A/N: Harry Potter wanted to get as far from England as he possibly could where the locals spoke English, and that was Forks, Washington. Jacob Black only wanted to wash his clothes so he wouldn't get his Rabbit filthy. When the two met in the laundromat, something happened. This is a companion piece to "Harry Potter and the Obstinate Elders", but it doesn't really matter which one you read first. Harry/Jacob, AU, please pay attention to the warning.

WARNING: contains SLASH and eventually MPREG. If these bother you in any way, please stop reading here.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, Jacob Black or any other characters in either the Harry Potter or Twilight series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work. This is done purely as an homage to both worlds, because they've given so much enjoyment to so many, and because the plot bunny wouldn't go away until I did this.

This story has been completed and will be posted by chapters over the next few days.

CHAPTER 1

"Really, Potter! Only you," Draco Malfoy looked down at his school nemesis and shook his head. "How you manage to find yourself in these situations is quite beyond me," he drawled.

Harry Potter-Black smiled up at the blond pureblood and rubbed one hand over his extremely large abdomen. "Well, Draco, when two people love each other very much, they…."

"Oh, shut it, Potter! It's not like I haven't spent the last year as your own personal potions factory," Draco snapped. Harry didn't respond to Draco's statement, because it was essentially the truth.

When Harry and his husband Jacob Potter-Black had gone to Paris to investigate male fertility magics, they'd discovered Draco there, pursuing his Potions Mastery in the City of Lights. To Harry's great surprise, once Draco learned of the Potter-Black's intentions, he'd announced that he would personally brew the necessary potions.

Harry had initially been reluctant to trust the Slytherin, until he learned that Draco was desperate for a topic for his Master's project. A bit of asking around had reassured Harry (and more importantly, his husband) that Draco was indeed up to the task. The arrangement they'd worked out, complete with wizard's oath given freely by Draco to do his utmost and avoid any and all harm to Harry and his 'spawn', had been more than satisfactory for all concerned. Draco had smirked when he said 'spawn', and then added 'and any additional Potter spawnlings which I will be tasked to inflict upon a poor, suffering world', to Harry and Jacob's surprise.

"What? I know you, Potter; you won't be content with just the one. You'll be breeding your own Quidditch team, mark my word. And, of course, you'll not settle for anything less than the best, which is me." Draco's sniff of disdain only served to fuel Harry's giggles. Even Jacob, by that time used to the blonde's snarky manner, couldn't be too angry at the 'spawn' remark.

Draco had already gotten one publication out of the process (in the International Journal of Potions Research, no less!), and was certain that a second paper—detailing the successful delivery of a healthy child—would more than satisfy his Master's committee.

For Harry, it had been something of a blessing as well, because he'd had an unusual reaction to the first series of potions. The cocktail had indeed worked as intended, causing Harry's body to adapt to the demands of pregnancy. However, his libido had skyrocketed!

Had Jacob not been a shapeshifter, with all the strength and stamina that implied, he'd likely not have survived those first few, hectic days. Fortunately for him, Draco had been able to develop an acceptable workaround for the ashwinder liver in the original formulation (his first paper detailed that particular complication, as well as his solution). Of course, very little could protect Harry and Jacob from a good deal of ribbing from the Pack about those few days, when Harry basically kept Jacob a prisoner in his own bedroom.

That Harry had been too 'distracted' to maintain the usual silencing charms on their bedroom caused a few comments from Billy Black, as well. Fortunately, Billy was too fond of his son-in-law to do more than a bit of good-natured ribbing about 'well, you're certainly giving my grandson a good start'.

The same couldn't be said about the Pack's reaction to the first time Harry and Jacob hadn't gone quite far enough into the woods before, well, you know. Even with Draco's adjustments to the potions, Harry's libido continued to be elevated, and frequently would flare far beyond the normally high level he and Jacob typically enjoyed. Harry developed the habit of grabbing Jacob, apparating them somewhere into the middle of Canada (Jacob wasn't quite sure where, and wasn't about to ask), transfiguring a mattress, then assaulting the Quileute for all he was worth.

After a few hours spent vomiting slugs, Paul and Quil learned to keep their mouths shut when the pair reappeared from their little jaunts 'away'. Of course, it could have just been jealously talking, since Jacob invariably returned with a satisfied smirk plastered across his face.

If Harry had any complaints about Draco being involved with his pregnancy, it was that Malfoy had joined the legion of people who decided that Harry was not only pregnant but also fragile as fine bone china. The mother-henning that he'd been subjected to had nearly driven him spare, even though he appreciated the thoughts behind it. Most of the time….

"Draco, you don't have to be here," Harry smirked at the blond. "Terry, Poppy and Carlisle can manage things, I imagine."

Draco's sniff was his only response to such an asinine statement. Across the room, Terry Boot—now Healer Boot, late of St. Mungo's—Poppy Pomfrey and Carlisle Cullen all hid their smiles at the antics of the two young men.

Terry and Carlisle busied themselves with preparations for the delivery, while Poppy put the final touches on her gear. The trio had already worked out the division of labor that would best serve both father and infant: Terry and Carlisle would manage the delivery by caesarian section, while Poppy would 'take the handoff' once the baby was successfully removed from Harry's 'womb'. Initially, only Terry, Draco and Poppy had planned to be present, but given the close relationship that had developed between the Potter-Blacks and Cullens, Carlisle had gently and reasonably laid out his reasons for being there. In the end, Harry and Jacob had not only agreed, but Jacob told his father that he felt much better having a 'real doctor'—vampire or not—at the delivery of his first son.

Those who didn't know the Pack and the Cullen Coven might have been surprised at the degree of cooperation and mutual respect that existed between the two. Granted, it had been hard-won, and not without the occasional misunderstanding or outright knock-down-drag-out fight. Still, the living room of Harry and Jacob's house was currently filled not only with shapeshifters, wizards and witches, but also a family of vampires—all of them anxiously awaiting the birth.

Harry tried to relax, rubbing his hand once more over his distended belly. "It won't be long now, little one," he whispered. The faint pulse of magic he felt back was reassuring, even though he knew that everything was as 'normal' as a male pregnancy could ever be.

Exhaling slowly, Harry let his thoughts drift. He'd certainly come a long way from Number 4, Privet Drive and that wretched cupboard under the stairs! A tiny smirk appeared on his face as he briefly thought about what Petunia and Vernon, not to mention Dudders, would say if they could see him now! He was well and truly a freak, and couldn't be happier with how his life had turned out.

After the war, Harry found himself at loose ends. The wizarding public in Britain had been suffocating in their adulation of the Boy Who Won. He found himself unable to leave his flat, even to go shopping for groceries, because of the crowds that mobbed him. It had been his solicitor who'd been responsible for Harry leaving England, since it was Eddie Spindle who found the house in Forks.

"…and here is a list of Black properties outside Britain," the tubby little solicitor said, handing a parchment to Harry.

The pair were in the conference room in Spindle's office. The long table was littered with files, loose parchment and a few tomes. This was the second day that Harry'd spent in the room as he and his solicitor tried to make sense of his inheritance. Or, to be more precise, his inheritances.

Harry had been shocked and saddened to find out that Dumbledore had drained the Potter vaults dry, both during the first war and afterwards. James Potter had borne the brunt of supporting not only the Marauders, but also funding the Order. After the Potter's death, Albus had named himself Harry's magical guardian, and continued to use the Potter vaults to fund a number of his 'little projects'—including a number of Hogwarts expenses and scholarships. By the time Harry found out that he'd paid for every Weasley since Charlie to attend Hogwarts, he was too numb to more than nod.

The Headmaster had also provided 'retainers' and 'consulting fees' to a number of people over the years; funds that Eddie Spindle suspected had been used to counter Lucius Malfoy's 'contributions'. The total amounts were staggering, but because Dumbledore had frequently drawn out large sums that were handed out liberally (and without receipts, obviously), tracking down the money proved to be impossible.

Dumbledore had even sold off most of the Potter Family properties, including Potter Manor, then spent most of that money, too. The list was at once ludicrous and infuriating. Among the more 'interesting' items that could be accounted for was the cost of the Triwizard Tournament—to get the other schools to agree to participate, Dumbledore had to cover their expenses—and Harry very nearly destroyed the office with uncontrolled magic when he learned that his money had paid for the Tournament that had almost gotten him killed, as well as Voldemort resurrected!

It was only because of the Goblin's standard trust contracts that Dumbledore hadn't been able to touch Harry's trust vault. Even then, there was evidence from Wizengamot transcripts that Dumbledore had tried, and failed on several occasions to access that vault, as well. Of course, once he thought about it, Harry realized that it made sense—in a weird, Dumbledorianesque way. After all, the Headmaster hadn't expected him to survive his final encounter with Voldemort, what with having basically no proper training for such a fight and all. No, Harry was supposed to be the willing sacrifice offered up on the altar of the Greater Good. Since dead men rarely needed possessions, and the Ministry would have just claimed all of Harry's inheritance anyway, why not go ahead and dispose of it for that same Greater Good, before the Ministry could get their grubby little hands on it?

Harry really didn't care (much) about the money; he had all he needed and then some from the Black estate. What truly hurt—aside from the betrayal by the Old Coot—was the loss of the properties. He'd grown up not knowing about his family, and having the old Manor (with it's dozens of portraits and generations of Potter bric-a-brack) would have given him some connection to his ancestors.

Instead, he had a few boxes of trinkets, a handful of paintings (the rest having been either destroyed or sold), a small sack of galleons, and precious little else.

It helped somewhat when Eddie Spindle's partner, A.P.B. Gallsworthy—wizarding barrister without peer and 'Polly' to his friends—was able to claim the property and vaults of all the Death Eaters that had been Marked for Harry. It was an old law, but still on the books: by accepting Voldemort's Mark, the Death Eaters had essentially sold themselves into slavery to him, in the eyes of the law. Since Harry had defeated him, all of Riddle's possessions, as well as the possessions of his followers, had reverted to Harry by right of conquest. To the victor, the spoils, and all that….

The Wizengamot and Ministry tried to block that particular bit of legal payback, as they had planned to seize it all…until Polly Gallsworthy 'let it slip' that Harry had Dumbledore's old journals, with lists of who got how much, and when. Combined with the stories of how the Chief Warlock had looted an orphan's birthright, those lists would have made a very interesting series of articles in the Daily Prophet.

The Ministry agreed to take a fifteen percent cut for 'reparations', and the Wizengamot concurred. Polly Gallsworthy claimed to be offended by even that much, but privately laughed with Eddie Spindle and Harry that evening that he would have been satisfied to give the greedy buggers twenty five percent. What made it even more humorous was that 'Dumbledore's journals'—at least, any journals with the details of Dumbledore's bribery—were a complete fabrication.

When Harry'd protested the tactic, Polly had just smiled and gently explained things to him. "Harry," he'd said. "Normally, I'd agree with you. But, everyone knows what was going on, and if they all weren't as corrupt as corrupt could be; they would have called my bluff. That they didn't tells me they couldn't risk the possibility that Dumbledore really did keep records like that, and that I'd go to the press with them. So, since I'm only reclaiming for you some of what was taken and cheating a bunch of crooked politicians, I don't feel badly about it."

Harry admitted that it did have a certain poetic justice to it. Also, he knew just where most of that money would have gone—into the pockets of the very people that had made his life so difficult these past years. So, he ruthlessly suppressed his initial reluctance, and took the money. It almost made up for what Dumbledore had looted from him over the years.

As partial recompense for that looting, McGonagall had allowed Harry to have all of Dumbledore's things. She'd been none too happy to find out just what her mentor and employer had been up to, and since Albus' quarters hadn't been touched after his death, she basically opened the door, told him to help himself, and then stalked off (Harry suspected in search of a bottle of good Scotch).

It had turned out to be one of the best things that had ever happened to Harry at Hogwarts. Not only did Dumbledore have a tremendous library of rare tomes (Harry wondered just how many his money had paid for) and trinkets, but in a well-protected chest Harry found a rather plain reddish rock.

He shouldn't have been surprised that Dumbledore kept the Philosopher's Stone, but he was. Even better, there were three vials of the Elixir of Life, a pouch of small golden cones (Harry didn't know this at the time, but he would later learn they looked suspiciously like lead fishing weights) and a sheaf of hand-written notes describing everything Dumbledore knew about the Stone.

He'd told no one about his find except Nicholas Flammel, to whom he'd written a short note and sent along the vials of Elixir of Life. Flammel had answered him, thanked him for the vials, and told him to keep the Stone…just keep sending a few vials of Elixir every year or so. Apparently, that Flammel and his wife were 'putting their affairs in order' because they were ready to pass on was yet another of Dumbledore's lies. It was the beginning of a regular correspondence between the two wizards, and Harry found himself enjoying talking with the ancient wizard immensely.

Harry'd also found Dumbledore's journals, and made the mistake of mentioning this to Hermione, Ron and Ginny. This, of course, had resulted in the entire wizarding world knowing about them within days. While it had helped Polly Gallsworthy's little ruse vis a vis the Death Eater's estates, it had also brought a considerable amount of pressure on Harry to turn them over to the Ministry 'for study'.

Harry'd refused. Since everything he'd recovered from Dumbledore had been locked safely away in Number 12 Grimmauld Place the day he'd found it, there was precious little the Ministry could do. Naturally, the Wizengamot got involved.

Polly Gallsworthy had little difficulty in convincing that august body that a closed session was in order. Once the doors were sealed, he'd casually reminded them about the 'journals', then he and Eddie Spindle laid out the bare bones of the ruin of the Potter estate. With a few choice comments about how badly it would reflect on all of those present if it were ever discovered that the Chief Warlock had bled an orphan's fortune away, Gallsworthy convinced them to accept a few token books—books which Harry had already copied, or had duplicates of in the Black library—as well as his assurance that the bulk of the journals had been spelled to 'destroy themselves' when they were removed from Hogwarts.

After a few rounds of 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge', the matter was declared closed…with the understanding that the journals would never see the light of day.

So, Harry found himself the proud owner of one of the finest magical libraries in Great Britain, several full vaults, a source of virtually unlimited gold, numerous properties, and hordes of worshipful fans.

He'd have traded it all in a heartbeat to have his godfather back.

Worst of all were the expectations. Harry found it irritating in the extreme that the question was not what he would do when he joined the Ministry, but when. 'Everyone knew' that Harry would join the Ministry, either as an Auror (the odds-on favorite) or as a Special Assistant to the Minister, and there were at least three active betting pools running that Harry knew about. After about a week of this nonsense, he'd had enough.

"There are Black properties outside of England?" Harry asked. "You mean, like on the Continent?" He'd heard Sirius mention a house on the French Rivera, but that was about all he knew about.

"Actually, that would be several continents", Eddie Spindle deadpanned. "The Blacks believed in having plenty of places available to 'vacation' in," he went on while Harry rolled his eyes, "in case things ever became too…interesting for them here in England. And, there have been more than a few members of the family who needed to…see the world, as it were."

"Right before the enraged husbands arrived, no doubt," Harry snickered, at which his solicitor just shrugged. The history of the Blacks was nothing if not colorful.

"Not just husbands," Polly Gallsworthy grinned. "I suspect that if we looked hard enough into the family history, there may have been a witch or two that needed to be somewhere else, in short order."

"No bet," Harry laughed. "Now, let's see that list. Where's the farthest I can get from London, where the locals speak English?" He really didn't want to be somewhere he didn't speak the language. Translation charms were all well and good, but he'd heard using them long term could be unpleasant.

"The farthest I can get from London that speaks English" turned out to be either the middle of the Australian outback, or Forks, Washington, USA. Of the two, Harry finally settled on Forks because (a) it already had a house, and he'd had quite enough of wizarding tents, thank you very much and (b) it wasn't part of the British Commonwealth. He wasn't quite sure how much Australian magicals followed events back in the mother country, and didn't really care to find out. He did know that the Americans had monitored Voldemort's second rise and had been on the verge of stepping in…but then immediately went back to minding their own business as soon as they found out the Dark Lord (this week's version, at least) had been dealt with. Harry found himself greatly appreciating their attitude of 'fine, it's dealt with, good bye'; it was almost certain the magicals across the Atlantic wouldn't make too much of a fuss over the Boy Who Won. He'd probably get the same treatment from the Aussies, but…wizarding tents, until he could get something better built? Thank you, no.

He'd actually managed to be out of England before anyone other than Eddie and Polly knew he was gone. With Winky's help, he'd packed up Number 12 Grimmauld Place (he'd be damned if he'd leave anything behind for the Ministry to get, Black family wards or not), shrunk everything down, boxed it up, shipped it out and sealed the house.

While Harry and Winky were doing this, Kreacher appeared and went into a rant about 'filthy half-bloods stealing Mistresses' things'. Winky had stopped what she was doing, grabbed the demented old elf by the ear, and disappeared. It was the last time Harry saw or heard from Kreacher, and Winky never mentioned it again.

Harry did take time that evening to thank Winky once again for being such a good friend. Typically, Winky blushed, scolded Master Harry Potter Sir for being too good to her, then popped away.

The Black house in Forks turned out to be almost exactly what Harry was looking for. It was on the western outskirts of town, well back from the road, and the sizable property ran all the way to the La Push Reservation to the west, as well as a good distance north and south, as well. It was isolated enough so that Harry didn't have any worries about his neighbors spying on him, but close enough that he could easily drive or apparate into town at need.

He'd learned to drive before leaving Britain at a two-day crash course in Birmingham. It'd only taken him a few minutes to realize that in America, he would have to drive on the 'wrong' side of the road. Well, that explained why the steering wheel on his new car was on the wrong side, at any rate. And, he'd been very pleased at how nice the locals were in helping him get his Washington State driver's license. There'd been none of the adulation he would have suffered at the Ministry, and the pamphlets he'd been given had made passing the written test easy enough.

He thought the young lady at the local motor vehicle Department might have been flirting with him—she'd all but cooed over his accent—but he wasn't sure. He realized that he was totally clueless about things like dating and such, and eventually wanted to learn just what was what, but his breakup with Ginny (and disastrous not-relationship with Cho) had left him a bit unenthusiastic about the whole dating thing.

The only problem with the Forks house was that it had been built shortly after the turn of the 20th century by a distant cousin who'd died under mysterious circumstances, and had been unlived in for almost that long. While Harry certainly didn't mind the ancient gas stove, the gaslights were just not on. Remodeling with extreme prejudice became the first order of business.

Typically, the remodel turned into its own version of hell on earth. Harry found out the hard way that no remodel or rebuild is ever easy. After the third 'new' problem was discovered (which required a complete re-wiring of the place), Harry finally gave up, packed a bag, and moved into a motel until the job could be done.

The worst part of the motel, from his point of view, was that he couldn't very well let Winky take his laundry to the laundromat. So, that was something he had to do for himself. It wasn't exactly new to him—laundry was one of his regular chores at Durzkaban—but the laundromat itself was a new experience. Boring, yes; but Harry was still very much at a place where 'boring' was exactly what he was looking for.

That's why, one fine Tuesday afternoon, Harry Potter was doing his laundry when his life changed forever.

Jacob Black was having a terrible day.

He'd come into Forks to pick up several things, and was at the last stop on his list when his beloved VW Rabbit…died. Fortunately, he'd been in front of the hardware store at the time, and had easily pushed the small car into the parking lot beside the store. The store had the parts he'd needed for a temporary repair; well, that, and the tools he carried in the back. Sadly, after nearly an hour in the rain and the mud fixing the Rabbit, he'd been covered in grease and mud to the point that he really didn't want to get back in the car. Since the hardware store was right across the street from the local laundromat, he'd decided to stop in for a quick wash.

He'd used up the last change in his pockets throwing everything he was wearing except his underwear into the washing machine. Even his sneakers went in, after he'd knocked off as much mud as he could. Then, rather than standing around in just his boxers, he'd gone into the men's room to wash up as best he could.

He'd gotten most of the grime and filth off—getting the grease out from under his fingernails would have to wait—and was feeling much better when he came out. Tossing his clothes into a dryer, he'd slipped his last dollar into the machine and settled down to wait. He found a car magazine less than twenty years old to read, and another one to put across his lap for modesty.

Jacob wasn't that concerned for himself—hanging around the Pack had destroyed any nudity taboo he'd had, and he wasn't at all ashamed of his body—but getting arrested for public indecency wasn't something he wanted to risk. He thought Chief Swan would cut him some slack, especially if Jacob explained the situation to him, but Jacob really didn't want to tempt fate.

The laundromat had been empty when he'd come in (he probably wouldn't have stripped so casually had it been full of women and little kids), but there'd been a single young man there when he'd come out of the restroom. The man didn't look to be much more than a teen, if that. He was short, scrawny, and pale, with messy black hair as dark as Jacob's own. He was wearing ugly glasses, which made Jacob immediately think 'geek'. The young man—boy, really—was loading up three machines at once. Jacob noticed that once, something had gotten away from him, but the boy caught it with remarkable speed before the errant article of clothing could hit the ground.

Since both of them were observing the unwritten rule of laundromats and ignoring each other's presence, Jacob didn't say anything. He just kept on reading his magazine, and sneaking glances at the boy occasionally when he thought he could get away with it. There was something about him the shifter couldn't explain, some feeling…it was almost like his wolf wanted to come out and play with the boy, but of course that was ridiculous! Not to mention, that would get Jacob in sooooo much trouble with Sam and the rest of the Pack, not to mention the Elders.

Jacob watched the boy finish loading up his machines, feeding them the required coins, then sat down to read a newspaper. Jacob glanced at the timer on his dryer—he had another few minutes to go—and went back to his magazine. He hoped he'd be able to get dressed and get back to the Rez before long.

Harry congratulated himself on successfully interpreting the instructions on the three washing machines. His recent experiences had driven home the old saw about Britain and America being countries separated by a common language, but the instructions had obviously been written for a brain-damaged three year old. Plus, the pictures had been a great help.

After growing up with the British, then Wizarding monetary systems, he'd made the transition to the American decimal-based system easily. Once Harry learned just exactly what 'pennies', 'nickels', 'dimes' and 'quarters' were (and that a quarter was literally one quarter of a dollar), he'd been fine. After that, he hadn't bothered with the conversion rates; he'd gotten a wad of cash in bills of various sizes from the bank, and hadn't worried about it since. He still had a bit of a problem with pulling out too-large bills on occasion, but that was improving with experience.

He'd already gotten something of a reputation as a rich eccentric in Folks because of his tendency to buy a candy bar and soft drink with a $100 bill, but he was learning. After all, he was 'filthy stinking rich' (he'd heard that phrase on the telly and thought it was funny, since gold didn't carry odors worth a damn), and he could always make more. It'd been useful when he was arranging the refurbishing of his house, although he suspected he'd been overcharged by a goodly bit. Still, it was a minor problem, so he ignored it.

Harry'd been doing a lot of that lately; ignoring minor problems, that is. After years of always having some huge crisis hanging over him, it was a great relief to just let the little things go. Moving to Forks had let him begin to do that with a vengeance. What he couldn't fix with magic (or let Winky fix), he bought. What he couldn't buy just then, he ordered, and had it delivered. If it couldn't be ordered (and thus far, he hadn't found anything in America that he couldn't order by catalogue), then he supposed he didn't really need it after all.

As outlooks went, it was both refreshing and wonderful, and Harry was enjoying it tremendously. Even having to leave his house for what was essentially a rebuilding wasn't that stressful to him. He'd decided to look on his few weeks in a motel as a Death Eater-free adventure, almost like a vacation. Since he'd never had a proper vacation, he thought this was only fair.

Even going to the laundromat wasn't an annoyance to him. He knew very well how to do laundry, after all, and once he'd figured out the coin-operation system, he'd been off to the races. One of his socks had tried to escape its fate, but Harry's Seeker reflexes had been more than up to the task of capturing the errant footwear.

He'd noticed the large man when he'd come out of the men's room—Merlin, he was HUGE! —and felt his magic stir as the man sat down and began reading a magazine. Harry noticed that the man was only wearing boxers, but then seeing him (out of the corner of his eye, of course; Harry would never be so rude as to stare) load up what looked like a complete outfit, including a pair of battered trainers, into a dryer pretty much solved that mystery. Harry suspected there was a story there, but since finding out would require him to actually talk to the man, he'd stifled his curiosity and picked up his copy of the local paper.

Harry still received the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler, in weekly shipments from Eddie Spindle via a correspondence box—put documents in one of a matched pair, and they appeared in the other—but he'd also taken the local paper shortly after arriving. He'd reasoned that, since he planned to be in Forks for quite some time, knowing a bit about his new home was only practical and sensible. He thought that Hermione would approve, and then winced as a wave of sadness and regret swept over him. He and Hermione had 'grown apart' before his departure, and she'd been all too insistent that his duty was 'to stay and help us rebuild' the Ministry and British wizarding world at large after the war.

Harry realized what his friend was really saying was 'Harry, you need to stay here to support the radical changes I want to force down the throats of all and sundry', and quite frankly, he just wasn't up to it. He'd done what the prophecy demanded at no small cost to himself, and now just wanted to be left alone.

Naturally, neither Ron nor Hermione understood this; Ron because he'd been born and raised a pureblood wizard, Hermione, because she wanted to modernize the wizarding world overnight. Fortunately for Harry's sanity, Neville and Luna had been thoroughly supportive. Luna had even smiled mysteriously shortly before he'd decided to leave, given him a kiss on the cheek and said, "I'll be invited to the wedding, of course," before sauntering off.

Harry snorted at the memory. As if he'd find someone in Forks! The very thought was ludicrous.

He was engrossed in the adverts section—there was a sale on beets, but his motel room didn't have enough of a kitchen to be worth the name—when one of his washing machines decided to explode.

Harry groaned as he put down the paper and rushed to the overflowing machine. Raising the lid, he was immediately drenched in soapy water as the tub spun down. Water was still pouring into the machine, welling out of the top and onto the floor. Cursing under his breath that he wasn't alone—a simple spell or three should have easily cleaned up the mess—he struggled to shut the water off, without success.

Suddenly, his magic flared, and he was aware of an immense Presence looming over him.

"Hey, let me help you with that," the mountain of a man said, reaching behind the machine and doing something that stopped the incipient flood.

A small part of Harry's brain noted that the man's voice was deep and rich and soothing as he smiled up into an open, honest face with the darkest eyes he'd ever seen.

Jacob heard the 'thump-grind-gush' of a washing machine on the verge of death, and looked up to see the machine begin to overflow. The messy-haired boy in front of it dropped his paper and rushed to try to shut it off, but it was obvious that he didn't know to reach behind the machine and manually shut off the water supply.

His relative undress forgotten, Jacob quickly went to help.

"Hey, let me help you with that," he said, then reached across the machine and closed the valve with a few quick twists of his hand. From the initial resistance, Jacob suspected a normal man might have had problems turning the valve, but he hadn't been 'normal' for a while.

Immediate crisis averted, he straightened and looked down at the boy. Seeing a smiling face turned up to his, he looked into eyes of emerald green…and the world shifted on its axis for one Jacob Black.

Harry's gaze locked with the beautiful eyes of the huge man (where did that thought come from?), and he felt his magic sizzle inside him. For a long moment, he couldn't look away, despite his frantic struggle to keep his magic from overflowing his body and flooding the room. Since there was no telling how much damage that might do, he used all his strength to clamp down on his happily wiggling (?) magical core.

Finally, the sensation of cold water seeping into his trainers penetrated his brain, and Harry broke eye contact, blushing furiously.

"Erm, thanks," he stammered, focusing on the mess in front of him and not the sensations the man next to him seemed to be causing. Just what in the name of Circe was going on?

"No problem," the voice rumbled. "Hey, let's get your stuff in a new machine, then we can look for a mop to clean this mess up."

"Right. Wouldn't do to just leave this, someone might fall," Harry said, frantically latching onto the relatively normal conversation to have something other than his feelings to focus on.

Beside him, Harry felt as much as heard the snort of laughter. "No, I guess not," the man replied. Then, his arm brushed Harry's, and the young wizard almost collapsed from the sensation.

Jacob looked down into eyes the color of new leaves, and something he hadn't known was missing all his life suddenly snapped into place. 'This is the most important person in the universe' something inside of him whispered. At least Jacob thought he heard a whisper; it was hard to tell over the roaring that suddenly filled his ears. The boy was…perfect. No other word even came close. From those beautiful eyes, to the messy hair, high cheekbones and kissable lips, he was…perfect.

Despite the mental shock—since when did he think a boy's lips were 'kissable'? —Jacob couldn't look away. Distantly, he began to realize he must have imprinted on the small young man, but…wasn't his imprint supposed to be on a woman? Wasn't he supposed to be the mate of his imprint? He remembered the Elders speculating that imprinting was how the shifter gene was passed along in the tribe, so why…this obviously wasn't a girl. Just what the hell was going on?

Green eyes looked away, and Jacob distantly heard the boy stammer a thanks. With the loss of eye contact, reality came back in the form of cold water seeping around his toes.

"No problem," he said. "Hey, let's get your stuff in a new machine, then we can look for a mop to clean this mess up." There, that sounded normal enough, didn't it? Fortunately for Jacob's sanity, the young man agreed, and said something about not wanting people to slip and fall in the mess.

It really wasn't that funny, but Jacob felt more than a little giddy. "No, I guess not," he laughed. As Jacob reached over to begin rescuing the load of laundry from the dead machine, his arm brushed against the green-eyed boy.

It was like sticking a screwdriver into a light socket, only in a fantastic, never better kind of way.

Harry felt a thrill of magic pass over him as he made skin contact with the other man, and jerked his arm back reflexively. Fortunately for both of them, the contact lasted for a fraction of a second, and the pair stood looking at each other, surprised.

Jacob was the first to recover.

"I…uh…there must be a short somewhere. I mean, we're both standing in water, and…."

"Yeah, that's got to be it. My trainers are soaked, and you're barefoot," Harry agreed. "Is there a junction box, so we can shut off the power?"

"Junction…oh, you mean fuse box?" Jacob asked, then smiled. "Yeah, I guess so. Let me go look," he said, then turned away.

While the huge boy was gone—Harry was starting to get the idea that, while he looked much older than the British wizard, he really wasn't—Harry was able to use a few wandless charms to minimize the mess and let him recover his clothes without making any more. By the time Jacob returned, he'd gotten them into a new washer and was preparing to begin the cycle again.

Jacob was pushing a mop in a janitor's bright yellow bucket on wheels, and grinning.

"I couldn't find the fuse box, but I did find this," he said.

"I suppose that'll have to do, then," Harry smiled back. He was really starting to like that smile. "I'm Harry, by the way."

"Jacob Black," Jacob said, and stuck his hand out automatically.

Without thinking, Harry took the offered hand, and watched his own vanish into Jacob's grip. The surge of magic that resulted from the contact wasn't nearly as overwhelming as before, but was certainly enjoyable.

Jacob took the offered hand carefully. Yeah, as if he'd ever turn down a chance to touch his imprint! Still, the mess-haired boy was only human, and Jacob could crush bricks with his grip if he tried. In the split-second before their hands touched, he almost panicked. What if there was another one of those whatever it was…?

When nothing happened but a faint, very pleasant tingle, Jacob's smile grew even larger. At least he now knew his imprint's name. Harry. Harry. Harry. Nice!

The pair stood there, just looking at one another until Harry finally blushed and looked away. Jacob's letdown at loosing contact quickly bounced back up when he saw the blush, and he couldn't help but snicker.

"What's so funny?" Harry snapped, turning back with a glare.

"Nothing, nothing," Jacob said, holding his hands up, placating Harry. "It's just…I didn't expect to meet a new friend here today," he said. He wanted to go off somewhere and pound his head against the wall for being so lame.

Harry gave a half-smirk back. "I take it that you don't usually stand around laundromats in your undergarments hoping to meet people?"

Now it was Jacob's turn to blush, then explain just how he came to be here in his boxer shorts, waiting for his laundry to finish.

That was the beginning of what turned into a long conversation between the pair. Aside from a brief pause when Jacob's clothes finished drying—he quickly pulled them on straight from the dryer—the two talked for the next hour or so until Harry's laundry was finally done. They didn't talk about much of consequence, just chatted casually, but Jacob did learn that Harry's last name was Potter, and he was staying in the local motel until his home renovation was complete. A comment on his accent led Harry to admit that he was a British citizen, recently come to America. Harry very carefully didn't say anything about why he'd come, and spoke of his past only in generalities, but since Jacob was doing the same dance around the Pack and the local vampire population, neither one of them commented on the mutual vagueness of their answers.

Jacob insisted on carrying Harry's laundry out to Harry's Land Rover, and whistled in admiration at the new vehicle.

"It's gorgeous," he enthused, which made Harry smile. He'd bought the thing primarily because it was a British company, and because he'd heard they were good vehicles for bad road conditions. Considering Forks had rain for more than 300 days a year, it had only made sense to him. He'd also asked Justin Finch-Fletchley about Land Rovers once, and received a glowing review from the muggle-born wizard. Since he really didn't know any other vehicles except for the BWM that Vernon always insisted was the best car ever made, he didn't even consider any other one. That his Land Rover had plenty of room to carry things in the back was just a bonus, in Harry's mind.

The pair was just standing there in the drizzle, wondering how to say goodbye to each other (and neither knowing just how much the other didn't want the conversation to end), when Jacob's stomach growled loudly. An answering growl from Harry's own belly made them both laugh.

"I think we need to grab some late lunch," Harry said. "Where's your favorite place?" he asked.

Jacob frowned. "I really can't. Washing my clothes cleaned out my pockets," he said, and was about to say goodbye when Harry just shrugged.

"Not a problem. It'll be my treat."

Jacob tried to protest, but Harry wasn't hearing it. "No, I'm buying, and you're coming. You helped save me from a laundry catastrophe, so I owe you lunch, at least. So, where would you like to go?"

Jacob let himself be persuaded after just enough resisting to satisfy his honor, then shut up when Harry threw him the keys and said "You know where we're going, so you drive."

It was exactly the right thing to say. With a huge grin, Jacob climbed into the Rover, adjusted the seat all the way back, and waited for Harry to buckle himself in.

"You realize, I'll have to move the seat forward before I drive it again," Harry mock-groused.

"It's not my fault you have no legs," Jacob laughed back, not at all bothered by the pout Harry gave him.

"It's not my fault that you obviously have a gorilla somewhere in your family tree," Harry shot back. He was a bit confused by Jacob's huge laugh at that, and his answer.

"Nope, not a gorilla. Wolves, yeah, but no gorillas."

"A wolf the size of a hippogryph," Harry muttered.

"I'm sorry?" Jacob asked, confused.

"Hippo. A wolf the size of a hippo…hippopotamus," Harry corrected himself, mentally cursing at his slip-up. Fortunately, Jacob let it drop.

"Yeah, probably," he said, then lost himself in the joy of driving the new vehicle. As much as Harry loved speed, he was glad to be wearing a seat belt as Jacob tore through the town to his favorite restaurant.

"This place has a great all-you-can-eat buffet," he smiled as he opened the door for Harry. He'd used just a bit of his speed to get around to the passenger door while Harry was fumbling with the seat belt.

"Let me guess…you didn't get as big as you are by eating sprouts and salads?" Harry asked easily.

"Nope," Jacob readily agreed, leading the way (and holding the restaurant door open for Harry) into the restaurant.

"You don't have to hold the door for me," Harry groused. "I'm not a bleeding princess."

"Oh, I hope not. Blood on the floor is always so messy to clean up." Jacob's bad joke earned him another glare, followed by a shake of Harry's head.

"It's an expression," Harry said. "Like 'prat', which you are, by the way."

"So 'prat' is a compliment, then?" Jacob asked innocently.

"Not hardly…prat," Harry fired back.

"Shrimp."

Harry just shrugged. "At least I don't lurk around laundromats in my boxers," he shot back.

The hostess that had just come up to seat them raised her eyebrows at that, catching the way that Jacob blushed. Fortunately for him, Harry took pity on him, and explained.

"He got filthy fixing his car in the rain, and was doing his clothes when my washing machine exploded," he said, smiling at the young woman. "Since he was kind enough to help me clean up the mess, I decided to overlook the fact that he's a pervy git," he finished.

"I see," the hostess smiled at the pair. "Table or booth?"

To Jacob's disappointment, they'd just missed the lunch buffet, and it would be some time before the evening buffet was laid out. While he'd gladly have spent the rest of the afternoon (and night, and the next morning, and the next day…) with his imprint, at some point he'd have to get back to the Reservation.

Harry just shrugged and asked for a pair of menus, and then looked at Jacob as the waitress left them alone. He looked into Jacob's eyes and used his 'I Beat Voldemort, don't mess with me' voice. "Order what you like, and don't worry about it. This is your reward for being my knight with shining mop bucket," he said.

Jacob didn't know whether to be irritated at not being able to pay, annoyed that Harry was taking charge, or amused at the 'knight with shining mop bucket' joke. He was trying to think of an appropriate comeback when Harry gave a small frown, then collected himself.

"Look, I don't want this to sound wrong, but money really isn't an issue for me. My godfather…died…a few years ago, and left me a sizable inheritance. He also would want me to enjoy spending it, and I'd really like to be able to take care of this without a lot of fuss. Please?" he finished, and went from stern 'Man Who Lived' to the puppy-dog eyes in an instant.

Jacob forgot about the distress and sorrow in Harry's demeanor when the puppy-dog eyes turned his insides to mush. "Okay," he said, then reached across the table to take Harry's hand.

Harry blushed once more at the gesture, and the still-pleasant sensations touching the huge young man caused. "Okay, then," he said, not breaking the contact.

The two were still holding hands when the waitress returned, which caused her to raise her eyebrows. Neither of them noticed.

There was a bit of disagreement when Harry told the waitress to bring Jacob two of everything he'd ordered ("Shut it, hippo. One super-deluxe cheeseburger can't possibly fill you up.") but otherwise it was an incredible meal. Not because of the food, which was very good in a greasy, horribly tasty but bad for you kind of way, but because of the company. Later, neither one would remember just exactly what they talked about, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that Jacob Black was with his imprint, and Harry Potter was more comfortable with his new friend than he'd been in ages.

So, one huge meal for Jacob and a much more modest snack for Harry later, followed by banana splits all 'round—Jacob finished off Harry's dessert after the smaller man gave up half-way through—Jacob drove Harry back to where his Rabbit was parked.

"So…thanks for the meal, and the chance to drive this sweet truck," Jacob said reluctantly.

"You're more than welcome," Harry smiled. "Thank you for helping me with my daily crisis," as he'd already labeled the washing machine incident.

"What about tomorrow's crisis?" Jacob asked, half-joking.

Harry pretended to think deeply. "Well, since I don't know what tomorrow's crisis will be, I don't know if you'll be able to help me with it," he said.

Jacob just shrugged, unconcerned. "We won't know until tomorrow. So, what time should I pick you up?"

Harry's eyes widened at the suggestion. "I…I don't…."

"Look, I'm not going all stalker-crazy on you," Jacob quickly said. "It's just that I had a great time today, and wouldn't mind doing it again tomorrow," he finished lamely. He restrained himself from beating his head on the Rover's steering wheel, but only just.

Harry paused, then a shy smile appeared. "I'd like that very much…but on one condition," he said.

"Name it."

"I buy lunch again. Supper, too, if you're still with me," Harry said firmly.

Jacob's grin threatened to split his face. "I think I can live with that…Lord Harry," he snickered. He'd started calling Harry that sometime during their mutual assault on the appetizers, since Harry was not only rich but also English. Harry hadn't objected at the time, since he'd never had chili cheese nachos before and was far gone into food nirvana.

"I did mention that you're a great thumping prat," Harry shot back, then flinched as Jacob lightly punched his shoulder. "And a git, too."

"So many compliments in one day," Jacob laughed. "So…tomorrow, late morning?" he asked.

"Yeah, late morning." Harry smiled at the thought.

Getting out of the Rover, the two met at the front of the vehicle. "I'm going to be in so much trouble for being late," Jacob said. He didn't seem terribly upset at the prospect, so Harry didn't let it bother him.

"Blame me, and the crazy washing machine," he said.

"Oh, I will," Jacob laughed. "Although, I won't tell my dad that you force-fed me afterwards."

Harry snorted. "I was force-feeding you? As I recall, I had to watch my fingers around you and those nachos."

"Well, yeah; they were chili cheese nachos! What did you expect?"

Harry didn't have an answer for that, so he just shrugged. The pair stood there for several long moments as each fought the urge to hug the other goodbye, not knowing that the other was doing the same thing.

Finally, Jacob sighed. "I've really got to go," he said.

"I'll be ready tomorrow about 11," Harry smiled. "Now, move your great thumping prat self from in front of my Land Rover so I can leave."

Jacob laughed, and bounded away. "See you tomorrow!" he called, before getting into his Rabbit and tearing off.

Harry stood there for a bit, a smile on his face, before he shook himself and went back to his motel room.

The next few days were both wonderful and horrible for both of the boys. Wonderful because each truly enjoyed spending time with the other, and thought up reasons why they should see each other at least every other day; horrible because each of them was tearing himself up inside because of their mutual secrets, and trying to keep them hidden.

Jacob managed to put off shifting for two whole days, but eventually ran out of excuses. Naturally, within a few minutes of him shifting, the other members of the Pack knew that he'd imprinted, and on a boy, at that. The ribbing quickly reached the point where Sam, as Alpha, had to intervene to keep Jacob from ripping several throats out.

"Jacob imprinted, and that's final. None of us have any control over who we imprint on, and we just have to trust that Jacob imprinted on this young man for a reason." Sam had a sour look on his face when he said this, but he really didn't have any choice. His alternatives were either to let Jacob 'discuss' the matter with the worst offenders, namely Paul and Leah, or risk Jacob leaving the Pack. He knew that Jacob could and would leave the Pack and form a Pack of his own (and probably take several of the Pack with him), which really wasn't an option Sam wanted to face. Sam had also taken it upon himself to inform the Elders about Jacob's imprint, knowing full well that they'd be less than happy with the situation.

"Just remember, you owe me for this big-time," the Alpha reminded Jacob. "And, I'm not going to be the one to tell your father. You get to tell Billy Black that his future daughter-in-law is actually going to be a son-in-law."

"Gee, thanks," Jacob winced. He'd rather have faced the other Elders, and let Sam break the news to his dad, but Sam didn't give him any choice in the matter.

Billy had known something was up for several days, but had been waiting patiently for Jacob to let him know just why he'd been spending almost all of his time in Forks. When Jacob came in looking like he was walking towards his own execution, Billy decided to take the bull by the horns.

"Son, I think it's time we had a little talk," he'd begun, gesturing for Jacob to take a seat on their battered old couch.

He'd been expecting one of several things, most involving Bella Swan. Despite her ongoing infatuation with that vampire boy, Billy still had hopes that the girl would come to her senses and see that Jacob was actually a much better match for her. When Billy heard that Jacob had imprinted, his first reaction had been one of glee…until Jacob muttered "…and it's a guy."

"What?!" Billy barked. Surely he hadn't heard that right….

The misery on Jacob's face when he looked up from the floor confirmed Billy's fear. "Dad, I imprinted on a guy…but he's great, and I just know you'll love him!" Jacob said, all in a rush. "He's British, and he's renovating that old house just on the edge of the Rez, and…."

"Son…how did…how could this happen?" Billy was shocked. He was even more shocked, and still not convinced, after Jacob told him just how he'd met this Harry Potter fellow.

"I want to meet him, tomorrow," Billy said, and that was the end of the discussion. That night, what little sleep Jacob had was filled with dreams of him being disowned and thrown off the Rez by an irate Pack, stone-faced Elders, and a very disappointed father.

Harry couldn't decide which was worse: having to always watch what he was saying, and not use magical expression or words around the muggles, or not being able to use magic for all the little things he'd become accustomed to over the past few years, especially in front of Jacob.

That he found himself feeling incredibly girly things, like the desire to cuddle against the much bigger man, didn't help matters. He'd never felt an attraction like this before, certainly not to Cho or Ginny, and it confused him no end.

Harry nearly fainted when Jacob invited him to dinner with his father on the Reservation. But, he'd not been a Gryffindor for nothing.

"I'd love to meet your father, Jacob," he lied through his teeth. Then, he'd immediately started planning just how to make a good impression. The Hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin, after all.

The evening that Harry Potter met Billy Black had been incredibly strange. Jacob managed to get Harry to come to his home using the pretense that Billy wanted to meet his new friend, and was planning on cooking for them. It had admittedly been a little thin as excuses go, but it had been enough to do the job.

When Harry showed up with a cheesecake, a chocolate cake and a coconut cream pie, he'd made several brownie points with Billy right off. The two of them even started laughing about how Harry obviously knew how Jacob ate, so they shouldn't expect many leftovers.

Jacob was too relieved the two of them were actually being civil to each other to do more than glare at the pair…which, of course, made Harry and Billy go at him harder.

The most uncomfortable part of the evening came when, after the fourth or fifth time of being called 'Sir', the elder Black told Harry in no uncertain terms "my name is Billy, Mr. Potter, and you can just stop with this 'sir' nonsense."

"Then you have to call me Harry, and stop calling me 'Mr. Potter'," Harry fired back, eyes flashing. "I was taught to respect my elders," he snapped.

"I'm old, but I'm not dead yet," Billy's tone was equally sharp. "I'll thank you to respect me enough to do as I say in my own home."

"Only if you call me Harry," the young man insisted.

Billy smiled and visibly relaxed. "I think I can do that, Harry," he said.

Harry's smile lit up the room. "I'd like that…Billy," he said. Then, "sir".

"You, young man, will either go far in life, or wind up in a shallow grave," Billy laughed.

Harry shrugged. "They haven't buried me yet," he said, and changed the subject before Billy or Jacob could say anything else. He wasn't about to discuss his past with his new friend and his father, especially not when they'd just met.

Fortunately, Billy thought it was just a joke, and a good one, at that. "Well, hopefully I won't have to send Jacob out with a shovel tonight," he laughed. "I hope you like deer meat," he said, motioning for Harry to follow him into the kitchen while Jacob stood there, releasing a breath that he hadn't noticed himself holding.

Harry'd never had venison before, and proclaimed it delicious. When he and Billy started swapping recipes, Jacob started to think that maybe, just maybe, he would survive the night.

The rest of the evening was spent discussing pleasant things like cooking, Harry's remodeling, and just what he was going to cook for the Blacks once his new kitchen was finished. Harry made a mental note to get in touch with his contractor first thing the next morning, to make sure his home was wheelchair-friendly when it was done. He found himself very much taken with the elder Black, and began to see where Jacob's sunny personality came from. While Billy had seen his share of life's unpleasantness, he'd managed to come through with a basic sense of optimism that Harry found quite enjoyable. Compared to the gloomy atmosphere of post-Voldemort England, it was like walking into sunshine after being in a dark room.

To his great surprise, Billy found himself liking the polite young Englishman more and more as the evening went on. The boy was surprisingly likable, and from the way he talked, obviously knew his way around a kitchen. When the subject of his wealth came up, Harry repeated his story about his godfather, and added that his parents had also been fairly well off. What impressed Billy was the calm, matter of fact way Harry said it, then promptly changed the subject rather than putting on airs. He'd been concerned when Jacob let it slip that Harry always paid for their meals—not an inconsequential sum where Jacob was concerned—but since Harry seemed determined not to make a fuss about it, Billy let himself relax. It seemed that even his son's appetite wasn't going to break the boy's finances, so it really wasn't his problem.

Jacob found himself relaxing once the meal began. He'd been terrified that the two most important people in his life wouldn't get along, but there they were, laughing together like old friends. That most of their laughter was over the two of them giving him shit actually made him feel kinda good. Pissed off, yeah, but also pretty good. Of course, if they kept it up he'd either have to retaliate or kill them both, but at least they weren't snarling at each other. Just the opposite, in fact.

"So, there I was, standing in front of a spewing washing machine, when this half-naked monster walks up and just looms over me," Harry was saying, rolling his eyes in Jacob's direction while Billy snickered at the mental image Harry was creating. "Tell me, Billy…is standing around in public places half-naked something you taught him to do, or did he learn it all by himself?"

Billy pretended to think, ignoring Jacob's protests. "I can't recall ever teaching him that," he said. "For the life of me, I don't know where he picked it up."

And that was how the evening went. Aside from Jacob's ego, nothing was broken or bruised. When Jacob came back in from seeing Harry back to his Land Rover, Billy's only comment was "I think he's a fine young man, son. We'll have to have him over again sometime soon."

Being a wise man, Billy affected not to notice when his son wilted in relief at his pronouncement.

Naturally, their first fight was epic.

A/N: Some plot bunnies just won't go away. This was one of them. Harry and Jacob work so well together I just had to explain how they came together. Enjoy!

Yes, I've played fast and loose with the timelines in both canons. Yes, this is AU (no duh, it's a cross-over). No, I haven't read the Twilight books, or Deathly Hallows, and don't intend to. Yes, I twisted both canons like a pretzel to fit my own story, and NO I don't care, because I'm basically an evil old fart who has nothing better to do than sit around and plot how to make your particular life miserable and taunt you into writing flame reviews so that I can insult you horribly in the reply and then block you from my site forever. Satisfied?

Remember, every time you review a fic, an angel gets its wings. Except flames. Flames lengthen your time in Purgatory by a century per flame. Or something like that.

Next Chapter: The boys have their first fight, and secrets get not only spilled, but gutted like fish and spread across the landscape for all to see. Oh, and there's a vampire.

YES this fic is complete. I'm going to try (among running a new website, writing a book, and the usual six other projects hanging fire) to complete Vale of Destiny and Cliche of Death (and the omakes that I've already started), but no promises as to when they'll get done. I have decided not to even start posting new fics until they are completed. So, if a fic starts and then I disappear, either (a) the computer has died or (b) the Guru has died. Just so you know.