A/N: Here it is, a half-baked cupcake. (I'll probably regret not leaving it in the oven longer but if I did, I think I might actually go insane.) But before I fire the starting gun, I'd like thank some people: To those who have been so patient and left such wonderfully encouraging messages even when it's been literal years since this series was last updated, I'm sincerely grateful. I'm terrible at replying most of the time but want it known that I read and deeply appreciate every single one of you. You've all been the fuel for this fic as I struggled in self-condemned silence to get this thing finally going. So without further ado, and in all its uncooked imperfect glory; the GEGDT sequel!

(As an additional aside, this is also crossposted to AO3 under the same username if some of you want to read it there instead.)

These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and gunpowder,
Which, as they kiss, consume.

— William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

He's always been a Sentinel. Known it from the minute he had thoughts in his head. It happens like that for most, though. It's the same as when you know whether you have two arms and two legs. Whether a flame will burn if you get too close to it, or whether a shoe can crush an ant. It's hard not to know when the slightest slip in focus can turn a dripping tap into gunshots in your ears. Or a speck of lint into a forest of colour from twenty meters away. One step off the path and you're gone. A moment too long and you're swallowed up in the wilderness.

Which is why you need a Guide, they always say. To pull you from the forest when it gets too overwhelming. And if you're really lucky, they continue, you might even find a bondmate.

But Tom's always been able to find his path again. He doesn't need anyone or anything, much less a Guide, to keep him from straying. Bondmates are fairytales and Guides are crutches. All of it social propaganda and a weakness he can't afford. Another distraction to keep him from reaching his true potential. Like his mother had been. Or so he'd been led to believe, once upon a time.

LONDON, ENGLAND. 12:53 PM.

Muted aggression.

It's the only warning he gets to let him know their man is coming. Harry leans against the brick wall of the building and tries to ignore the itch under his skin. The familiar prickle that starts at the nape of his neck and trickles down his spine. Like half-remembered, cold fingertips, spreading goosebumps across skin damp with sweat.

As always, it was neither the time nor the place. But when was it to have your heat hit?

Hostility… and a steady growing excitement.

A bloke with a five o'clock shadow and a mean look shuffles past Harry's periphery but he does not shrink. He's long since been able to fight that biological need to look smaller in a Sentinel's presence. Instead he looks at his phone, unseeing, and pretends not to be paying attention when Scabior turns the corner. Headed to where it's suspected he'll meet with a contact. Although physically unimpressive compared to others of his kind, Scabior is no less vicious than the worst. If being one of the few in Greyback's trusted circle wasn't telling enough, his criminal record was. A quick look will reveal some time spent in and out of prison for links to human trafficking. Nothing solid enough to stick though. The bastard was as slippery as they come.

After a minute goes by, Harry stuffs his hands in his tracksuit pockets before pushing off the grimy wall. Shoulders hunched, he keeps his gait casual. Nothing cocky. Just a beta Guide looking to bum something off another skeevy looking fellow.

When he turns the corner though, it's be greeted by a ringed fist propelling itself toward his face. He isn't ready to block or evade, just roll with the punch that has stars exploding across his vision. He stumbles back in dazed surprise as a pungent burst of anger surrounds him.

"Fuck you want, eh? Little feeler runt," Scabior spits as Harry makes a show of recovering from the hit. Scabior grabs himself through his trousers and swipes his tongue over a thin lip curled in a leer. "Wanted a good one from a real Sentinel cock, is it? 'Cause alls you 'ad to do was ask, love." He cackles to himself as Harry recognises the lapse in defence as an opportunity.

He moves fast, landing a hit straight to the throat. Not hard enough to permanently damage but enough to shut the man up. Scabior's eyes bulge in shocked pain, his hand coming up to clutch at a crushed windpipe struggling for breath.

"Thanks for the offer, mate. I'm good on Sentinel pricks for the moment," Harry says, and from the cocktail of outrage and wounded pride the Sentinel throws back at him, he readies himself for retaliation. Distantly, the hope that backup will arrive soon flashes through Harry's mind. He may be better at close combat than the defenseless omega he was three years ago but there's only so much training one can do when faced with an angry Sentinel.

As if to prove this, there's a hoarse shout and before he can dodge or counter it, a compact, muscled body slams into Harry. His back collides with a row of bins that topple to either side of them with half-hollow plastic sounds. Trash and other debris spew onto the pavement and Harry grunts with pain. He stiffens the next moment when the body atop his stills, chest expanding in a visible inhale.

Shit, he thinks. Here we go.

Because although Harry layered Beta pheromones over a heavy dose of scent blockers this morning, there's no hiding from a direct, nose-to-skin sniff. Especially not when you're an omega nearing your next heat.

Through the roar of blood in his ears, all Harry can hear is the man's uttering of a "— the fuck?" before the body pulls away slightly — no doubt to deliver another blow. Harry uses the opening to get a knee up between them and shove. Hard.

Scabior falls to the side with a breathless sound and Harry hurries to scramble up and away. But Scabior is on his feet a second later, and Harry throws his shoulder into the next hit. When his fist collides with flesh and bone, it makes a satisfying thwap sound. Then he aims for the head and words echo in his brain like a haunting tune.

"Incapacitate a Sentinel's senses… and a good distraction."

The jab hits its mark, resulting in a broken nose and a fountain of blood. Harry tries to shake off the feeling of ghostly lips brushing against his skin, his nose, his eyes.

Concentrate, Potter.

And that inner voice sounds enough like another Sentinel arse that Harry has to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. Why was he even thinking about either of them now?

Scabior's howling as his hands try to stem the rush of blood from his nose. That's when Harry gets him in the solar plexis.

"Hard to hit but very effective," says the voice. Harry's eyes scrunch and his lips part on a sigh when those searing lips suckle at the sensitive skin there.

Scabior doubles over, his breath punched out of him in a great wooshing noise before he drops to his knees.

Hands wander, stroking…

There's a moment, a second too long where Harry should have been paying attention. Shouldn't have given into the pull of the pit in his head where nothing but ghosts linger now. It's only a moment that gives the other man his chance.

Harry's back hits the cold, hard ground a second before his head does and all he can see is —

Wide hands stroke down his side, over his hips and thighs to finally hook under his knees. "Throw your opponent off balance," comes the voice. Soft but loud, hot like it was right there in his ear.

But another voice, one that's gruff and harsh, cuts through the fog like an ice cold shock. "You dirty fucking omega cunt," it spits before a fist winds its way back to deliver a brutal blow.

Harry's head snaps to the side from the force of it. Pain explodes, white hot, across his face as pinpricks light up his vision like static. A distant thought skitters through his mind; at least he wore contacts today. His glasses are too recognisable now, too impractical.

Then the next hit comes.

He thinks he'll lose his sight altogether at this rate. But through the murky haze, there's another voice. He's fairly certain it's not in his head this time though, as it seems to boom out from what feels like far, far away.

"ARMED POLICE! GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! DON'T MOVE!"

The blows stop. Harry's eyes close and all he can think is a resounding thank Christ.

Or, more accurately, Ron Weasley.

If Harry's Guide abilities worked the way they should, he would've sensed his team's arrival. But his senses do more harm than good these days. It's been a while since he's even tried to use anything. Now he's no better than a Mute.

But that doesn't mean he can't still feel the fierce, protective anger and urgency coming from his friend. As familiar and welcome as an old blanket.

Harry squints open a blurred, crimson soaked eye to find Ron pointing his Order-issued sidearm at the Sentinel pinning Harry to the ground.

But Scabior isn't ready to give up teaching this omega cunt a lesson. Harry can feel it through his patchwork-rough shields. Can sense it before any of the O.P.P.D. team realises it themselves. He reads it in the continuing sparks of rage and panic spitting off the man like a pan of frying oil. Harry's all too familiar with the cocktail of emotion. With the need to assert oneself as better than some soft, weak, omega Guide.

So he uses the brief, split-second distraction of Ron's arrival to feel around the ground at his side. His fingers pluck up the nearest object — a pen from one of the toppled bins — and in one quick, wild movement, he imbeds it into the meat of the thigh straddling his right hip.

"Pressure points. Can buy you enough time to hit a better area."

A roar of pain cuts through the air as Scabior clutches his leg and spews more prejudiced filth from his mouth. But before he can lay another hand on Harry again, a blur of red hair crashes into him, effectively knocking him off Harry who hastens to scramble away.

When he manages to stand on shaky legs again, Harry watches as Ron tries to wrestle Scabior into submission. A few more O.P.P.D. members stand in a semi-circle around the two, weapons trained and ready. But like any animal caught, Scabior puts up a fight. A final, ferocious, feral attempt to escape the fate awaiting him. He isn't going down quick or quiet.

A pressure builds in Harry's chest. Panic, fear, dread. The same combination that's always there when the people he cares about are in danger. It's the same combination that's only increased after Basilisk tower.

The same one that forces him to take action.

Harry closes his eyes and pulls on that old, familiar ability. Reaches deep within himself to come face to face with that black pit in the back of his head. The swirling choppy waters where once there was only bright light and warmth. It's a blind grasp in the terrible unknown, a desperate scramble to find something, anything. Because right now Ron is struggling and crying out. He needs him. He needs Harry. So it's with frantic, mental fingers that Harry claws at whatever he finds, dragging it to the surface before pushing it all out — without thinking, without hesitation.

And it nails Scabior like a horse tranquiliser.

The Sentinel goes down like a puppet with its strings cut. Reduced to nothing but dead weight in Ron's arms.

Too much.

His friend's wide eyes jerk up to meet Harry's.

It was too much. Oh, God.

But as soon as the pit of dread begins to open, a low muttering breaks through the stunned silence of the alley. It takes Harry far longer than he'd like to realise it's coming from Scabior.

Air fills Harry's lungs again, even though the whispered litany of "No, no, no, no…" from the man still chills him to the bone. Ron casts Harry another quick, nervous glance over his shoulder and hauls the man up. The rest of the team help and soon Scabior's limp frame is being dragged into an Order-issued black car.

As though mimicking their target, everything in Harry goes limp but he does not collapse. Instead he closes his eyes and sighs as shaky hands come up to run through black hair sticky at the temples with sweat. A vague nausea rumbles low in his stomach from the nearly botched Guiding effort.

"I owe you a pint after this," Harry pants to the ebbs of worry and frustration that precede Ron as he comes to stand beside him.

"Mate, you owe me at least three."

Harry huffs a laugh but it dies as soon as he opens his eyes again to the sight of an eerily silent Sentinel being piled into the back of the O.P.P.D car.

For a second, Harry fears that it isn't a zone. That he might have let what was on the inside, out. That the broken thing inside him did this to Scabior. The thought has his breath stuttering in his chest.

He doesn't even realise his panic has leaked through his shields until a firm and sure hand rests on his shoulder. A brief, much-welcomed grounding gesture. It quickly snaps him out of his downward spiral and he looks up and meets his friend's familiar, warm blue eyes. Ron says nothing. But then again, he doesn't need to. It's written all over his face and in the faint emotions drifting off him. The questions unspoken but clear. 'Why take him on your own when we had a team for this?', 'This is the fifth time this past two months that you've done this', and, of course, the obligatory 'Hermione won't be pleased when she hears about this'. But all Harry can say is, 'Who said Hermione has to hear about this?'. Then Ron would give him a look and Harry would rather not bother sticking his foot in it twice in one day. Besides, how could he explain the truth? That he's fighting against this intangible, ever-expanding blackness that threatens to consume him at every moment his mind isn't occupied?

No, Harry can take care of himself, thank you very much. He doesn't need anyone growing up and he doesn't need to be babied because of his sub-gender.

Instead, he says, "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, well, turns out even I'm a stickler for the rules when it comes to safety protocols," Ron replies drily. He pivots beside Harry and — Yes, there it is. The look. "Hermione'll want to exchange words later, you know. That's not even considering she finds out from the closed debriefing, mind." He sighs, expression long-suffering and pained. "She'll beat this thing like a dead horse."

Harry gives a faint, wry smile. "She always somehow knows about it, doesn't she…"

"And of course it's also going to be my bloody fault in the end," Ron mutters darkly.

Harry does have the decency to be sorry about that. But Ron just rolls his eyes and makes his way over to the second car. "Come on, then," he calls over his shoulder to Harry. "Let's get this over with and see if our friend over here has anything interesting to say."

But Harry's not quite sure if their 'friend' will have much to say about anything at all. Not in the state Harry put him in, at least.

He's practically quivering with need and close to begging.

Harry sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut tight against the intrusive memory.

"Please, Tom."

Too late.

"Alright?" Ron calls, stopping when he realises Harry's fallen behind.

Harry mentally shakes the memory away like smoke, clearing the sudden thickness in his throat. It's hormones from the heat, he tells himself. That's all. He hustles over to catch up with his friend. "Need to clean up when we hit HQ," he says by way of explanation. "I'll meet you in the briefing room?"

Ron bobs his head in a nod. "Yeah, alright." He wrinkles his nose and adds, "You need stronger blockers, mate." He jerks his head in the direction of the cars. "No wonder the tosser went batshit."

Harry feels his face flame a little despite himself. He told himself he wouldn't hide from his secondary gender anymore. But it's one thing to think it and another to have Sentinels able to smell him from miles away. It doesn't exactly lend to his line of work where stealth is vital to success. He can't help but think it would be easier on suppressants. He'd never have to worry... But ever since he found someone to share his heats with, he hasn't bothered. To have it taken care of naturally was... nice.

He shouldn't have gone on this mission. Not when he's this close to his heat. But it feels like if he stands still for too long, he'll be swallowed whole. So he took the chance.

Harry sends his friend a half-hearted glare and swings his shoulder into his, knocking him off balance a bit as they walk. "I'll take that into consideration."

And he would. He can't afford to stop now or the memories will bleed into reality. Then he really will be lost.

"I need you so much right now," Harry whispers.

ORDER OF THE PHOENIX POLICE HEADQUARTERS. 5:20 PM.

Three years after the incident at Basilisk tower, Harry manages to qualify for work at the Order. But not without the considerable weight of a certain older Guide's recommendation. Especially one whose job is to run the department. The same man whose office Harry now sits in, waiting to discuss the latest operation.

"Sir," Harry says, standing when Dumbledore enters. At the other man's dismissive hand gesture, Harry takes his seat again, albeit with a little less grace or cool than he'd like. Despite growing closer over the past couple years and thriving under his tutelage, the older Guide still makes Harry nervous. Still leaves him with a vague sense of awe even when he's practically become Harry's mentor and the closest thing to a parental figure he's ever had in his life.

Dumbledore takes his own seat behind his desk and leans back slowly, the worn brown leather squeaking softly. Aged but wise eyes regard Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "I don't suppose I'd be off the mark in assuming the gentleman you brought in earlier had any more useful information for us?"

Harry shifts nervously in his seat and clears his throat. Dumbledore must have already read him before he even came into the room. It's eerie how powerful the man's Guiding abilities are to be able to pick up his emotions from so far. Harry feels a stab of envy at the loss of his own not-inconsiderable Guide powers. "Er, yes," Harry says, the guilt that's been building up over the past couple hours already weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I think I… It was my fault, sir. I used my… I tried to Guide him and…" he cuts himself off, unable to explain or excuse his grave mistake.

Dumbledore makes a humming sound and steeples his hands under his chin. "Your Guiding abilities are not improving."

"No, sir."

"Most intriguing."

"Sir?"

"It's been quite some time since the departure of your bondmate, has it not, Harry?"

Harry tenses but nods, not trusting himself to speak at the reminder of what he lost in that tower three years ago. His other half and, with it, his ability to safely use his Guide abilities. It was a hard blow that many would consider a miracle he even survived. But sometimes Harry can't help but wonder whether it was worth it. Then another part of him quickly throws the thought away. Tom's sacrifice was, and never will be, in vain.

Dumbledore makes another humming noise, but doesn't push the issue. He never does, and Harry's grateful for that. Ron and Hermione still give him looks when they think he doesn't notice.

"Tell me about our man. Even seemingly useless information may prove valuable…" Dumbledore says. So Harry does. He reports on all that happened after the capture of Scabior and what little information the interviews with him yielded.

He's gotten quite close with everyone in the Order over the years. Especially the head Guide whom he now has the privilege of reporting to right away with his findings on this case they've been working for three years now. A slew of people, ex-convicts or ones known to have ties to criminal organisations, have been reported dead or missing. They still haven't managed to get any closer as of late though. They've got leads, of course. They've got names of sketchy, untouchable people. But they aren't the head of the monster. Just puppets working for a bigger master. It's all still a frustrating puzzle that Harry and his team can't quite figure out yet. A new and unknown menace has emerged. And the only thing they're certain about is the one man standing in their way to getting any closer.

Fenrir Greyback. A lowlife scum who worked for Voldemort but with no solid ties actually connecting him to the man. He's been as slippery as an eel. All they know is that he's got connections. Lots of them. Along with people on his side, most of them inherited from Voldemort after he died. Greyback's proving to be a formidable player. A wall that stands between this new menace and having what Voldemort had. A monopoly in the criminal underworld.

"You think a power vacuum opened up and someone's trying to fill it," Harry concludes.

It's Dumbledore's turn to nod now, his face looking older when he replies, "Regardless of who they are, my concern is whether he or she will be an altogether more formidable enemy than our previous one."

Harry's stomach knots up at the idea. Of some new and horrible monster rising from the depths. But just as the dread rears its ugly head, it slides away again when an intangible hand brushes it away like a bad dream. "Do not fret just yet," Dumbledore says in a calm voice that echoes his Guiding power. "There will be time for that later. For now, we must search and uncover."

Harry lets the retreating presence soothe the last of his nerves before the sound of the chair squeaks again and Harry looks up to find Dumbledore standing. Harry rushes to his feet as well but Dumbledore is in no rush when he comes round and joins him to walk together out of the office. It's when they near the elevators that Dumbledore finally stops and lays a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. There's that now familiar knowing twinkle in his eye again when he says, "Go home, my boy. Rest. Our problems will still be there tomorrow, I'm afraid."

Harry bobs his head. "I will. Thank you, sir."

The hand gives a last squeeze and a pat before letting go and the old man shuffles out of the hall. Harry watches him go before his shoulders slump and he leans against the wall. He digs out his phone from his pocket, finger hovering over an opened chat window. Ready and waiting for him to say the word…

Harry sends off a quick text asking to meet at his apartment that night. After he hits 'send', he leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes against the bright fluorescents overhead, and sighs. The ever-present shame always there. The guilt a low simmer beneath the surface. Why? Why did he still feel like this, after all this time?

Not one minute later, the loud chime of his phone goes off. A far too cheery sound in the otherwise deathly silent hall. A quick glance shows Harry a reply:

Took you long enough.