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

Case #546: Harrison Evans
Chapter Two: Common Sense

"The last time anybody made a list of the top hundred character attributes of New Yorkers, common sense snuck in at number 79."
- Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless

On the whole, no one on Privet Drive was very happy. The weather didn't help much either. The rain was coming down in sheets and nothing was spared from its cold wet touch. The residents of Little Whinging, Surrey never liked rain all that much – sprinkles certainly, but a rain like this was undoubtedly unnatural in their minds. This all was connected in some grand scheme to the intruder into their quiet neighborhood. This intruder was abnormal and freakish with her strange clothing, strange looks, strange accent, and especially with her questions. She was disrupting the traditional and normal atmosphere of their little suburb by making people question things other than whether their impatiens were growing perpendicular to the marigolds this growing season or whether Pamela dumped John for her lover Christopher on their favorite daytime soap opera. The children were pursuing other interests than what their parents wanted and had taken to following the woman around to see what would happen, as many interesting things tended to take place around her. There were a number of people, if they had anything to say about it, would have her thrown out of town. Those who dwelled on Privet Drive were the stalwart vanguards of this notion. However, the intruder had proven both wily…and violent.

To tell the truth, extremely violent. And while the Little Whingingians would prefer to keep their little town in its boring peace, it would do nothing to defend this so called right. The truth was, they were quite scared of this woman. Though it had to be admitted that most people who had ever met this woman turned out to be scared of her anyway, so this was not unusual. It was unfortunate that the people of Little Whinging didn't know this – it might have brought them some comfort in that they weren't weird.

This woman had a name – Claudia Kathleen Matchison. She was born, raised, and usually lived in New York City in the United States of America. She was a former police officer with the New York Police Department and was now currently a private investigator.

It should also be noted that she wasn't particularly happy either. She never liked monotonous and dull places. This was why she always preferred the cities – there was always something going on and if you were boring, then you were abnormal. A strange concept, but it was true. And after nearly a full month of being out of her element – namely the United States, where people drove on the right side of the road – and in quite possibly Britain's most uninteresting milieu, she was getting antsy. And Claude wasn't a person who should be antsy.

She was right now standing in the middle of a public park, one that seemed to be vandalized not too long ago. Claude could easily tell who did the job – there was only one person she could equate with 'Big D'. And she had to admit that compared to what defacement she had seen back home, these kids had no idea what they were doing. And she had the feeling that one of them spelled his name wrong – Malicolm? Probably started out writing the gang name and ended up with adding a letter to his real one. Yeah. The small blonde woman sneered at this. She was most unimpressed.

Claude was wearing her boots, of course. There would be no other kind of shoe that would be able to stand this kind of weather. She had worn a dark blue raincoat over her black jeans and red turtleneck sweater, one brown gloved hand holding on to the handle of her green umbrella and the other on a cell phone. To those that tended to follow her around, it seemed that she always was perpetually annoyed with something when talking to the person on the other end.

Today was no different.

"Not one place, Adam! Not even one!" she ranted over the overseas connection to her 'tech support' and partner, Adam Taylor. It did not help that he was probably warm and dry in their New York office while she was three thousand miles away getting soaked to the skin. There was a turning of a page and a low whistle – Claude felt her already meager patience wearing thin. "Adam!"

Pause, before a tentative, "Yes? You were saying?"

"I pay you to help me with the computer, not to look at God-knows what dirty magazine you're looking at right now! You've got three seconds to respond or I hop on the soonest jet to New York and beat the living crap out of you!"

"…You're not in a good mood, I take it."

"What was your first clue?"

There was a renewed typing of keys, though Claude swore that she heard the turning of a page in between the rapping. "Listen, Claude," Adam said long-sufferingly, as he had been privy to her outbursts for a long time. "I'm sure that Britain has plenty of good donut places and quite a few places to get a decent coffee. You're just being stubborn about it and can't face the fact that there might be places in the world that serve just as good, if not better, donuts and coffee than back here in New York. And I'm also sure that Juan Valdez doesn't have a special preference for the Big Apple."

"Just saying that should be a crime, Adam. And I've certainly haven't found anything remotely resembling a good coffee here. The last one I had looked and tasted like shit, therefore I am inclined to believe that's exactly what it was."

"You're being unreasonable, Claude. Besides, you never know. British people probably find our teas and cookies…or biscuits; I don't know what they call 'em…revolting. No doubt they consider us heathens. Or at least unhealthily inclined." He allowed her a second to overcome her growing annoyance with him. "So! Found anything new on Evans? Excuse me, I mean, Potter?"

"One thing from his aunt. That's about it and it took a lot of threatening and other punch to her darling husband's pasty and hairy face to get it. Everything else was nothing that I don't already know," Claude answered tonelessly. "I get the same thing everywhere. He's a freak, he's a delinquent, he's a troublemaker, he's an ungrateful twerp that takes advantage of his good and decent relatives, he's a boil on the ass of society."

"Did they really say that last one?"

"No, but that's what it amounted to. They were much more polite about it than I was. They say that his cousin is a complete angel – those were their words – compared to him. They actually say this kid has no place in this town. And those were the adults. The kids were more brutal."

"Of course, they're kids. Remember the Ferguson case?"

"Put side by side with the Brooklyn kids who testified there about Ferguson and these kids, they're country bumpkins when it comes to cursing."

"They probably heard about you and your tremendous vocabulary and tried to impress you."

He is so lucky I'm across an ocean, she thought irritably. "Did you getting anything more on this Potter kid? We know he's Evans, but we've got no idea how to contact him." She scowled at the graffiti decorating the metal slide, though her anger was more focused toward the mysterious boy she had never met. "I don't like having the people I'm looking for not only know that I'm on to them, but also having them contact me!"

"I know, Claude, but I haven't gotten anything more than we already know. Yes, I've checked out for this Hogwarts place!" he declared before she could say anything further. "While I am getting informationabout the school, I'm getting nothing on where it is. And I'm getting really bored with all these stories about their founders. Honestly, just the sheer amount of praise given to this Gryffindo-or guy makes the other Slyth-something person seem justified. And what kind of name is Hufflepuff?"

"Adam…" Claude growled.

"Yes, Claude, I'm aware that I'm missing your point, but I just wanted to share with you the fact that one of their founders had a name that sounds like something you would call those marshmallow peeps that they sell at Easter."

Claude disliked Little Whinging for another reason and that was the fact that it provided her with very little information that she wanted. All that the citizens seemed to give her were the farces and deceptions that Harry Potter seemed to have put up his entire life. The only semblance of truth that she managed to find out about the boy came from Principal Rawlins of the elementary school. For that she was eternally grateful, but there was still the fact that an entire town had not even the tiniest inkling of the true nature of a boy who had grown up among them for years. Why was that?

After much goading (a great deal of it, plus some payback on 'dear Vernon'), she managed to find the former address of Harry Potter's parents. From what she heard around town, they had died in a car crash and Harry had been the only survivor. She didn't like the story – to her ears, it sounded a bit too far-fetched, especially considering how much Potter had done to conceal his personality and past – but it was a start.

All she found was a ruin. And it was still raining. After being nearly killed in her rental car because she still hadn't quite mastered driving on the left or having the steering wheel on the right, this wasn't something she was very happy with. In short, the short woman with a short fuse threw a short tantrum. It wasn't out of disrespect or anything. She was just upset.

She was only left with one option. Claude did not like it – especially since she was drenched (throwing her umbrella to the ground and cursing had been part of the tantrum), she went around to the neighbors. What she found were three abandoned houses, an old woman who thought that she was her niece Patricia (it was later explained that Patricia hadn't visited in ten years and the old woman was hoping that she would come back), and finally the last neighbor was a crotchety old man whom everyone else called Jimmy. Crazy Jimmy.

To her, it sounded as if he were some happy guy that liked to swing dance. Lunatic Jimmy would have been more appropriate for calling someone insane in her mind, but she could only assume that the people of Godric's Hollow never assumed that anyone would come up with that image in their head anyway.

Why was Jimmy crazy? The villagers said that he always saw strange things happening, particularly strange things concerning the young Potter couple that had lived in the now collapsed house. This interested her. Jimmy used to say that he saw the young husband pop in and out of thin air, wearing long bathrobes. He also swore the red-haired wife used magic beams of light to help her garden grow and make things float to amuse their son, who sometimes even did it on his own. He said a preposterous thing on the day that they died – that they were home and some man came in and fired green shots of light at them, making the two adults fall dead. And then there was a third flash of green light, two screams (a baby's and an adult's), before the house collapsed and he saw some kind of dark shadow moving from the scene, slithering across the ground like a snake. To make the tale even more fantastical, a giant and a wild young man on a flying motorcycle fought over the somehow still surviving child.

Yep. Crazy Jimmy.

Even though they had been gone neigh over fifteen years, Jimmy still kept a vigilant eye on the ruins of the old Potter house. He claimed that he still saw people pop in from time to time, as of late an old man with a long white beard. Of course, no one believed him.

When Claude decided to meet with this man and spoke to him, she came to one conclusion. He was an embittered atheist, but the sort of atheist who does not so much disbelieve in God as personally dislike him. Why? Because God obviously didn't like him as much as those other people who had all the 'magic powers'.

Talking to him was like pulling out teeth. Not that Claude could do that if she wanted to – but she had great confidence in her skills at improvisation. The old man then flashed her a wide set of empty gums before putting in his dentures. Apparently, someone had beaten me to it…Claude wasn't too badly fazed by this action, as it was something she was used to practically all her life. Uncle Maurice and Aunt Sophie back in Brooklyn loved doing that during New Year's, while they argued over the eggnog. Only Crazy Jimmy did not wield dangerous ladles and crystal drinking glasses.

Violence was deemed hereditary among all Matchisons.

"NYPD," the old man growled – because he didn't exactly speak, and Claude had a low tolerance for British accents anyway (and here she was in the country itself…irony) – "what the blooming hell does that mean?" Claude's eyes narrowed in frustration and annoyance as she dug her hands deeper into her dark blue vinyl jacket, 'NYPD' emblazoned in white along with her (former) number. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight baseball cap, threaded through her New York Yankees baseball hat. Beige khakis were tucked into her black army boots, one of which was tapping against the floorboards of the porch impatiently. She was sure that the old man was purposely doing this to annoy her.

Personally, she believed that there was some kind of overall conspiracy against her in this case. And it seemed as if the leader of this whole drama was Harry Potter, more widely known as Harrison 'international-figure-teenage-heartthrob-annoyingly-mysterious-kid-who's-freakin'-hard-to-find' Evans. She had come up with all that by herself. Whoo-freakin'-hoo. It meant nothing because she hadn't found him. So while frivolous and multi-hyphenated epithets were amusing, they were far from helpful.

The fact that the kid outsmarting her was little more than half her age did not help her (or her general mood) in the very least.

"New York Police Department," she answered curtly, trying to keep her impatience and displeasure reined in and not to lash out. "Now I'd like to ask you about-"

"You're from York? Don't lie to me, gel, you aren't from York! Your accent is all wrong. Didn't anyone teach you how to speak proper English?"

For a moment, she wanted to forget that old rule about respecting elders and snap back just like she would if she were dealing with some punk wannabe thug back in the city. Surely, no one would actually miss Crazy Jimmy, would they? Probably not, but she was still an officer of the law, to her chagrin. "New York," Claude enunciated slowly, her voice clipped and sharp. "I'm not British, I'm from the United States."

"Well, that explains why you can't speak English right," the old man quipped back, leaning back in his rocking chair and grinning madly. "Lousy Americans. You're all a bunch of hyped up savage egotists. No class."

"Thank you," she answered back sarcastically, preferring not to think about how close that description matched her own personality…and trying to ignore Adam's laughter through her cell-phone's headphone/microphone (Adam had too much time on his hands and created it, Claude didn't ask for details as she wasn't very interested in the whole technological aspect or the patent pending and economic benefits of it, only if it worked or not). "Now, I just want to ask you some-"

"If you're a bobby from the States, what in the bloody knickers are you doing here? You're off by a keen three thousand miles, you know." There was a conspiracy against her. There just had to be. "Get lost or something?"

She resisted the urge to maim. Unbeknownst to her at the time, she had broken the record for how long she could keep her temper. "I don't know what the hell you meant with calling me a 'bobby', you senile old man," she answered testily, using emphasis. "But I used to be a police officer. I'm a private investigator and now I'm getting annoyed!" By the end of her tirade, she was shouting.

"Now that's just rude," the old man answered back, sour. "You want to know about the Potters. Right?" He reached over and picked up a cigar from a nearby glass ashtray, which was obviously stolen by some hotel. He lit it, and blew a smoke-ring at her, which Claude promptly wafted away. She wrinkled her nose at the stench – they weren't Cubans, that was for sure. "That's why anyone comes to me these days. And I stand by what I said to all those others!" Jimmy shook his cigar patronizingly at her, as if she were some kind of unruly (or stupid) student in need of discipline. "Snake-man showed up, blew them away with a flash of green light. Two screams, one a baby's. Then a guy comes with his flying motorcycle – guy looks like he's in shock. Then some giant – not joking here, gel, don't give me that look – an actual giant-"

Claude only had time to register a red beam of light hurtling straight at her before everything went black.

She slowly fought through the layers of haziness that floated in her skull, her hazel eyes opening and blinking bemusedly as she regained her consciousness. As she shook her head to clear it, she made to lift her hands to her head…to find that she could not move them. Immediately, Claude snapped to attention, jerking the hands bound behind her back to the backbone of a hard straight-backed chair but unable to free herself.

Not good, she thought to herself. Really not good.

She took a moment to briefly assess her surroundings. It was a small room, unremarkable and plain, gray walls and floor. A large glass mirror, gilded and bordered by obscenely tacky obese cherubs, did not reflect her image. She squinted to see more, but the overhead lighting was dim. There was only one exit – the strong-looking metal door tucked away in the corner. The table in front of her was made of hefty hardwood, in which someone had the courtesy of carving in the words: "Dark Lord Forever, 1980." Was that a strange kind of rock star or something? Maybe this 'Dark Lord' was a heavy metal singer who went on tour back then. It was the kind of thing she would have done back when she was a kid and a huge fan of KISS.

It should be noted that her large teenage crush on Gene Simmons had been stamped out completely when she discovered the joys of Indiana Jones. But moving on.

"Claude? Claude, can you hear me? God, Claude, answer me!"

"Loud and clear," she muttered softly. "I've just woken up, idiot."

"Speak up, I can barely hear you. There's a huge amount of static and buzzing!"

"Not taking that chance. They might be watching me. You're my backup."

"I don't believe it has ever occurred to you that I'm nearly three thousand miles away across a perpetually growing Atlantic Ocean, has it?"

"It has, now be quiet!" she hissed. "Someone's coming in. Maybe you'll hear them, too. Can you record through this damned contraption?"

"Yeah. Give me a sec…it's on."

"Good," she breathed. Whatever she was about to face, she would be able to look back on it later. If she weren't alive to tell the tale, then Adam would make damn sure that he made those damn bastards that killed her pay. She'd haunt him to his own death if he didn't.

The metal door opened and a tall young man with red hair and horn-rimmed glasses walked in, looking rather frustrated and annoyed, fixing her with the kind of glare that implied she was deliberately ruining whatever his routine was. The kind of guy that annoyed Claude immensely – the type that was so straight and narrow that his hair had to be parted as well…

A bright smile was on Claude's face as she packed away her things into her suitcase. She made sure to include everything of hers – all her papers, her clothes, her necessities, everything. She left a large tip to the hotel room service in the appropriate dish, but also made sure that everything was somewhat clean to make their job easier. It was the least she could do after all: she had spent the last couple of months there. Claude was unhappy to look back and find times when she was unbearably rude and boorish to the staff.

She shook her head in dismay. Perhaps she should apologize. Or at least leave a larger tip.

Looking around the plain and simple hotel room, her face was once again lit up by a bright grin. There! All done! And I didn't even steal the hotel toiletries or pillows! This was, in her mind, a huge accomplishment. Especially since her flat was home to several items that had homes originally in various Ramadas, Holiday Inns, and the occasional Plaza. The aforementioned items included a rather tacky lamp that was her cramped New York apartment's primary source of lighting.

…Maybe I should return that too, she wondered, before shrugging and picking up her suitcase, also shouldering the duffle bag containing all her electronic things. Speaking of which, the bag – blue and orange for the New York Mets baseball team – had started to ring. Claude sighed loudly before deposit all her bags to the floor.

She managed to dig her cell phone out from underneath her laptop and Walkman, though briefly letting annoyance fly across her mind before it was veiled once again in abject cheerfulness. Maybe it was Adam! She hadn't spoken to him since yesterday. Hopefully he would still consent to speak to her – she was rude to him a lot in the past. But he really did need to get out of that office of theirs or his apartment. Meet a girl. Get laid. Be a normal man in his twenties, not slaving over a computer and drooling over glossy pages of brushed up busty blondes.

"Claude! Thank goodness I've caught you-"

"Hello, Adam! How are you?" she enthused.

There was a short pause. "I am speaking to Claudia K. Matchison, right."

"Yes," Claude answered. "You know it's me."

There was some more typing, what sounded like a tape recorder playing in the background, and several loud curses (which mortified her sensitive ears and refined manners!) before Adam returned to the phone. "Claude? You still there?"

"Adam, what's going on?" she asked, now concerned. What if he's sick? Maybe I've overworked him! Lord knows he doesn't eat right with all that fast food and those instant noodles! "You're not ill, are you?"

"No, I'm not," was the terse reply. "Though you probably are. Whatever that 'obliviate' thing they did to you, it certainly messed you up."

"What on bloody – okay, I understand. You're sick and you won't admit it. Don't worry; I'll be back to the States in a couple hours. Then I'll give you a week's vacation with pay. That sound good, love?"

"For fucking sake, you're speaking in a British accent!" Adam shouted back, with a small mutter of 'and a bad one, too' following. "No, you're staying right where you are! You are not under any circumstances coming home. We've still got the Harrison Evans case to close – or at most come to a place where we can back out with dignity."

Claude blinked in confusion. "Harrison Evans? I've never heard of anyone named that. Harrison Ford, then God, yes, but-"

Adam interrupted her, "What did you do yesterday?"

"I saw the sights of London," Claude answered, frustration now beginning to tinge her voice. "I had just come down from Liverpool, where I saw the Beatles' hometown and everything. You know how they're my favorite band of all time."

There was a crash and then silence dragged on for a full three minutes this time. To realize the full extent of Claude's effect, one had to see what was going inside a small office in the United States. In the city of New York, Adam Taylor was sitting at his computer in shock. One hand was raised as if it was holding something, but the coffee mug had shattered on the floor. An innocent cruller, on its way to Adam's mouth, was halted in its journey to impeding doom. Fifi, the annoying spoiled cocker spaniel owned by the eccentric Mrs. Alabaster-Delgrady that had a habit of yipping with every other breath, was quiet. Somewhere outside, an act of kindness was being committed for no other good reason than for being 'in a good mood'. The Playboys and Victoria's Secrets magazines lay abandoned.

"Adam? Adam! Hello?"

"Claude?" he responded, albeit weakly.

"What's wrong? Did you collapse? I want you to go straight home and get some rest, young man. I won't have another word out of you!"

"Claude, I've one more thing to ask-"

"Fine, only one."

Across the Atlantic, Adam crossed his fingers and prayed. "How are the donuts and coffee in London?"

"Why, they're fab-" Claude stopped. Her forehead creased in thought and concentration. Wait a minute. No they aren't. New York's are better. She ignored the nice whispering voice that tried to wrap her again in calm and soothing emotion. The voice that said in her mind that London's donuts and coffees were fantastic, that the Beatles were the best, and that stealing from hotels could rank among the highest offenses in Catholic doctrine. Her smile began to falter, the ends beginning to turn down.

No…her mind insisted. The donuts and coffee are…garbage…

It was then that everything came back to her in frightening clarity. The case, Harry Potter and Harrison Evans, Crazy Jimmy at Godric's Hollow, the red lights, the interrogation by the red-haired twerp, an argument that resulted in a smashed chair and several injuries to her captor (black eye, swollen and bleeding lip, bloody nose, and a lot of bruises), a wooden stick somehow immobilizing her and some more words that made no sense.

"Claude? You okay?"

"I'm here," she barked back, her voice returning to its harsh normal American accent. "And I'm going to find that bastard who attempted to brainwash me and castrate him. Painfully. Then I might kill him. Or leave him there to die slowly. Whichever. Either way, HE IS GOING TO GET IT!"

"Do I still get that vacation?"

"You are not moving from that computer until I say so or unless you can't even move those fingers of yours. I pay you to work, not take vacations! Now get to it!"

"Now there's the Claude I know and love."

"I meant what I said. The day I give you a vacation for the hell of it is the day that I marry Gary Stewart from high school after years of absence and my nursing of a remark about my exceptionally large nose."

"I figured. But I was just making sure."

It didn't take long for Adam to find out more about this magic community. He managed to find several chat room of wizards and witches on the Internet, discussing topics as varied as transfiguration to professional Quidditch to dark lords. To compensate for their lack of knowledge, Adam used the screen name "Oblivatednotforgetful75" and pretended to be a wizard on the wrong end of…whatever Claude had been hit with, asking for explanations to nearly everything. Most were sympathetic and were happy to lend a helping hand to "that poor bloke" or "unlucky guy" or "unfortunate fellow".

That was the gist of what Adam had told Claude of how he gained all his information. There had been a lot more involved – including a trade off of sites that would showcase various models and beautiful women with someone with the screen name "tricksupthesleevesFletcher" and their uncle Mundungus – but Claude wasn't paying close attention to that part. Only what she needed to know.

And that was, in short, how to act like a witch in a wizarding environment.

It was difficult at first, but once they found the British community of wizards then it wasn't hard to find the American ones. Not surprisingly, the American wizards and witches were a lot bolder and more noticeable. Sometimes to the point that Claude herself didn't realize that they were more than they seemed and not just weirdoes.

She spent an entire week preparing, cramming her head with vital information and the primary mannerisms of a typical American witch. Some of it was stuff she learned in American history with a strange twist to it – such as how Abraham Lincoln's hat held a lot more than it appeared to and that the rivalry between Republicans and Democrats was the result of a badly aimed Tarantellegra Hex. It was a few of the other things that threw her for a loop. These included Quodpot – which she was supposed to defend with nearly unreasonable fashion – along with the American ministry, the schools, several spells, and various entertainers.

Claude began to wonder how Evans – no, Potter! – managed to hold all the information in. Though, on the other hand, the kid had probably had much more time to adjust to the whole thing than she did.

No matter what the case was, she would have to make do with what she had. It was now the time.

Adam found out about the gala event from his new wizarding buddies: "tricksupthesleevesFletcher", "FudgeHater178", and "Wotcher". Apparently, the Minister of Magic was holding this big event in hopes of garnering more support and money from Britain's wizarding population and the rest of the wizarding world. The country's most influential people would be there – the guest list including the famous Harrison Evans. The other three would not be attending – Helena Crawford would be speaking in Germany (which was a pity, in Claude's opinion), Elissa Fowler was currently in Mexico, and Joseph West was in Los Angeles. But one out of four wasn't bad.

As guaranteed by these sort of huge bashes, confusion abounded.

It was easy to get in. All she had to do was act important, make sure that she had a stick of wood with her that looked like that damned redhead's, had no cameras on hand, hope to high heaven she wouldn't be asked to perform magic, and wear wizarding formalwear and she was ready to roll.

The blonde snuck in through the back under a rolling cart, cut across the kitchen, and out the doors into the main reception hall. Sticking her nose up in the air (it made quite a sight considering its size), she passed the man taking names at the door with a scathing look that made him back up in fear and acquiescence.

Claude smiled grimly and applauded herself (in her mind, of course). Oh yeah. Who's boss here? Me, that's who, she chanted in her head. Adjusting the purple robes (How can they wear these things! Honestly, they're either coats that are too long or glorified bathrobes!) she had chosen from the selection outside (she stole them from witch too busy gushing over some musician that she didn't notice) over her crisp white suit. Claude noticed that she made a good choice in attire – she looked like a "muggleborn" or whatever. She smiled at a couple of people whom she didn't know and got a few nods as well.

It was about this time she was realizing how Harry Potter managed to conceal himself for so long. If these were the nation's best, then it wasn't hard. She restrained giving the finger to an arrogant-looking wizard who glanced her way before she spotted him. The tall imposing black man, who looked to be some kind of law enforcement official, deterred her. Calm yourself, girl. Getting into a fight here is a bad idea. You're probably the one of the few here who can't do any magic. She tapped her ear experimentally, slightly comforted by the fact that Adam was hearing and seeing everything that she was. There was a disconcerting buzz of static, but it wasn't as bad as it had been in that interrogation room.

It was then that she caught sight of him. Harrison Evans in the flesh.

Holy mother of crap, this kid is young. Of course, he was still taller than she was, but so was most of the room's occupants. His glasses gave him a kind of hazy outline, but it seemed that she was the only person who noticed. He was well dressed for the occasion and seemed to be handling all the pressure and attention pretty well. Perusing the room, she could see that quite a number of people were watching him, some out of the corner's of their eyes, others outright staring. But they didn't approach.

Probably because of that redhead, she thought hotly, remembering their…conversation.

He was by the punch bowl, pointedly not accepting the drink being offered by a familiar redhead. Claude tried to keep her cool as she approached, grabbing a fluted glass of champagne from a waiter as she made her way towards the two – if only to keep her hands occupied.

The redhead then left and Claude quickly swooped in before anyone else could catch his attention. A young waif of a girl with platinum blonde hair and sharp gray eyes appeared extremely put out and stomped back to her father talking to a man with a lime green bowler hat in his hands, who was as dark as she was pale. She glared at her, but Claude was unperturbed.

"I've finally found you, Mr. Evans," she said to the teenager, lifting her champagne glass in a mock toast. "How wonderful it is to see you in person."

"I can say the same," the kid retorted, his mouth forming a smirk that seemed far too cunning for someone so young. "Ms. Matchison, is it? Your skills are quite admirable. Not only did you find me, but also managing to do it despite the so-called impenetrable security. And you managed to instill such fear in my relatives after one meeting! Commendable." He raised his own glass in homage. "I do hope you will keep my identity a secret."

Claude snorted. "Of course. I'm doing any favors for these guys after that obliviate-thing they did to me."

Evans frowned. "They interrogated you. But they don't know?"

"They didn't ask me about Harrison Evans, so don't worry your pretty little head," she said.

"I see I don't have to," he replied, smiling in relief. But she saw how it didn't reach his calculating eyes, visible behind the sunglasses. "How did you manage to throw the spell off?"

"I was asked about what I thought of the donuts and coffee of London," Claude answered truthfully, her nose crinkling in disgust, and the young teen truly laughed.

It was then that the red-haired young man rushing came back; two glasses of red wine in his hands, looking hurried and excited. "Mr. Evans, maybe this will suit your tastes better-" However, a seated person suddenly pushed their chair out, causing the individual she was soon about to find out was named Percy Weasley to stumble. He managed to keep a hold of one glass.

The other? Splattered all over Claude's robes and nice white suit. The only white suit that she had.

She saw red. And seeing as some of the wine managed to get her in the face, this was slightly literal.

But mostly, metaphorical.

She immediately grabbed the stick of wood in her robes' pocket. Sure, she couldn't use it for magic. She was a muggle, pure and simple. Not only was her case interrupted, but the very person who tried to brainwash her in being a happy and polite person that didn't steal anything from the hotel ruined her only nice suit!

THIS MEANT WAR!

Payback was definite. As she advanced upon the slowly retreating redhead, she knew that he knew it too.

Celestial Requiem will remain as it is and become an AU. The people have spoken. As Half-Blood Prince did yield a wealth of new information and characters, I may include some elements, but nothing that would drastically alter the storyline or mood. The direction of the plot will remain the same.

Also due to popular demand, Claude's misadventures in the universe of Celestial Requiem will continue. I'm surprised how many people liked Claude, seeing as she is a rather up-front and brash person (to be put mildly). Will Percy survive the wrath of Claude?

This chapter leads into Celestial Requiem's sixth chapter, where we'll find out what Harry thinks of the whole thing and why the rest are all where they are. Not to mention what he's been doing this whole time. All I will say about future events is that the party will be crashed. And the blonde girl mentioned by Claude is actually important. You'll see why in CR's sixth chapter as well.

It is to be noted that there is nothing wrong with the donuts or coffee in Britain. In addition to the reason that Adam pointed out, Claude is also just extremely loyal to her local coffee shop and her local Dunkin' Donuts. We find out more of this later. But wouldn't you also be if the mere reminder allows you to break a memory charm? I'm afraid this makes the stuff back 'home' more dear to her.

Thanks for reading!

---Raven Dragonclaw