A/N: Second part of the last chapter. I had to split it in two 'cause, like, eighteen pages. Eighteen.

"They're here."

The words punch the air like a bullet and Harry's heart rate picks up. Tom remains completely motionless beside him but appears to be listening to something. Harry wishes he could hear it as well when the sound of tyres squealing on the tarmac are heard in the distance. Shortly after, a pair of headlights shine out across the parking lot. Harry blinks at the sudden brightness before they abruptly shut off.

A black car sits in front of them like a hulking animal poised to pounce. Harry chews on his lip nervously.

"Stay inside," Tom commands as he starts to get out. Harry begins to protest, "What? No — Let me co — " The other man's face pushes close and Harry's mouth clicks shut in surprise.

"Stay. Inside." Tom grinds out.

An involuntary shiver runs through Harry and Tom's eyes bore into his for a split second longer than is necessary. He then exhales a soft breath and climbs out of the car. Harry watches his sleek black-coated frame glide over to the car parked across from them and rolls down the window so he can at least hear what's going on.

As soon as Tom's near, two men get out and Harry stiffens with apprehension. But with back straight and hands in his pockets, Tom looks cool as ever.

A man with long hair and a scruffy beard looks over Tom's shoulder at Harry though it should be difficult with such an absence of light.

He's most likely a Sentinel then, Harry reasons.

"What you got there, eh, Tommy?" Scruffy beard asks, and his bald-headed partner peers with interest into the car where Harry sits. "Don't need to be no Sentinel to know you got a fine piece of Omega arse in there."

Harry grimaces. Then he wonders how Tom reacts because Scruffy Beard's saying, "Yeah, alright. Down, doggy. No need to get all touchy."

"Stop stalling," Harry hears Tom bite out. "The money and passports. NOW."

The two men look to each other and Harry receives a current of disinclination, bravado, and of course, hungry curiosity.

This can't end well.

Baldy holds up a black duffle bag but when Tom steps forward, he refuses to hand it over.

"Now, just a moment there," Scruffy Beard says. He nods in Harry's direction. "I think we deserve a little look-see. Just to see what all this trouble's for, don't you?"

"That wasn't the deal," Tom's voice is low and dangerous. Harry knows the tone too well, and it means this could go bad very quickly.

Harry sighs and opens the car door. As soon as he steps out, Tom whips round and barks, "Get back in the car."

Harry holds firm as he trudges up to them. "No," He says. "If they want a sniff of the great bloody Omega then that's fine by me. As long as we leave with that bag." He directs this at the two men who regard him with unconcealed enjoyment. Harry must seem like some big fucking joke to them. And he probably is.

Tom's black eyes are sharp and hawk-like as they watch Harry step up to them. To be honest, the only thing giving Harry courage is the fact that he's got a gun stuffed down the front of his jeans. (And having one of the most deadly hit men in Britain at his back certainly helped things a bit).

Stance wide, Harry stares defiantly at the two. Scruffy Beard grins wolfishly and exchanges a look with Baldy. The former man leers, "Well, ain't you a pretty thing to behold?"

Harry grits his teeth and throws his arms out at his side, palms facing upward. "Satisfied? Can we do the deal now?" he asks.

Scruffy Beard laughs and his partner joins in. It's not a pleasant sound.

Just as Baldy takes a step forward and the other man starts to say something, Tom cuts them off. "This is taking too long," he says.

And before the words are finished coming out of his mouth, two loud shots pierce the air and send a spray of warm liquid splattering across Harry's face.

Mouth hanging open in shock, Harry stumbles backward.

Distantly, he's aware of a strong metallic taste in his mouth but his vision is blurred red. A half gasp, half gagging sound escapes his lips. He can't move. All he can do is stare at the vague shape of someone piling bodies into the trunk.

"Wha — ? What? Why..." Harry tries to get the words out but doesn't seem to need to finish, because Tom's voice is answering calmly, "They were a liability." He then takes the duffle bag that's on the ground and begins to walk back to their car. "And they would have told the D.E. where we were, probably," he adds.

Harry can feel a anger, wild and uncontrollable, grip him by his throat.

"Probably?" Harry says, and his voice sounds high-pitched even to his own ears. He hasn't moved from his spot, locked in place by an unfocused sense of fear and confusion. He's trying desperately to hold onto his mental shields, pulling them down hard and shutting them locked tight. "You don't know?!"

"I don't negotiate, Harry," Tom replies waspishly. "Not when I know what I want. End of story. Their people are no doubt already after us and most certainly will be once they find their men dead. So may I suggest we keep moving?" He's walking back to the black car with a jerry can and begins to fiddle about in the front seats. When he straightens, he holds up what looks to be a radio. "No doubt wired back to HQ. Happy now?"

Harry can only stare in disbelief. He's following a complete mad man.

Tom's an actual psychopath.

As he tries to hold onto his emotions from pushing past his shields, Harry gives an emphatic, "No?"

Tom doesn't look to be paying him attention any more though, and begins to pour the jerry can of fuel over the bodies in the boot of the car.

"What the fuck are you doing..." Harry mutters but Tom doesn't seem to hear him. Instead he lights a match, throws it in, and slams the boot shut. He then marches back to the car, telling Harry to "Get in." And because he has no idea what else to do, Harry obeys. He scrambles into the passenger side and stares through blood-splattered lenses at the burning car. Long after it disappears from sight, his eyes still don't stray from the windshield.

At some point during their ride Harry's tossed a bag of face wipes from the driver's compartment and told to wash his face. After scrubbing his face and doing his best to clear his glasses lenses, he finds that his hands are shaking. He sits looking at the bloodied wipe and hastily crumples it up into tight fists. There's an acidic taste in the back of his throat and Harry tells himself to focus on breathing deeply to calm his roiling stomach. To his surprise, he finds his shields are holding up strong and solid. All that training must have paid off in the end, though the thought isn't as comforting as Harry hoped it would be.

Harry doesn't even realize they've arrived back at the safe house until Tom's opening his car door and practically hauling him out by his arm.
Harry blinks his vision into focus and finds they're standing in the garage. His eyes then cast down at the bloodied wipe still clutched in his hands and Tom frowns at him. Following Harry's line of sight, he sees the wipe and rips it out of Harry's hands to stuff it in his own pocket.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Tom demands. Harry's pale and looks ready to be ill at any moment. He certainly feels like it.

"Hey," Tom urges, stepping closer. "Look at me. Harry, what the fuck?"

Harry swallows and his hands feel like feel limp, dead weights at his side without anything to hold onto.

Harry's voice sounds small and hollow when he finally speaks.

"You killed them," he says. With thinned lips, Tom's eyes narrow. He begins to march Harry into the house as he answers with a simple, "Yes, I did. How very observant of you."

"Oh God..." Harry whispers and pitches forward slightly.

Tom snarls and grabs the front of his shirt to haul him upright. "You saw me kill two of my men back in Voldemort's estate," he grits through clenched teeth. "I don't see how this is any different."

It's a reasonable enough assumption. But a grim and sheepish look passes over Harry's face and Tom stops. Harry mumbles something under his breath but the Sentinel picks it up. He waits until they're in the hallway to say, deadpan, "I'm sorry. Could you repeat that?"

Harry glares half-heartedly and repeats, "I said I closed my eyes, okay?"

Tom's eyes bore into the side of Harry's skull but the latter can't find it in himself to meet that gaze. Not right now. After a long moment passes, Tom sighs and Harry snaps. He yanks himself out of Tom's hold and presses his back against the wall to jab an accusing finger at the other man.

"Hey, look! It's not like I see people die every day, alright? Christ, I mean..." Harry trails off with a huff of laughter that sounds hysterical even to his own ears. He leans heavily against the wall and runs a shaky hand through his hair. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the bullet pass through the head of the man in the parking lot. He can still hear the hollow sounding thumps as two bodies hit the ground in front of him. It's enough to churn Harry's stomach again and he lets out a shuddering sigh and continues, "You'd think this happened to a bloke on a regular basis."

"It does for me."

The words send a flare of anger through Harry. "Well I'm not like you, am I!" he snaps. His throat feels tight, and all of a sudden he can't hold them up any more — His distress starts to eek through his shields and Tom's expression becomes stony. When he speaks, it's with a tone of finality, "No. You're not."

Harry expels a breath of air through his lips, willing all of his anxiety and nerves to dissipate with it.

"If it disturbs your delicate sensibilities, Harry, then please continue to close your eyes. But we both know these won't be the last deaths you witness."

Jesus, Harry thinks darkly. The worst thing is that he can't even dispute the fact. The arsehole's most likely one hundred percent right. It sends Harry tumbling through a new void of despair.

"Fine. Whatever. I'm fucking done with this right now," Harry says and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He doesn't remove them until he feels something surround him and he's engulfed in heat. Startled, Harry looks up to find Tom hovering extremely close to him. Harry realizes too late that he's completely trapped against the wall. But before he can start to worry about it, Tom's speaking in a low, rumbling voice.

"You were shielding yourself from me," he says.

Harry wishes he can read his tone. Using his empathy seems like cheating, but decides to lick out anyway. What meets him is a dark, simmering kind of emotion — Like possessiveness.

Harry blinks up at Tom and replies, "Yes..."

The other man's eyes harden and he presses closer. "The whole time. You were shutting me out."

Harry swallows. "You seem upset."

"You should never shield yourself from me, Harry."

"But it's all we've been training to do. You said — "

Tom slams his hand down right next to Harry's head, cutting him off. "Never. From. Me." he growls out.

After a moment trying to calm his frantically beating heart, Harry's voice answers softly, "Okay..."

Their eyes lock on each other and the moment seems to stretch on for hours or minutes. Harry's heart steadies into a more heavy rhythm but he can tell that something else is going to happen. It's in the way Tom's leaning in so close. The hot breath on his face and the unwavering black gaze that takes Harry in like a moth to a flame. He doesn't realize he's lost until a strong pair of arms wrap around him and all he can do is drown in the feeling. It's like he's been given a drug and Harry melts into the touch. He can feel the deep inhale right under his ear and the tip of something cold pressed into his neck. He soaks up the surge of comfort and stability that washes into him from somewhere. It mends the tiny cracks in his empathy he didn't realize were there. He has no idea how long he's locked together with Tom like this but when Harry rouses, it's to realize he's almost been dozing.

In Tom's arms.

The grip around him tightens, causing a deep flush to creep into Harry's face. When he wriggles and starts to pull away though, the hold on him drops.

And it's fascinating, really. How Tom can manage to look like absolutely nothing happened. Harry finds he's a little resentful and annoyed by this but there's no real conviction behind it.

"I'm going to get some sleep," Harry says, his voice still soft. The atmosphere still feels too fragile and he's loathe to break it. He begins to take the stairs when Tom's voice drifts after him, "We'll be leaving early tomorrow."

"How early?"

"Early."

Harry rolls his eyes but finds he's too tired to demand clarification. He mutters something about 'Stubborn Sentinel dickheads' as he continues to ascend the steps.
Deadpan, Tom calls after him, "I can hear you."

"Really?" Harry asks, the word heavily dripping sarcasm. He locks Tom with a provoking stare all the rest of the way up the staircase until he's out of sight. Tom lets out a soft breath but a small curve lingers across his mouth.

Harry's curled into a little ball and the duvet's been thrown off. Though he's once again drenched in sweat, he's shivering. If one didn't know better they'd think he's terribly ill.

But Tom knows better.

Silently, he goes round the bed to stare. His body vibrates with the need to reach out but forces himself to remain still. He doesn't know how long he can last like this. Harry's stubborn, Tom will grant him that. But so is Tom. At the moment, he believes it's all a matter of who will give in first now.

Harry makes a small whimper from the bed and Tom's eyes snap to him. The Guide's brow looks to be scrunched up in pain or pleasure, and the expression strains his willpower.

There's a brief, tense pause. Then comes a whine.

Suddenly Tom's half-kneeling on the ground beside the bed with his hand on Harry's bare shoulder (he must have taken his t-shirt off during the night as well). Within a second of making skin contact, a relieved sigh escapes Harry's lips. His hips then seem to make a small rocking motion and Tom's jaw clenches. But despite his resilience, his fingers can't keep still and they tangle themselves in the damp locks on Harry's forehead. He runs them through his scalp and Harry's panting now. His sweat-slick chest rises and falls with his laboured breathing. Tom watches it all avidly, when green eyes like a vast meadow, snap open. Although dazed at first, they quickly focus once they land on Tom.

Tom can almost see the moment something in Harry shuts down, boards up, and the presence that filled the room before is gone. He wants to howl from the loss — From that something which felt so right. Like it belongs to him. But he knows this is his Sentinel instincts and not logic speaking.

Tom's hand drops to the edge of the mattress and rests there, limp. He continues to stay frozen in his crouch next to the bed as Harry scuttles all the way to the other side. His glistening chest heaves and his hair's in more of a disheveled state than normal. All traces of sleep are now gone from his wary green eyes, leaving only apprehension. They're strangely bright in the darkness and Tom's hand flexes minutely against the sheets.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Harry rasps, voice still hoarse from his restless sleep.

"You're making a lot of noise," Tom answers almost conversationally. He then lifts his finger to tap his temple twice. Harry frowns but a flush has crept up his face and neck. Tom's eyes travel its path down to his chest, mapping it.

A spike of tension, thick and heady, causes Tom's gaze to focus back on Harry's face.

"Look, it's fine. Just side-effects from the suppressors," Harry says dismissively, and shifts around on the bed to try and cover himself. He's trying to avoid Tom's eyes. But Tom can see the dejection written plainly on his face. The humiliation and tiredness underlying his tone. It's all Tom's needs to know he's had enough.

In an abrupt movement Tom stands to go round to Harry's side of the bed. The other man's eyes widen and his knees draw up to his chest until his back's pressed against the headboard. His eyes are mesmerizingly clear, almost vulnerable without his glasses.

"I can help with that," Tom insists, face intense. Harry stares and his lips thin into a tight line. Tom can already see the vehement refusal before it forms on his lips. So he leans in and breathes hot against Harry's ear, "Let me take the edge off."

And that's all it takes.

With his resolve already weakened by his second night of restless sleep, Harry's giving in. After the day they've had and however long Harry's had to survive without a Sentinel's touch to ease him through his heats, it's no wonder that with just a little pleading injected into his voice, Tom's got Harry in the palm of his hand. Green eyes shutter and his Adam's Apple bobs in a deep swallow. Soft, pink lips part and Tom tries desperately to abate his own arousal. This needs to be Harry's decision.

"Tom..."

The word sounds like the start of Harry trying to fight himself again. Tom can't understand why the man willingly denies himself, and for what? Pride? Some skewed sense of moral belief? Maybe he's saving himself for the 'right one' to come along.

Or most likely, he's just stupid enough to think his genetic makeup won't catch up with him. That he can simply wish away his Omega needs through sheer willpower. An inexplicable rush of blood pumps hot and angry through Tom's veins at the thought. Impatience prickles at his skin.

"Let me help you," Tom insists, his voice hoarse with his own need now. He can see how it sends a visible shudder through Harry and impossibly he burns even more. Harry clears his throat before speaking the words Tom's been waiting to hear all along:

"Okay."

Triumph like liquid honey courses through Tom. He doesn't stop to check if it's hidden from Harry, but by the insistent erection pressing against his thigh and the way the other man openly stares at his lips, Tom doesn't think he cares that much about it.

But he's not in the clear yet.

The slightest use of force can easily send Harry struggling, and Tom knows he won't be able to stop even if he wants to. His Sentinel senses would only see it as a challenge and bare down more. To try and dominate, fuck, and breed Harry to within an inch of his life.

Tom wants it. He presses close and watches as Harry leans into him. He wants to lick a long stripe up that tantalizing stretch of skin on Harry's neck when he hears the breathed words, "I don't want to sleep with you."

Tom freezes. He pulls back slightly to eye Harry with a calculating gaze. Did he push too much? His mind races to quickly rectify the situation.

When he feels Tom hesitate, Harry looks up to meets the other's gaze. Licking his dry lips, Harry continues, "I just need you to touch me. Hold my hand or something."

It's painful to say aloud but Harry forces it out through his mortification. He doesn't want to be consumed. To be tied down for ever as some Sentinel's slave or second-class citizen.

Tom pulls away and apprehension floods Harry for the second time that night. He expects Tom to leave, to say 'Forget it.' and demand it's all or nothing.

But then he's saying something else entirely: "I have a condition of my own then."

It's Harry's turn to stop dead. His eyes snap to Tom again and his shoulders sag.

"Of course you do," Harry sighs warily. "What is it then?"

"I want to bite you."

Harry's heart gives a jolt in his chest and Tom listens to the sound with fascination. He watches as the other man's hand comes up to cover his neck.

"No. Absolutely not," Harry grits, eyes flashing. Tom notes the alluring hint of steel in the deep green and sends him a razor sharp smile.

"Not there," Tom clarifies, and lets his eyes fall over the other man's frame to finally land on a spot. With a long pale hand he reaches out and lightly touches Harry's wrist.
Harry's heart gives another flutter as fingers brush the inside of his arm. The touch sends tingles and tiny shivers through him, making it hard to keep from letting out an embarrassing sound.

Their eyes meet and Tom can see the last shreds of resolve finally crumble away. He watches as Harry averts his eyes and the pink flush returns to his face and neck.

"Fine." Comes the reply, quiet and resigned.

Tom would revel in the victory but doesn't trust that it'll be completely hidden from the other man.

Harry slowly lowers himself back against the pillows. Though if Tom had his way, he'd have pushed him down there himself, climbed on top, and pinned him by his wrists. He ignores the thought, distracting as it is.

Harry's eyes flick to the other side of the bed. Gathering the meaning, Tom climbs on and settles himself beside Harry.

"You're too close," Harry says.

A low hum like the beginnings of a growl erupts from Tom's throat. Reluctantly, he shifts a bit to allow Harry more space. Then Harry's pulling the blanket over him, hiding himself.

"Don't look at me."

"You're very demanding," Tom snipes.

"And you were the one that wanted to help. I can do just fine on my own."

Tom sends him a quelling look that says they both know that's a lie.

Harry shuts his eyes tight and Tom watches from the corner of his as a bead of sweat trickles down Harry's temple to disappear in the thick head of black hair. His gaze then travels down to the small movement of the blanket where the other man tries bring himself release.

"Seems like you might need a bit of encouragement," Tom observes.

Harry's eyes snap open and his already flushed face turns a shade darker. "Shut up," he says. "I'm trying to..." He blows out a blustery air of frustration.

"There's no 'trying' involved. As far as I can see, you could probably come just from the sound of my voice. Harry," Tom prods.

Harry turns scarlet at his words, his breath hitching. "Look, it's hard enough doing this in front of you. But when your irritating voice keeps...!" He trails off again on a small intake of breath and Tom suspects it's the exact opposite. Harry wants him to talk. To hear the sound of his voice coaxing him through orgasm. The revelation sends a swell of pleasure straight to Tom's already interested cock. He files this information away for future use though, and instead turns his efforts to the designated part of Harry he's allowed to reach.

Harry's head turns to face away from the other man and shuts his eyes tight again. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to just get on with it. But all he can think about is Tom's hand that starts sliding up and down his arm in surprisingly gentle, slow strokes. It covers the back of Harry's hand and long fingers intertwine with his, squeezing.

And only because he can't help it, Harry finds himself squeezing back.

His toes curl beneath the duvet, wanting more but not daring to say it out loud. Meanwhile his other hand's resumed touching his straining, overheated cock, and pumps it slowly.

Then Harry's hand is being lifted, and he can't help turning his head on the pillow to see. The sight that greets him is one of Tom ghosting hot lips against the underside of his forearm. Harry's eyes widen and he starts to make a squawk of protest when he's hopelessly caught in the void-like gaze that's trained on him. It pulls him in like a magnet and he can't tear his eyes away. Tom's blown black pupils bore into Harry as he mouths his wrist and gives it a teasing nip.

"Fuck," Harry jerks, his hand tightening around his prick. Oh, God, he thinks. He isn't going to last long like this. Though he's not sure why he'd even want to. This is already mortifying enough as it is.

Tom's completely silent, licking and nibbling at the inside of his arm, hot breath ghosting the soft skin inside his elbow. Harry's so close. He can feel the pressure build from the very centre of his being, scorching him from the inside out. He knows he should look away. He should try and stop this. This wasn't the deal.

But then Tom bites down. Hard.

Harry's cry echoes through the dark room as his orgasm surges out of him. He arches, head thrown back against the pillows as opalescent stripes decorate his stomach and fingers. The force of it leaves him lax and spent. His limbs feel heavy and rest like dead weights on the mattress. Harry thinks he's never been more content than he's ever remembered being. Sleeps hangs over him like a sweet promise. Still panting, he can't help his eyes rove over Tom on the other side of the bed. But it's too dark to see anything and Tom's already getting up. Then the light from the crack in the curtains lights up his profile and Harry can see the impressive bulge in his trousers. His breath catches and his spent cock gives a valiant twitch. If he isn't so exhausted, Harry's sure he'd be rock hard again. It makes him think how he can survive much longer without taking a mate. People have done it before. They do it all the time.

But then they probably didn't have an Alpha Sentinel trying to break them down every second of the day. Or a dangerous organization out to kill them.

No, those other Guides and Omegas had peace and distance and support to properly deal with their heats and irrational moments of weaknesses.

Harry, on the other hand, had none.

Harry rips his eyes away from the alluring sight of Tom to brace himself for the oncoming wave of shame and embarrassment. But just as soon as it arrives, the bed dips and Harry finds Tom hovering over him again. Both of his arms boxing him in.

"Stop that," Tom says in a low rumble. Harry just stares as beady eyes travel from his face down to his neck. He can feel Tom's hand make a movement but instead of touching him, he pulls away instead. Harry almost goes with him. Almost.

The Sentinel grunts out one word, "Sleep." before the door clicks shut and Harry's plunged into darkness and silence once again. A shuddering sigh escapes his lips before he takes Tom's advice and drifts off into an exhausted sleep.

"Any news of the call left for Mr. Hagrid?" Dumbledore asks.

A brief probe of the emotions in the room, however, tells him his answer.

"They couldn't trace it. The signal led to a waste bin in central London where a disposable was found," The stern tone of McGonagall's voice reports. She holds a file in her hands and flips through a page, her eyes scanning the information through her square reading glasses. She continues, "Unfortunately, the device was wiped clean of data and prints. But the IT department are still working to get what they can from it."

Dumbledore remains silent for a long time. He moves to his office window, his gaze far-off. It makes McGonagall wonder if he's heard her at all. But when she asks what he'd like to do, he turns and sends her a weary smile.

"Everything is in it's place now, I'm afraid. I'm not certain there's anything more we can do."

McGonagall pinches her lips but gives a curt nod. She removes her glasses and lets them hang from her neck on a thin silver chain but makes no move to go. Dumbledore raises a curious brow to see her lingering.

"I can't help but wonder why you've told Severus of the location of the safehouse. The Weasley home?" She clipped, and Dumbledore's amused to hear it directed at him like he were one of her new assistants. "I don't imagine I need remind you he is a Mute."

"And fortunate for us that Voldemort isn't a Guide," Dumbledore replies calmly.

"Nevertheless —"

"Minerva, I trust him with my own life. Severus has had plenty of training in shielding his mind, almost as if he were a Guide." She stares at him with worried eyes. He continues, "I know you do not approve, but it's what has been decided."

She straightens her pencil skirt though it's always spotless and pristine.

"I only wish you'd have informed me of this plan earlier," She says.

Dumbledore turns a soft smile on her. It's almost affectionate and makes her feel like when she began working for the Order at the age of twenty-one.

"I was under the impression that I was doing so," He says and earns a minute shake of the head before McGonagall turns to leave.

"If that's all," She begins to say as her heels clip-clop on the floor to the door. But before her hand can reach the handle, Dumbledore says, "He will give them a location."

McGonagall whips back round, her back straightening. She narrows her hawk-like eyes and lifts a thin brow in that very familiar and particular way she has that causes the new interns to shake with nerves.

"And I assume he'll give an incorrect one?" McGonagall states more than asks. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle and her shoulders relax. She nods her head stiffly. "All's the better. I wish I had the same faith you hold for Severus, but when one is in his particular position, it's hard to fake allegiance where there is none."

Dumbledore watches as the Sentinel woman leaves, her mind slightly more at ease than it'd been during their conversation.

As for his own mind, there will be little rest and a more brittle trust than everyone assumes he has.

Gazing out of his office window, Dumbledore can't help but ponder on how right McGonagall is. It's hard to falsify allegiance to a side when it's unclear whether you have one or not. But then the expression comes to him: Something, as they say, will have to give.