A/N: So I told the crew on AO3 but forgot to mention it here: I've caught up with my pre-written chapters so now I'll be writing and posting as I go which could take some time and ergo, slower updates. (Boo, I know.)

And I worry for us all that we find a murdering psychopath to be attractive. I guess I'll see you all in hell!


Harry doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know where he's going. All he does is run. He races across the field behind the estate and into the thick wood beyond it. He stumbles once but forges ahead, unrelenting, until his lungs burn and his chest heaves. Harry's feet feel numb and wobbly from carrying him so far and he collapses against a tree at one point to gasp in lungfuls of air as the bark of the tree bites into his back and twigs and rocks dig into his shins. Everything is pitch black and silent except for his frantic breaths. He tries to quiet them somehow, afraid he may still be within a Sentinel's range of hearing though he must be miles from the house by now.

Where the fuck is he anyway?

Harry looks around but all he sees is dark forest. Where did Voldemort choose to build his little Omega prison? The arse end of nowhere? Harry struggles to his feet, determined to keep going until he finds something. Anything would be better than getting caught by Voldemort or one of his D.E.'s.

Harry pushes on, nothing but the rhythmic sound of his feet and breaths keeping him company as he goes. Every now and then he stops, convinced he hears something. Is that a twig snapping? Or an animal? Are those shadows moving? It's too still. Too quiet. Harry thinks he might go mad if he doesn't find something soon.


To say that Voldemort is angry would be an understatement.

Tom sits off to the side and has his leg bandaged by one of the hired first-aids Voldemort has in the house and watches the bald, sharp-faced man look around at his D.E.'s with an unhinged look in his eyes. The energy he exudes is oppressive, ominous and dark.

"How could you have let this happen. To let such a crucial thing to slip from your incapable hands — !" Voldemort hisses into on of his D.E.'s face and they flinch back, body shrinking under the Alpha Hybrid's scorching fury. Voldemort continues to rant and rave at his followers for a good minute or so when Tom finally steps forward.

"Sir," Tom says.

Voldemort's cold eyes swing to meet his and narrow dangerously. Thin lips that were previously twisted into a grimace transform into a sickly grin.

"Ahh, you have a proposal for me, Tom? Or perhaps you'd like to take the responsibility for such a grave mistake to have happened," Voldemort says.

Tom lowers his eyes, a subtle motion that allows Voldemort to know he submits to his authority as the true Alpha. (Though Tom repels at the action inwardly. Soon, he thinks. Soon he will no longer have to bow down to this megalomaniac.)

"No, sir," Tom replies. "I'd like to correct the mistake."

A hairless brow raises at these words. "Oh? Are you volunteering to catch my prize?" Voldemort asks.

"I am. The more time wasted, the farther the asset escapes our reach," Tom explains. It's an obvious statement. But he's not surprised Voldemort needs to be reminded of it. The man is too focused on punishment and not enough on getting things done. A flaw that Tom hopes will be his downfall one day.

Voldemort nods slowly as if trying to shake away the fog of his fevered anger. Tom wouldn't be surprised if the man hasn't already lost some of his sanity with all the experimentation and surgery he's done on himself. Voldemort's eyes then briefly glance down at Tom's leg.

"Just a flesh wound. Sir," Tom explains.

A nail-biting second passes where the possibilities of how Voldemort could respond are both terrifying and endless. The answer seems to be a simple question for now.

"Always the good soldier is it, Tom?" The Hybrid's voice slithers. Tom doesn't answer. He knows Voldemort doesn't want one. Instead he looks at a point somewhere above Voldemort's shoulder and hopes that whatever comes next will be over with quickly. But just as ever, Voldemort is far too unpredictable.

The tall, imposing man raises his sharp chin and regards Tom, unblinking. His slit-like gaze is far too calculating and probing. Tom knows what will happen a second before it does —

A harsh presence crashes through him with all the finesse of a charging rhinoceros. Tom can already feel the nasty headache the intrusion will leave behind when Voldemort's done with his interrogation. The abrasive presence scratches and picks like tiny insects at Tom's thoughts. But he's strong and pulls up only what Voldemort wants him to see: Loyalty. Submission. Devotion. Fear.

Everything constructed; All of it a lie.

If Voldemort had been a more skillful (see: 'natural') Guide then it wouldn't have worked. But fortunately for Tom, he's not. The illusion is a success and Voldemort slams out of his mind with a teeth-grinding force. Tom has to close his eyes briefly at the pain before he looks up again. Voldemort seems temporarily placated with what he finds.

"You are faithful. And far more competent than your colleagues here. Keep this up and you might have a place beside me one day. As you already know, loyalty to the cause is greatly rewarded."

Tom inclines his aching head in understanding.

Voldemort resumes his stalking for a few paces before straightening to his full height once more.

"I think it's time we send the best," Voldemort says, and his sharp gaze turns to look at Tom again. It is both too careful and too searching. Tom has nothing but to try and throw it off by playing the loyal follower and turning on his heel to obey the order. He can't have Voldemort suspect anything. Not now. Not yet.

Tom's made it to the end of the hall when he hears an agonized scream accompanied by the sounds of Voldemort's low growls and the thump of limbs and cracking of bones. It seems that the others haven't escaped punishment as easily. But the threat still echoes through the house after Tom, and he knows it's meant for him just as much as it is for the others:

Fail me again and there will be consequences.

Tom vows to make sure nothing like that will happen. He's been too careful to let it all go now.

As he walks, Tom checks that his firearm has enough bullets even though he knows he won't need them. He walks briskly out to the back of the estate and then to where the woods lay beyond. If he focuses, he can still smell the faint trace of his — of Voldemort's — Omega.

Tom continues past the line of trees and stops. He's stock still and slows his breathing almost to a halt before cocking his head slightly to listen.

Tom stretches out his hearing past the trilling of the insects, the shrill cry of a woodland fox, and the other various songs of the night, until he reaches the steady thrum of his prey's heart. The beat is rapidly becoming familiar and it pulls him like an invisible thread leading him straight to his target. Tom's eyes snap open and the edge of his mouth curves upwards in a ghost of a smile.

"Found you, little Omega," He murmurs into the quiet hush. Without hesitation, Tom gives into the tugging sensation and shoots off like a bullet into the night. He is silent as a whisper, the rhythm of the Omega's heartbeat echoing in his ears like a bewitching song.


Harry eventually stumbles across a road. He feels an enormous rush of relief at the sight of the highway and waves frantically at a truck zooming towards him in the distance. Heart in his throat, Harry watches as it comes close and slows to a stop just on the other side of the road.
Thank Christ, Harry thinks.
A burly man with a great big bushy beard and eyebrows leans over to call out the passenger side window, "Everythin' alrigh'!"

Harry immediately rushes up to the truck and calls back in.

"Hi! D'you mind giving me a lift?" Harry says breathlessly. "I'm trying to get to a hotel or a gas station. Just anything, really — "

"'Course! Don't see why not. Let's hop in with yeh, then," The man replies.

Harry releases an explosive sigh of relief. "Thank you so much."

He swings open the door and clambers up to sit in the passenger's seat. He slams the door shut and immediately casts a wild look in the rear and side view mirrors. Unfortunately he doesn't possess a Sentinel's keen eyes but it looks as if no one's following him just yet.

Harry's leg jiggles up and down and he squirms in his seat as the truck finally rumbles down the road again. Harry doesn't take his eyes off the side view mirror until they're a good few miles down the highway and then turns to see a bushy eyebrow lifted up in curiosity and worry.

"Are yeh sure there's nothin' wrong? Yeh lookin' a tad peaky, if yeh don't mind me sayin'," The man says.

"Oh, uh. I just got lost and my car broke down. Then my phone died, so..." Harry trails off, not knowing how to explain himself. He just hopes the man won't pry further.

"That's a right shame, that is. It's a good thing I came along when I did, eh? What's yer name, lad?"

Harry hesitates for the briefest of seconds before answering truthfully. Something tells him he can trust this man. "H-Harry. My name's Harry."

The man doesn't seem to attach any meaning to the name, and continues on to say, "Well, Harry. My name's Rubeus Hagrid but yeh can just call me Hagrid."

Harry smiles, but his eyes are still too worried. "Thanks, Hagrid. For doing this."

"Oh it's not a problem!" Comes Hagrid's kindly reply. Then comes the inevitable: "So what's a lad like yerself doin out in the middle o' nowhere, eh? There's nothin out here but a few o' them fancy houses belonging to famous peoples n' such." The man chatters. Harry chews on the inside of his cheek and wonders whether or not - and how much - to tell the other man. Someone had to know about what the hell is going on in case something happened to him, right?

"I was kidnapped."

Bushy eyebrows disappear into Hagrid's hairline and Harry can see the warm beady brown eyes beneath them.

"What's that?! You were - ? I don't believe my own ears. Who would do such a thing?"

Harry swallows. "Voldemort."

"Voldemort? Voldemort..." The man frowns and takes a hand off the wheel to scratch at his beard. "You would'n happen to be speakin' o' that fellow who runs that fancy company now, would yeh?"

"Yes. That's him," Harry says darkly.

The man shakes his head and his large meaty hands tighten on the steering wheel, causing them swerve ever so slightly off the road until he corrects it again.

"I don't believe it...!" Hagrid cries once again, and Harry tenses until he realizes that the man means it more in disappointment and anger than actual disbelief. He glances at Harry then, and his eyes are kind and full of understanding. Harry feels himself instantly soothed and thankful. "Don' yeh worry, 'Arry. We'll get yeh some place safe."

Harry sighs and feels the hot prickle at the corner of his eyes. "Thank you," He says, and means it.

"It's the least I can do. Why don' yeh have a good rest now. Yeh look worn."

Harry nods, finding himself already getting comfortable in the seat.

"Will you wake me when we get there?" Harry asks tiredly.

The man nods his head. "Don' yeh worry," He repeats. "You jus' rest."

Harry leans his head against the back of the seat and his eyes are slipping closed of themselves, his mind being taken over by an exhausted sleep.

It isn't until he's being gently shaken awake that Harry realizes he'd fallen asleep against the window. He jumps, mind instantly alert and heart racing. He sees the vaguely familiar face of the truck driver who's raised both his hands in the air in a placating gesture.

"It's alrigh'. Yer safe now. I got yeh to a motel, just as you asked," Hagrid says. Harry forces himself to relax and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his tired face and messy hair.

"Right. Yeah, sorry about that," Harry says and hops out of the truck to head into the motel.

When he gets to the front Harry realizes with a sickening lurch that he has no money nor ID. How was he going to book himself into a motel? How would he even feed himself?

A heavy hand rests itself on Harry's shoulder and he looks up to see Hagrid.

"Let me take care of it."

Harry opens his mouth to protest but knows when he needs help. So instead he asks, "Are you sure?"

"It's the least I can do fer yeh," Hagrid replies.

Once Harry's checked in with a keycard in hand, he turns to smile sheepishly up at Hagrid.

"Er, thanks," Harry says. "Y'know. For everything."

Hagrid just shakes his head and hands Harry a piece of paper with his number on it.

"Now you just keep yerself outta trouble now, you hear?" Hagrid says.

Harry grins though it's fragile with how tired he is.

"Believe me, I'll try."


The Omega's hitched a ride. Tom stands in the middle of the road, face uplifted and senses stretched as far as they can go. The delicious scent is growing more faint with every moment that passes. It began after overlapping with the smell of diesel and the low rumble of a large vehicle. Tom's eyes narrow. How cumbersome.

Tom stands there for another minute, thinking. But time is precious. He needs to decide. Call for someone to bring a car? Or —

Tom's answer comes by way of the low hum of a car in the distance.

The car comes to a screeching halt just inches from Tom and the horn blares angrily. Tom stiffens and hisses in pain. For fuck's sake.

The man at the wheel is cursing at him furiously and Tom reaches into his coat to pull out his gun. He points it directly at the man who's eyes widen and mouth goes slack.

"If you'd be so kind?" Tom says, looking pointedly at the car. They seem to catch onto what he wants but the man has a steely glint in his eye that Tom doesn't like. The engine revs and Tom sighs inwardly. The woman shrieks at her companion not to do it. Then there is the pop of glass shattering when Tom puts a bullet through the windshield just millimetres away from the man's head.

Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be, Tom thinks at them.

The couple get out of their car hesitantly, hands raised. Tom jerks his gun to the side, motioning for them to stand by the side of the road. They go without fuss and Tom gets into the car. He doesn't kill them. You never kill people you don't need to. It's the first lesson you learn in this kind of work.

So instead he just starts up the engine and smiles coldly at them before driving off.


Tom knows where Harry might go. There's only so much out here and the next civilized place for miles is motel and gas station. He breaks the speed limit getting there and doesn't stop for anything.

It's easy finding the Omega Guide. Too easy. Tom knocks on the peeling, mint green door with rusted bronze letters '702' and it opens to reveal a dishevelled and exhausted looking Harry Potter. The man freezes upon seeing Tom and his eyes widen.

Tom spares a second to feel annoyance at how trusting the man is before pushing his way into the room. Harry's heart rate soars and he's backing away and looking ready to fight. Tom would find the idea laughable if his patience isn't already worn thin with how things are going today.

"Don't," Tom warns just as Harry glances at the gun resting on the bedside table. Harry lunges for it anyway and Tom reacts quick as lightning. He latches onto the back of Harry's shirt collar, yanking it until he almost chokes and stumbles backwards.

"Fuck!" Harry gasps, coughing.

"I told you not to do that," Tom growls low in his ear. "You'll quickly learn that there are consequences to those who don't obey me. Understand?" He pulls back just enough to see Harry glaring defiantly at him. Tom bares his teeth and resists the urge to shake him. "Don't test me. I can easily break you," Tom hisses. Harry pushes at him but it's futile. Harry's chest heaves and his breaths come hot and rushed over Tom's cheek. Tom finds himself moving his head an inch to the side, eyeing Harry's neck where the carotid artery throbs tantalizingly in his neck.

"What do you want from me," Harry bites out but it comes out sounding more like a whine. Tom's ears sharpen at the sound and his blood rushes hot in his veins. He abruptly releases Harry and steps back which seems to confuse the other man even more.

"I've already told you. Or is your memory really that appalling?" Tom says, carefully composed once more. Harry eyes him warily.

"If you're wanting a bond, I've already told you no," Harry shoots back.

Tom can feel his patience almost at the breaking point. He steels himself, creating a mask of calmness and control.

"You know, the longer you resist it, the more danger you'll be in," Tom says almost conversationally. "Voldemort will only continue to pursue you until he gets what he wants, or you somehow die at some point or another. So as far as I'm aware the option I propose should be a relief."

Harry snorts and Tom narrows his eyes.

Harry's jaw works and he surprises Tom by marching right up to him until their chests brush and their faces are just a millimetre apart.

"I will never. Be bonded. To you. Or any other Sentinel wanker out there who thinks that he can just take what he wants!"

"Are you sure about that, Harry?" Tom says, his voice low and smooth. A flicker of doubt seems to cross through Harry's eyes before vanishing.

"Yes. I am," He says. "It's just like I told your boss: I'd rather die than let anyone have me. So you can just fuck off."

Their eyes lock and a long silence stretches. They don't seem to notice how much time passes, simply focused on winning the war of who will look away first. Tom's mouth ticks upwards.

"If that's how you feel about it," Tom says, changing tactic as quick as a flipping a switch. "Why don't I give you another offer?" Harry is wary again but doesn't interrupt him. "How about I help you get rid of my employer and if you still feel the same towards bonding with me, then so be it. No harm, no foul."

"Am I really supposed to believe that?" Harry snaps. "I'm not stupid, you know."

Tom raises a brow.

"Not as stupid as you think anyway."

"Well, I could put it in writing, if that would make any difference. But the thing is, Harry, I can't guarantee you I'm telling the truth," Tom says. "So you can only ask yourself, would you rather risk taking a chance on me? Or going in it alone?"

Harry pauses and Tom holds back a smirk. He knows he has him now.

Harry's jaw tightens and he goes to sit on a chair in the corner. He puts his head in his hands and scrubs at his already frighteningly messy hair.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Harry says, mostly to himself. "I must be bloody mental."

Tom doesn't answer and lets the man debate with himself as he watches.

Eventually Harry looks up at him with tired eyes.

"Fine," Harry sighs. "So what do we do now?"

Tom allows for a moment of victory before sobering. He directs a serious look at Harry.

"First of all, you should know never to open the door for anyone."

"But what if — " Harry starts but Tom cuts him off bluntly.

"No one."

Harry stares.

"Do I make myself clear?" Tom's tone is sharp and cutting.

Harry nods, his adam's apple bobbing and his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip. Tom traces the action with his eyes and it reminds him —

"We need to get you pills," Tom says. "You reek."


Harry showers while Tom is out to get 'supplies', whatever that means. Harry doesn't really want to know. But he's thankful for the respite. The Sentinel's presence is making him heady and wanting and the cool water against his skin is calming. It clears his mind a little so that he can actually think for a minute. But then Harry supposes it's not such a great thing after all.

God, what the hell is he doing, agreeing to team up with a hitman? And his kidnapper no less?

Harry's dressed once again, towel wrapped around his shoulders, when Tom comes back shortly with a plastic bag in hand. Harry's eyebrows raise when Tom chucks it at him.

"Take those," Tom says and goes over to the other side of the room to look out the window. Harry yanks open the plastic bag and stops, staring.

"Are these — ?"

"Hormone suppressors," Tom confirms. "Take them now. We need to move you to a safer location." Harry just blinks up at him.

"Did you not understand me?" Tom's voice is sharp. Harry flinches as if Tom will go for his gun at any moment. For some reason Tom doesn't like this. He wants the other's trust. Needs it or this whole thing won't work. Tom forces himself to put on a more controlled and relaxed aura.

"If you don't take them, your smell will lead the D.E. straight to us. It's your choice."

Harry's mouth moves as if to say something but it snaps closed and he digs a bottle out of the bag before disappearing into the bathroom again. Tom hears the tap running and takes the moment to calm himself. It's the Omega's pheromones, he tells himself. It's making him hot and agitated. Maybe a quick run to the gas station for food would clear his mind a little.

Tom barks an order through the door at Harry "Don't leave this room" before he leaves. He passes the car with the broken windshield outside and makes a mental note to ditch it soon. Walking over to the little store in the gas station a few feet from the motel, he slips inside. He spends a few minutes perusing the aisles, not really knowing what to get. He usually just got anything to sustain himself, but what if the Guide had a preference? Tom's lip curls, disgusted with himself that he even cares and shakes off the uncharacteristically altruistic thought before grabbing something.

Tom's at the front of the queue paying when his cell rings. Tom frowns but picks up.

At the words, "We've got eyes on the target. Where are you?" Tom's heart stops. His dark eyes glance up and spot the sudden appearance of a black car parked out on the highway, ready for a quick getaway. Tom ignores the questions on the other end of the line and races out of the shop, almost ripping the store door off it's hinges in his haste to get to Harry in time.


Tom's hand is already in his coat and pulling out his 9-mm gun from its holster. When he spots the three D.E.'s marching up to the door of 702, he quickly ducks around the corner to plaster himself against the wall. Tom checks the cartridge is fully loaded when there's the sound of a knock on the door. He pauses and after a few moments of tense silence, there's no answer. Tom closes his eyes in brief relief that at least Harry took his advice on that part.

But his eyes snap open again when the sound of several gunshots rip through the night air in rapid succession.

Tom launches himself from the wall, gun arm swinging, and fires off his own round of shots. It takes the D.E.s by surprise and one goes down immediately while another is injured. The third recovers quickly from the surprise attack, however, and points his rifle at Tom. But Tom anticipated it, and has just enough time to dodge the bullet and fire off another shot that manages to catch the man in the throat. The man yells out and clutches his neck while Tom pierces the rest of his body with enough shots to cause him to go down. Tom hasn't forgotten about the one on the floor though. The D.E. lifts his uninjured arm to shoot Tom who swings his leg out and kicks the gun out of his hands. The gun goes flying and clatters on the ground a few feet away. But what Tom doesn't account for is the pain that shoots up his injured leg making him stagger and hiss out, "Fuck!"

Unfortunately, the D.E. catches the display of weakness and launches himself at Tom.

Thick hands dig into Tom's thigh and press hard. Tom grunts in pain and tries to shake him off but the D.E. is tenacious and holds on tight. With a roar, Tom hits him over the head with the butt of his empty gun twice before the grip finally loosens and he can get free. Tom pulls himself up with effort, biting against the pain and faces the battered door. The window on the side is shattered and the curtains torn to shreds. Tom holds his breath when he breaks down the door and bursts into the room.

What Tom finds inside is more holes littering the cabinets in the kitchen and pieces blown off the counter. There are punctures in the walls, a destroyed lamp, a cabinet door hanging off it's hinges, and Tom's eyes scan everything, searching for anything — a trace of blood —

A head of unruly black hair pops up over the counter, glasses askew on a stunned, pale face.

The breath Tom holds is released and before he even realizes what he's doing, he has an armful of warm limbs and his face buried in wild black hair. He inhales the reassuring woodsy scent that is Harry, alive. Tom's face nudges down his neck, scenting, grounding himself. The feel of a shaky, tentative hand brushes lightly over Tom's back, as if unsure or afraid of what's happening but wanting to assure the Sentinel either way.

"I'm alright," Harry murmurs, and there's a hint of wonder along with the underlying shock of what just happened. Appalled at his sudden, irrational behaviour, Tom pushes away from the Guide.

"We need to get out of here," Tom says, all business once again.

Harry nods, still wide-eyed and shaken and Tom squashes down on the urge to pull him close again. He grabs Harry by the shoulder in any case — just to be able to feel him, solid and whole — though Tom tells himself he doesn't need to. They seem to be in silent agreement not to talk about it as they both head out of the room. Harry's eyes widen at the bodies littering the hall as they step over them to get to the car. Tom laments the fact there's no time to hot-wire another one as the police have most likely been called and would be on their way soon. Harry frowns at the cracked windshield but thankfully doesn't ask about it. With a lurch and a screech of tyres, Tom pulls out of the lot before gunning it down the highway leaving behind a plume of smoke and the smell of burned rubber.

Tom knows by the absence of the black car previously parked outside the gas station that his cover's blown. He's just as much of a target as Harry is now.