk'.

Therefore, that day at Little Whinging Elementary was something that all the children present would remember for a great deal of their lives. For what happened was as far from normal as they had ever encountered. According to later reports from parents, the said incident 'scarred' their children for life. Though the said person who had done the said 'scarring' would claim that she did those kids more good than those parents ever had. Most of those children – and they would agree when they grew up into adults – had to concur with her, particularly one solitary ten year old named Aloysius Samuels, who would grow up to be one of the best detectives England had ever seen.

The said 'disruptor of the peace' was one Claudia K. Matchison. And if one went by the law, they would have to agree that she did do just that. But no one wanted to tell that to her face. There was something about that short-tempered, extremely short, blonde American woman that no one wanted to cross. Though a security guard learned that the hard way when he tried to 'escort' her out.

It just wasn't everyday that a tiny woman managed to throw a nearly six-foot tall, a hundred and seventy-five pound man over her shoulder and floor him. Then, when said woman congratulated herself on a black belt in judo before flashing a badge and demanding that she speak with Principal Rawlins. Of course, the lunchtime aides didn't dare refuse her.

The building wasn't originally built to be a school…but it turned out that it became one anyway. The decision was made when the people of Little Whinging were less normal and altogether a lot more interesting. But those days were gone…sadly. So when Claude decided to leap over the fence to get inside the building, security was obviously shocked. And soon disposed of. The security guards of Little Whinging Elementary had never been in a situation like this (or any real situation to begin with for that matter) and therefore were not very well equipped for dealing with an ex-New York City cop on a mission who was also in serious need of some good caffeine (Claude despised tea).

Professor Rawlins, a prim graying woman that looked extremely out of place, looked up from behind her desk in alarm when Claude burst in, preceding the increasingly nervous aide. Closing the door in the aide's face, Claude strode forward and sat in one of the plastic chairs in front of the principal's desk. Rawlins, to her credit, decided to show no emotion to this newcomer. Which earned her points in Claude's estimation. But Claude wasn't looking for people that she actually had some respect for. She was out for information. That was it. "You must be…Kendra Rawlins, the principal of this school," she shot out, her accent sounding grating and coarse in this country. "I'm Claudia Matchison, an investigator. I was wondering if you might be able to help me with a case of mine."

Rawlins easily cleared her desk before leaning back to survey the blonde woman with suspicious gaze. "Excuse me if I'm not to forthright with you," she answered. "I find that I usually don't get American investigators trespassing on my school grounds and attacking my guards." Claude didn't bat an eyelash. Indeed, she had done worse. Just ask Bill Gates…yeah. That was an interesting adventure. "How can I help you then?" the principal asked coldly. "It's my experience that Americans are incredibly stubborn and wouldn't give up even if you slammed a door in their face."

Claude smiled grimly. "An accurate truth. I was hired to find a person, who happens to be a teenager. But he is hidden under an alias. My sources and inquiries led me to this town. As this is the only elementary school in the area, I figured I'd get a good start here."

"Why not the high schools?" Rawlins put forward. "If he's a teenager, it would be much better to look for him there."

"He doesn't go to a local high school," Claude answered simply. "He goes someplace else. But he does live here and most likely went to this school before heading off to who-knows-where." She took out her small notebook, taking out a pen as she did so. "Do you think you can help me out? School records may be off-limits, I'm aware, but someone might remember a person that fits his description."

The old principal sighed. "Just give me a physical description and a span of time. I'll probably be able to recall a few names for you. I've been working here for neigh forty years. If this kid is as intriguing as you're implying, then it shouldn't be too hard."

Claude grinned. I couldn't have asked for a better start. "He probably went here about…five to six years ago." The principal nodded, the wrinkles in her forehead creasing even deeper. "Let's see…messy black hair, hazel or green eyes, intelligent, a bit weird, bad reputation around the town-"

"Harry Potter," Rawlins interrupted.

Claude blinked. That was quick. "Harry Potter? That's who you think it is?"

Rawlins sighed and leaned back in her seat, folding her hands together in her lap. "It's most likely him. Your profile certainly fits what he's like." She closed her eyes, a slightly sorrowful expression falling on to her face. "A nice child, though he had a hard lot in life. The boy was small for his age, scrawny. Black hair as you said and green eyes like you wouldn't believe. Though he did wear glasses." Must be prescription lenses then. Evans wears sunglasses. "Polite little boy, he barely made a peep if he wasn't addressed to directly. He should be about sixteen by now. And he was certainly an oddity when he attended here. All these strange things happened around him."

"Strange things?" she asked, pen ready. "Can you elaborate?"

"Things I've never seen before in my life," Rawlins replied. "I remember a few of them. He turned his teacher's wig blue, managed to cause a small blaze in his seat on a very cold winter's day. I remember that he had a terrible flu at that time and was shivering like mad." She laughed shortly. "Even ended up on the roof. However, each and every time it looked as if he had no intention of actually doing it. Not consciously anyway." Okay…we got here 'quirky' alright. Though what does it all mean? "Though he was quite intelligent and insightful, though too jaded for his age in my opinion. He had few friends and was always a loner. We tried to get him to see the psychologist here, but his guardians wouldn't allow it." The elderly lady shook her head sadly. "You can tell that they hated the poor child. They seemed to think that everything that went wrong was his fault, including their son's far from stellar performance in class." She frowned in thought. "I assume that was why little Harry kept his grades lower. You could tell by talking to him that he was extremely smart, but he received only C's. Dudley, however, was A-level. I always had the suspicion that Harry was doing Dudley's homework for him."

"Dudley?" Claude asked. "Was that his brother?"

"No, I wouldn't wish that on the poor child. Dudley was his cousin. Harry has lived with his aunt and uncle since he was one." Seeing Claude's annoyed expression (annoyed that she didn't know what that meant), Rawlins went on. "Harry was an orphan. His parents died in a car crash. I know that his aunt and his mother never got on too well. Petunia was practically broadcasting how her sister dumped her child on them, that they were such saints for taking him in." An infuriated sniff. "That woman is no saint. Either she was paid to take care of Harry or someone scared her into doing so."

Evans mentioned a cousin a couple of times in his articles. There seemed to be no love lost there. Perhaps this is whoever Dudley is? "Can you describe Dudley for me, Ms. Rawlins?"

Claude felt that she had hit the wrong note when an angry scowl replaced the reminiscent expression on the principal's face. "Dudley Dursley," she muttered angrily. "I never want him around my school ever again. An overweight spoiled brat, I got calls from parents all the time complaining about him. But I couldn't do much; nearly everyone was scared of him and if not him, then that monstrosity of a father. Anyone who dared to stand up to him were usually beat up by Dudley and his gang. They particularly picked on Harry." Overweight…afraid of being crushed, maybe? This Dudley should meet my cousin Dennis. Both of them are jerks. They could kill each other and leave the world all the more a better place. "His parents however were adamant that their darling son was a complete and utter angel. That Harry was much worse. I know that he was hardly intelligent, but as I said before, he probably got others to do his work for him."

"What's he doing now?"

"He goes off to some uppity private school – to the relief of the local parents – called Smeltings. Though I see him around smoking pot with his friends and vandalizing parks and cars. I wouldn't be surprised if he was doing worse." Rawlins was still scowling. "From what I know, they've sent Harry off to some institution for the criminally insane or some other nonsense. St. Brutus, or something like that. It gives him a bad reputation around here. People around here tend to avoid him like the plague. I personally have never seen him do anything wrong."

Dudley is certainly toeing the law and they don't get along. And this Harry also has a bad reputation around here. Claude smiled grimly. It certainly seemed that Harry Potter was the elusive Harrison Evans. The pieces seemed to fit. All she needed to do was contact Adam to check out the school listings if this St. Brutus place had Harry Potter attending. If not, then she probably hit the mark. Meanwhile, she would check out 'little Harry's' guardians. Maybe have a small talk with his cousin, too…

Yeah, that would be fun. Insert evil maniacal laughter.

If there was one thing that Claude hated most in the world, it was repetition. And Privet Drive seemed to be the epitome of it. Of course, she couldn't do anything about it. She was an officer of the law – in her own way – and therefore responsible for maintaining order and peace in the world, no matter where she was. But this was order and peace to the extreme. She wanted nothing more than to rip out those 'lovely' hydrangeas and throw them here and there. Possibly spray a few of those annoyingly white picket fences with some mud. Tear up some concrete. Perhaps get out the spray paint and proclaim that she was 'here'. Sadly, that tether of law bound her from doing so.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't an officer. The law can be a piece of crap at times…okay, most of the time. She grimaced at the two women talking wildly to each other across their fences, decked out in a gala of flowery garden clothing. They in turned looked at her with blatant disapproval, their eyes lingering on her oversized beige army fatigue shirt and tight khakis, complete with black combat boots. Hey, she was fighting a metaphorical war to find this guy. She was not wasting her life away making sure the impatiens were growing in perfect clumps perpendicular to the marigolds and forty-five degrees diagonally from the primroses. Claude actually did something with her time.

As she approached the residence of Vernon Dursley at 4 Privet Drive, her cellular phone rang. Pulling the small device out of its clip on her belt, she greeted simply, "Matchison."

"It's me," Adam's voice came across smoothly. "I got what you wanted. There is a St. Brutus'. More accurately, a St. Brutus' Institute for Incurably Criminal Boys. It has to be this one because there isn't any others anywhere near Surrey. You should see this place, it's like a prison! They've got guards, gruel, and the whole nine yards. Reminds me of Riker's Island…at least it isn't as bad as Sing-Sing-" A low growl alerted him to the fact that he was rambling. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. No record of a Harry Potter. Though there is something strange…"

"What?"

"There's a whole slew of stuff on Harry Potter. It's all weird stuff too…about magic and all. And some bloke named…well, I don't know what his name is. They keep calling him 'You-Know-Who' and 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'." More typing in the background, though Claude continued down the street as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. Though she was getting quite a few stares. These were easily disposed with a practiced glare. "It's all weird stuff…with the occult and witchcraft. Even…wizardry? They practically have everything about him written down here. Including a quite a few shrines by lovelorn girls."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Claude demanded.

"Doesn't look like it. There are sites in English, German, Spanish, Greek, Russian, Swahili, Chinese – this is international! This is can't be a joke. Though it says the name of his school is…Hogwarts." Hogwarts…now that does sound like a joke. "They also mention a lot of stuff about a war, wizards and witches, honestly it sounds like a farce. But there's just too many to say that it isn't one."

She frowned in thought, wondering what this could all mean. This Harry Potter had more things hidden about him than she figured. Which made her all the more curious. Well, even if this kid isn't Evans, I want to meet him. There must be something up if everyone claimed he went to a school named Hogwarts, had international websites dedicated to him, and so it appeared heavily involved in witchcraft. Not that she had anything against the Wicca community, which she assumed this 'witchcraft' and 'wizardry' this was about. As long as it didn't go into cult status, they could believe what they wanted to believe. Though she was always a bit skeptical of the beliefs that those people held. She did not want to hear that donuts were 'disgusting creations' and were looked down upon by 'the Goddess'.

Her niece could stay with the 'Goddess' then for all she cared. She was staying Catholic then. For if there was a just and loving God, he would love donuts too. And if he didn't…well, then there was just something wrong with the divine creator, that's for sure.

"I'll check out the uncle on the lead I got," Claude said tersely. "People seem to be afraid of him around here, so this will be fun."

"Just don't get arrested," was the last message before he hung up.

Adam's warning was completely ignored. For Claude did get arrested…sort of. More accurately, the local police were called in and realized that she was practicing 'self-defense'. So she gave Vernon Dursley a black eye and kneed him in the groin. He certainly deserved it. And it definitely qualifies as self-defense if he was going at her with a rifle that he had kept near under the sofa.

…Okay, he just 'threatened' her with it. He didn't actually shoot. But no one calls her a 'big-nosed freak' and gets away with it. Besides, it should also count in self-defense when Dursley's miniature self i.e. his son tries to knock her out by using some boxing moves. If anything, he should have learned in that preppy school this one fact: don't go on and on about your abilities before you take your opponent out. Besides, he had an extremely weak left hook. When her right smashed into his nose, it was like sinking into putty. And lil' Dudley made quite a big bang when he fell to the ground unconscious.

Whoever this Harry Potter was, he had the patience of a saint.

But if there was one thing that she was not used to, it was having a white snowy owl deliver notes. Particularly from people that she was looking for. It was by far a first; the person was contacting her and not the other around. The owl that was perched on the sill of her hotel window didn't seem to like her much, for it just ruffled its feathers in a sort of hostile fashion (why, she didn't know, but maybe it was just protective of its master) before it flew off, leaving the note behind. She was amused, needless to say, when she read the letter it returned to her. The note was written on a strange kind of paper, the handwriting was written in ink…like from a quill pen.

I was quite surprised to find that my whereabouts have come under such scrutiny. Don't think that you're the only one who has ways of finding out information. Though I admit that you're much better than the previous ones that have tried to find me. Has a Mr. M. approached you about me? I advise you to discontinue your contact with him. For even if you do succeed in bringing me to Mr. M. (or, as I know him, Mr. Malfoy) as he calls himself, he won't pay you. He would kill you. It's up to you to pay attention to my warning or not.

But other than that, congratulations. You have found out that the disadvantaged, poor Harry Potter is Harrison Evans. You're the only one that has actually come this far. Why do I do what I do? I have my reasons.

I suppose you would like for us to meet. If I go by how my luck seems to serve me, no doubt it will be soon. I'll be waiting for you, Ms. Matchison. But until then, we'll just have to be patient.

---Harry Potter (Harrison Evans)

There was no denying it. Harry Potter was one intriguing individual.

Case #546
Harry Potter is Harrison Evans. That much I'm sure about.
Where he is at the moment is another matter.
But God help me I'm going to find this guy. If he wants to play a game of cat-and-mouse, then we'll play all right. I have the feeling that this kid will make it fun. And I haven't had fun like this in a long time.
Bring it on, Harry Potter.

---Claudia K. Matchison, private investigator