Carol Jones was a very pretty woman.

Twenty-seven years old, still miraculously single - how could she be when she had such big blue eyes and beautiful blonde hair? - and she lived on her own in a condo complex in Toronto, Canada. She'd gotten a job at the local police science investigating lab, and she had only been twenty-five. Carol loved her job and her home, and naturally she wanted a boyfriend. She had sifted through many possible and quite reasonable suitors, but decided that none of them clicked. At least, for her. (Men looking at her would sigh and say something along the lines of "lady player".)

Now, Carol was sure she had found the one. She hadn't exactly started dating him yet, but he was single like her and she was sure it would be a short time until she snagged him, like all the other boy fishes in the ocean.

Dean Thomas, Carol thought, was a very fine man.

Handsome, tall, a skilled artist... In fact, Dean was so skilled that Carol had once stopped eyeing him to take a longer look at some of his paintings. Dean made all his business from his flat downtown. Plus, he was British. Carol thought British accents were quite, indeed, sexy. And he was so mysterious! It reminded Carol strongly of magic. On one lunch out with him - to discuss the price of a painting - she had learned very little of Dean's past. He said he was born in London and he'd grown up in Britain in a "pretty bloody amazing school". Carol had questioned about this school, and Dean had vaguely smiled and said something about secrecy for the school. It made Carol wonder if Dean was secretly a spy for the government or something, with the way he danced around his past.

Carol also noted that Dean always looked tired, like he wasn't able to sleep at night. She'd asked about it one time and he had shrugged and said, "Nightmares, I suppose. I guess you could say I've been through a war, so to speak, at my school nine years ago." Then Dean would get this dead look in his eyes, which slightly scared Carol. It was almost like the eyes of someone who had been tortured or had seen a bloody massacre in their lifetimes; Carol had seen that look on her uncle's face - her uncle had been in the Army.

Carol's condo was decorated with many paintings - all from a certain Dean Thomas. She loved the animals that Dean painted; there was this brown, furry thing that looked like a furball digging in a patch of turned up dirt. Dean tended to paint all these made up creatures, apparently. Carol had asked what the brown furry thing was, and he had replied, again with that vague smile of his, "A Niffler. They like searching for shiny objects to keep. That's what it's digging for in the painting." Carol had laughed jovially and told him, "You should write a story with all these animals!"

Dean also painted several portraits and scenes of people Carol assumed he had made up as well; she'd never seen any of the people he painted before. There was this painting that hung in her bathroom of three white-blonde people - a mother, father, and teenage son. They seemed to be fleeing a destructive path of death and flashes of light. The family looked ragged and worn, yet still had a haughty, rich, and cold air about them. Carol loved how Dean painted emotions on people's faces; it looked almost as if they were real and the scene was happening there in front of her, as if it was a memory of Dean's. It was almost... magical.

Carol hated downtown traffic. She was on her way to Dean's flat to pick up a painting - a portrait, in fact. It was of a man Dean's age, and he had dark, unruly hair, with the most startlingly green eyes she'd ever seen behind circular glasses. Carol remembered if she had peered at it close enough, she could just make out a lightning-shaped scar underneath the man's dark fringe. He looked extremely tired and he had fresh, vividly coloured cuts and bruises all over his face, but a look of exhausted, victorious yet bittersweet triumph was painted on his expression. It had been on display in Dean's office - his flat, actually - and Carol, a fervent customer of Dean's artwork, begged to buy it. He had, once again, flashed his vague smile and had put it at a price much higher than his other paintings. After Carol had paid, she asked why it was so expensive, and he had answered, "I admire him very much. My friends... back in England... admire him a lot as well."

Carol, having left the flat with no answer as to who the green-eyed man was, decided she was going to ask more about the subjects of Dean's paintings - and get an answer! - when she got there. Parking her red Toyota into the familiar parking lot, she picked up her fancy purse and stepped smoothly out of the car. As she made her way up the metal steps, she noticed that the door was propped open by a red and gold suitcase.

It looked like whoever left the suitcase there left it in a hurry; there were scratches on the door and the suitcase was on the verge of tipping. Curious - who, other than her, would get a painting from Dean at seven thirty in the morning? - Carol took another look at it. "Seamus Finnigan" was written in a messy scrawl on a plastic tag dangling from the handle. It looked strange; the ink didn't look like it was from the usual office pen. She raised her hand to knock but stopped, hearing voices.

"Oh..." Carol noted that this was Dean's voice. "You're taking forever."

"Just some more." Carol could quite clearly hear an Irish accent. It sounded strained.

"Hurry... I'll scream...!" Now Carol was confused.

"Shut up, Dean, before people hear. Me mam doesn't quite like... that I'm-"

"Don't... worry... Just muggles... here..."

Carol blinked. What were "muggles"? Did she even hear right? And they sounded strange...! She quickly knocked.

The door swung open, revealing a Dean that looked like he had just gotten out of bed; his shirt and pants were extremely rumpled and he had a faint dazed look in his eyes.

Dean held a hand up to shade his eyes from the sunlight.

"Ah, Carol, morning," he greeted with a hint of surprise, and before she could respond, he slapped his forehead. "Damn it! Sorry, Miss Jones, I completely forgot that you were coming at seven thirty for Harry's - uh, for the painting."

Carol shrugged cheerfully, saying, "S'alright!" while nonchalantly edging to the left, trying to get a look inside his apartment. She was going to question who Harry was once she got her painting.

"Am I bothering you or anything?" she asked, her eyes on the red and gold suitcase. "I can always come later for the painting."

"Nah, it's alright," Dean answered, and seemed to glance back nervously. "Come in."

He stepped aside to let Carol in while he quickly moved the suitcase out of view. Carol walked in, scanning the apartment for any sign of this Seamus Finnigan. Over by the couch in Dean's small living room, she could see the green-eyed man's painting leaned against it, wrapped. Striding over to the artwork, Carol leaned down and took another look at it before straightening and turning to Dean. The dark skinned man was currently shaking his head and he seemed to be mouthing "STAY IN THERE" into the doorway leading to the bathroom. He immediately stopped when he saw Carol looking, and sheepishly smiled.

"I, uh, have an unexpected guest over," Dean explained tentatively.

"I can tell," replied Carol, a polite smile on her lips. She began to ask who he was when someone stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

It was another man, as old as Dean, perhaps a bit shorter. Irish, after hearing his accent. Kinda good looking too, in a funny sort of way. His hair was a brown and a few freckles dotted his flushed cheeks. He, too, looked flustered with a wrinkled dress shirt and jeans. Blue eyes squinted at Carol-so this was Seamus Finnigan.

The stranger looked surprised and annoyed at the same time, and then Carol noticed that he was clutching a wooden stick of some sort. Once her eyes travelled down to his hand and the twig, Seamus came to life.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he said smoothly, whipping the stick behind his back. "I'm Seamus Finnigan. Dean's old friend. Guess you came for that painting, eh?" He gestured at the painting of the green eyed man.

Carol looked suspiciously at the two of them. Unexpected guest? Looked like a... like a... Could it be? She glanced back at Dean, a little closer at his lips-bitten and raw. Dean flinched and swept his hand at the couch.

"Care for some tea?" he asked, but Carol was looking at Seamus' lips, which were just as swollen.

And when you thought about what they were saying when she was standing outside their door...

Carol stared at the pair of them in shock. They... They had been...

"I'll just grab the painting and go," Carol said in a high pitched voice. She snatched the painting and hurried out, with the two of them left gazing after her.

Carol made it back to her car with the painting under her arm. She got inside, eyes still open in astonishment. Dean was... He'd been... He'd been kissing that boy! Seamus! They were doing some obscene things in that bathroom, she bet.

So Dean hadn't been even the slightest interested in her!

Carol Jones wasn't used to not getting her way with things.

Fuming at Seamus Finnigan, she tore open the wrapping on the painting, and blinked when she realized she had taken the wrong one. This was a portrait of girl with bright blonde hair, oddly shaped sunglasses, and radish earrings, holding hands with a boy that had cuts on his chubby cheek, a brilliant sword in his hand, and a pleasant smile on his face.

Guess she'd have to return it...

Carol didn't mind. She'd get to interrupt Dean and his "unexpected guest" again. Folding the painting into the paper again, she sped up the steps and barged into Dean's flat, ready to innocently take back the the man with the circle glasses.

But she didn't expect to see this, though.

Dean was sprawled on the couch, with the Irish boy over top, kissing Dean's neck. His hands were roaming everywhere, and Carol meant everywhere. Soft moans emitted from the two.

They sprang apart, seeing Carol, and Seamus cursed. The stick he had been holding before suddenly shook and a gold light illuminated the room, like lightning. Carol stepped backward, a bit afraid.

"S-sorry!" Dean half-shouted, and stuffed the still glowing twig from Seamus' pocket into his.

"We'll have to obliviate her," Seamus suddenly said, and Dean nodded.

Carol gasped and dropped the painting. What did that mean...? And what the hell was that wand-like thing?

Dean grabbed another stick from his pocket and directed it at Carol.

"Sorry, Miss Jones," Dean said evenly, "it's just that we can't have you remembering what you just saw."

"W-Wait!" Carol exclaimed, but it was too late. Dean had said the weird word from before: "obliviate."

A flash of white light engulfed Carol.

Nevertheless, as Carol drove away in her red car, she couldn't quite remember why she came all the way to downtown Toronto.