AN: Well i'm back. Enjoy.

Harry lay sprawled in the narrow flower bed outside Number Four, Privet Drive, his back pressed against the warm brick of the house. The air was thick and heavy, the kind of sweltering August heat that made the pavement shimmer and the hedges droop. Overhead, Aunt Petunia's radio blared from the open kitchen window, its crackly broadcast battling the lazy drone of a nearby lawnmower.

"…emerging conflict between two rival gangs has led to a series of violent altercations in the boroughs of Walthamstow, Chingford, and Hornsey…" a clipped, serious voice announced. "Residents are advised to stay indoors after dark and report any suspicious activity to the police…"

Harry barely registered the words. His attention was fixed on something far more interesting.

Just across the street, by the corner of the neighbor's car, a strange shimmer hung in midair. It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but Harry had been watching it for nearly an hour, tracking the way it seemed to flicker and shift, like heat haze rising from tarmac.

Aunt Petunia's radio continued.

"…freak weather patterns have been reported across the southeast, with sudden bursts of freezing cold interrupting an otherwise record-breaking heatwave…"

Harry squinted at the shimmer, his mind working. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulling out the silvery folds of his Invisibility Cloak.

Keeping his eyes locked on the shifting air, he draped the cloak over himself and held his breath.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The shimmer remained, still and silent. Then—

CRACK!

The sound was like a gunshot, ricocheting through the quiet street. The shimmer had vanished.

Harry watched the street for a long while, until curiosity got the better of him. He sat up slowly, careful not to let his ankles show under the hem of the cloak, and crept across the street. When he reached the car, he bent down, his fingers brushing against the asphalt. Tiny flecks of tobacco—mostly ashes—were scattered where the shimmer had been.

He pinched some between his fingers, bringing it to his nose.

It didn't smell like tobacco. Not exactly. There was something off about it, something acrid and strange—like burnt socks.

Straightening up, Harry let his gaze flicker over Privet Drive.

This wasn't the first time he'd found a trail like this.

For weeks now, he'd spotte the same odd shimmer in odd places—at the end of the street, near the lamppost outside the Dursleys' house, even once in the garden. Someone had been standing here for hours, smoking something, watching.

Keeping tabs on him.

Harry exhaled slowly. He guessed there were at least three of them, taking turns. It had become something of a sport since the summer began, for Harry to spot and evade the peepers.

A distraction, he knew. A way to keep his mind from drifting there—to the graveyard, to the large green flash that still made his whole body twitch just thinking about it.

He forced the memory down. Focused back on the trail of tobacco.

Something was happening. Something the Daily Prophet wasn't telling him—though that wasn't a surprise, considering it had stopped arriving altogether weeks ago.

Aside from the grim Muggle news, he had no way of knowing what was going on.

Ron and Hermione had written endlessly, their letters piling up on his desk. He hadn't replied. He hadn't wanted to reply.

The way they had found him in that graveyard—the way everything had happened afterward—he just couldn't bring himself to think about it.

So instead, he crouched down, rubbing the burnt tobacco between his fingers, and focused on what was right here.

Someone had been watching.

And whoever they were, they were getting either impatient or overly comfortable. At least that is what Harry told himself, casually wondering if this detective fantasy was something a psychologist might have comments on.

Harry took the apparent absence of the peeper as his chance to slip away from Privet Drive. He hesitated only long enough to ensure no shimmer had reappeared near the neighbor's car before pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his jacket. He set off at a brisk walk, hands in his pockets, scanning the pavement ahead. He was late. He wondered if Dudley and his gang would still be waiting for him.

Dudley thought he was a complete dork for not just coming along when he left the house earlier, but paranoia had gotten the better of him. Harry preferred to study the comings and goings of these watchers, keeping track of their habits, their shifts, their blind spots. He'd even made notes, scribbling them in the margins of an old comic he'd nicked from Dudley's room.

Three of them, as far as he could tell. He'd assigned them names, mostly for his own amusement.

First, there was Muck, the smoker. The smell clung to the pavement wherever he stood, acrid and rank, like burnt socks mixed with something sour. Muck never stayed long in one place, but his presence was always obvious—small piles of ashes, a discarded stub that had burned itself out.

Then there was Spanner, who Harry was fairly sure was a girl. Once or twice, he'd caught sight of a flicker of pinkish hair when the streetlights hit just right, but it was gone before he could be sure. She was impatient, and eager, always repositioning herself, always slipping away when the door creaked open.

And last, Codger—an older bloke, Harry figured. He stayed farther back, watching from across the street, sitting on the low wall near the park. He wouldn't move under the cloak for hours on end. He was by far the hardest to spot.

Harry mused, not for the first time, that he was a paranoid lunatic. He had no proof that the watchers were still lurking, so he kept his cloak on for a few blocks, before stuffing it into his pocket. Maybe he was losing it.

Either way, he was tired of thinking about it.

He found Dudley and his gang hanging around the busted playground, the one with the rusted swings and the slide that wobbled dangerously if you put too much weight on it. Dudley spotted him first and raised a hand in greeting. The rest of the gang followed, nodding at him in their best attempt at looking casual, their too-big tracksuits and cheap jewelry making them look more like kids playing dress-up than anything else. Harry thought their whole gangster imitation was a bit ridiculous, but he didn't really mind. He was just glad to have people to hang out with—people who didn't know what had happened to him at the start of the summer.

Well, Dudley knew.

Dudley was the one who came into his room at night, shaking him awake before his screams could reach Uncle Vernon's ears. Dudley never said much when Harry told him about the nightmares, about the flashes of green light and the nightmares about the graveyard.

He didn't really understand any of it, but he listened. And, most importantly, he never made fun of him for it.

They'd grown closer this summer, in a way Harry never would have expected.

Not that Dudley's view of the wizarding world had improved. If anything, it had gotten even more—well, skewed. Especially after Harry had told him, in a moment of exhausted honesty, about what had really happened in that graveyard. About how he'd been found hanging on a cross, his hands nailed in place. How he was meant to have died there.

But killing curses didn't seem to work on him.

Dudley had stared at him, open-mouthed, when he first heard that. He hadn't even asked why—just sat there, shaking his head.

And then, when Harry mentioned that none of it had even made the news, that the only thing the papers had printed was how he'd "won" the Triwizard Tournament, Dudley had gone nearly purple with rage.

"They print you got an award in school, but not that a terrorist tortured you?!"

Dudley leaned in slightly, his voice low but casual. "You up for it tonight?"

Harry stretched out his legs, brushing some dirt off his jeans. "Yeah. I was thinking if I did three, the cumulative bets would have us good and done in one night."

Dudley's expression soured immediately. "I don't like it."

Pierre, one of Dudley's mates, whistled. "Odds are actually not bad. It's Connor Dawes bringing his boys from Eastvale Boxing Club. Those guys look pretty bad-ass, but they don't stand a chance. People are going to be pouring money against you."

Harry shot him a dry look. "Appreciate you pointing out I lack physical presence."

The gang burst into laughter, and Pierre clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.

Dudley, however, wasn't laughing. He crossed his arms. "I'm not worried about the money. Three guys in one night is insane, Harry. I'm worried about you."

Harry just winked at him, flashing a grin. "Nothing you can do."

More laughter from the others.

Dudley groaned, shaking his head. "You're going to get a concussion."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe." Then he winked at Dudley and pushed himself up from the ground.

The gang took that as their cue, grabbing their things and setting off, weaving through the broken fence at the edge of the playground.