WHAT IS THIS? Harry Potter and Jacob Black deserve some lovin.

Make Light

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Chapter one: Moth's Wings

Sometimes Ginny could be a right pain in the ass.

Luckily, this trait was not one of genetic inheritance, and therefore, the rest of her family was marginally, or not affected at all.

Harry paused in shoveling in his laundry.

On second thought, Percy was a little ass kissing tosser, so maybe it was one of those two in seven kind of odds.

Currently, he was contemplating such a mind aching subject such as genetic properties and the science of DNA, in a small, dingy and poorly cleaned Laundromat in Forks, Washington, because of one Ginny Weasley. But actually, his deep thoughts were only hiding under the guise of the young redhead. In fact, they were more focused on the life of one Harry James Potter, and where it had went so wrong.

He had just sort of assumed that he'd die by seventeen, that living past it was completely throwing him for the loop.

The cell phone in his pocket began to wiggle, and a retro David Bowie-esque ringtone would have been heard, had the machines not have been louder then five rockets simultaneously taking off from behind his head.

The young wizard paused in heaving the rest of his dirty laundry into the questionably sanitary washing machine, to dig it out of his pocket.

Call From: Ginny

He sent it to voicemail.

Ginny and he had a fight. Not exactly a rare occurrence, as these days they fought over anything, but mostly things like the placing of chairs at the table, cable channels for a TV they didn't use, cleaning charms verse hand washing, and Harry's personal favorite, soap brands. Because magical folk who could spell dirt off with the flick of a wand needed to scrutinize each fine print on the side of the soap box. They had only been serious dating—as Ginny liked to say to Lavender and Parvati when she slipped out of the house to gossip—for a couple months now, and Harry was already ready to pull the plug.

It wasn't that his feelings had just sort of been doused in water or anything like that, they still had their moments of perfection. But it seemed like the little peeves, the carton of orange juice on the fridge door instead of on the shelves, the crooked carpet, dirty silverware grew in their shadows like untamed Boggarts and finally just devoured them.

Harry contemplated this, as he heaved a sigh and flopped into one of the plastic chairs in front of the washing machines, wondering if his answers were all inside this deafening washer. As he watched his clothes idly, a woman who could have been Pootie Tang's mother was screeching accusingly to a boy on the floor, who seemed to have peed himself.

This, combined with the fact he was in Forks, yes, Washington, the middle of god damn fucking nowhere, only seemed to obliterate his mood entirely.

Harry Potter didn't think his day could get any worse.

And then the laundry machine exploded.

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.

.

But let's backtrack.

September, and its beginning to get kind of cold.

Ginny is inside wallowing, or shouting, or whatever she was doing now that he couldn't care less, and he can smell the steam of the hot Pumpkin Juice from the café they live above. Diagon Alley is in front of him, pale stone buildings and the bright colors of scarves decorating the crowds of shoppers. Harry Potter can feel the cold from the hole in his converse, right between his toes, and thinks that the Gryffindor scarf he's wearing isn't enough for the weather.

He drags his luggage behind him, before flicking his wand out and minimizing it until his bags fit in his pocket.

He strolls out into Muggle London, blending with the teenagers with their hip v-neck sweaters and ragged jeans, considering the fact he's wearing both of those, and makes his way to the train station.

In this time of year, platform 9 ¾ is deserted, the tracks devoid of the Hogwarts Express, the platform silent in comparison to the loud voices of first years and billowing steam from the engine.

But Charlie Weasley is there, flagging him over with a large, lopsided grin on his face.

"Heard you wanted a change of scenery!" He smiles as Harry comes closer.

"Sort of." The younger boy says sheepishly. "But I'd rather you call it a necessary vacation."

Charlie makes a noise of agreement, before puling out a disturbingly ugly sock and checks his watch, the likes of which Harry assumes to be the portkey.

"Ah, five minutes still." He looks up then. "Yeah? Come to learn something about the dragons?"

"I suppose. I think I've learnt enough about the Hungarian Horntails, though." Harry jokes, but finds a weird feeling in his stomach when he thinks of the Tri Wizarding Tournament, of Voldemort, and of his life when he was fourteen.

"Yes, we do have one of those I believe." Charlie hums. "But really, you should see the Peruvian Vipertooth. She's a beaut, Harry. We have a few Longhorns and Ridgebacks. The new Ukranian Ironbelly was moved a couple weeks ago."

Harry listens, but mostly he closes his eyes and tries to hear the whistling smoke of the Hogwart's Express, imagines the clots of steam that hide the platform from view, the crest of Hogwarts fluttering on the chain right below the elegant script that denotes the platform number.

"The reserve is actually quite small right now, but a lot of money's flowing in from donations, and we think it's going to end up being one of the biggest in the world! Nothing like the Peruvian Fields, I'm sure. But maybe as big as the one in Romania. With that kind of space, we could invest in Russian Pearlsnouts and a couple Himalayan Icewing—

The portkey erupts.

And the Dragon Reserve just twenty miles away from the border of Forks, Washington, comes into view.

.

.

How Harry ended up away from the reserve and into Forks actually had nothing to do with Charlie, or dragons at all. Or maybe it did, seeing as though Charlie was the one who gave him a lift in his pick up truck .

Charlie seemed like the kind to have one beaten up, monster of a thing like this one. The old clunker was a rusted red, with back hull that could enlarge with magic. He had on some intensely warded cloaks on, woven chainmail, flame resistant gloves as thick as Harry's wrist, and a couple of the twins' Peruvian Darkness Powder. Him and ten other guys from the reserve were hiking up in the mountains around these parts in hopes of following up a sighting of an Alaskan Welsh.

Charlie was excited to see a North American breed of dragons.

Harry just wanted to see Neville.

Not only was the wintry area of upper west American the perfect climate for most mountainous dragons, but also for plants.

Neville and a couple of his colleagues had set up a couple greenhouses in the area, collecting specimens and growing them around the region. Harry supposed that they may be exploring for new magical herbs, but he mostly suspected that they were here because it was one of the last natural growing habitats of Fluxbomb grass, a crucial ingredient for any bone/organ/cell regrowth. Judging from the amount of people that had been wounded in the many battles from the previous years, Harry assumed it was probably in high demand.

In his head, the young Potter tries to reason with himself as to why he's here, in the dreary mostly humid but slightly rainy temperatures of the Seattle Time Zone, and has come to a couple conclusions, including but not limited to;

a) his recent arguments of increasing quantity and intensity with Ginny, the fact that Dean Thomas had moved to the flat across the street, and thus furthering the tension between them,

b) the fact that he found dragons rather interesting, and had always been inclined to spend a couple weeks at the reserve (of which he had assumed to be the Romanian one) with Charlie,

c) good timing,

d) Neville's recent move to the same region,

e) Harry's unsubtle annoyance with the press and new minister, but mostly because of,

f) the fact he didn't know what to do with his life.

Maybe the sparsely inhabited region of the world known as the northern west coast would have some answers for him.

Charlie pulls up into the gravel path that lead to the green houses. For a moment, it looks like a worn path that didn't lead anywhere, and cut off in the middle of an expanse of fields. Then, the wall glimmers, and the illusion is shattered for them, and Harry sees four or five large buildings sprawled across he grass, illustrious plants growing in number.

Charlie waves as he pulls out and carries on into the heart of the mountain.

Harry takes in the large domes of glass, sees Neville yelping as a plant with a mouth the size of a rhino's attempts to eat him, and decides that he doesn't think there's much he could learn here.

.

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Jacob couldn't help but laugh.

The kid looked so confused as the machine started to whorl and shake uncontrollably, he supposed he should do something.

Part of him wanted to come over, and inform the guy that the thing was about to explode. The larger part of him decided not to, as it would draw attention to himself while he wasn't wearing anything but a pair of pinstripe pink boxers, and he wasn't sure if there were laws against public indecency in Forks.

He didn't regret it.

The dark-haired kid got destroyed by suds and what could have been a small tsunami erupted from the flung open washing machine door. His clothes got spit out all over him, and from Jake's angle he looked quite akin to a drowned rat.

The shifter, who had been waiting for his own laundry (he and Embry had the bright idea to play football in the mud and hadn't the time or energy to race back home for a spare change. Lucky Embry was called to patrol, and left without having to bother with clothes at all. Jake thought it was just sour luck on his part.

He didn't think it would be fate.

After much debate, the wolf decided that maybe he should help the poor guy out and offer a hand.

"Hey, you need a hand there?"

"Mmpphmm." Came the muffled reply.

The dark haired-teen looked pretty normal, at least as normal as a Fork's resident could be. Jacob was already impressed by the Smashing Pumpkins shirt he had on, and his black high top converses. His torn jeans looked as if they had seen better days. Of course, Jacob didn't know that two hours prior Harry had been successfully mauled by a Lion plant.

"Here, lemme help you with that." He grabbed a couple of the clothes off of the guy, who made no move to get up from where he was sprawled on the floor. "I'll even put in more change for you."

"How kind." Said the elusive Laundromat patron.

Jake laughed, and grabbed another handful of sopping wet, sudsy clothes. The water pouring out of the machine was cold on his bare toes, but he was sure it felt a hell of a lot worse hade he been drenched in it.

Being a guy who was pretty decent with machines, he stuck his head in the thing in an attempt to figure out what went down. It seems like a couple parts connecting the door to the rest of it had rusted up, and the shaking must have pulled a screw loose somewhere. Judging from the damage, and the condition of the craft, it was busted for life.

"You know, I'm pretty sure you need actual clothes to be walking around."

"Yeah well—" Jake was about to whip out a snarky reply, but the words got caught up in his throat.

His mind didn't suffer from the same aversion, and his thoughts couldn't have been moving faster, even as he looked like an exhibitionist fool who was choking on his tongue.

They went something like this:

FUCK. FUCK F—

The guy had picked himself up from the shallow ocean of dirty water, and Jacob belated realized that it wasn't a guy.

No, it was some sort of beautiful, god defying creature.

That, or his imprint.

He blinked up at him with these mesmerizing seaweed colored eyes, and Jake's mouth kind of fell open in shock, because god damn, they were fucking green.

He took another good look at them, at the Adonis holding a heap of sopping wet clothes, wet hair sticking to his forehead, the sallow tendons of his neck and the mobile chords of his shoulder, before he turned around and ran.

(the fact that he was mostly streaking through town came later)

But really.

What else could he have done?

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