Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other characters that appear in this story. I am just playing with the plot. This story is simply for the enjoyment of other ambitious readers and writers like me.

A/N: As you can probably see, this is the new and improved version of my story, Circle of Trust! I am extremely pleased with how the edited version has come out, and I believe that it is a vast improvement over what I had previously posted. You'll also be happy to hear that it's quite a bit longer than the other vision as well.

On a side note, the first two chapters are mostly the same. However, as we get into chapter three we witness some pretty important plot changes, so I suggest you start at the beginning and work our way through, otherwise you might get lost. With that said, enjoy the story! And please remember to review!!

-Rainyrose :)

Chapter 1

It was the peak of the summer holiday, and the smallest bedroom of the Dursley household was stifling hot; its only window was stuck half- open, preventing any sort of breeze from entering which may have helped to cool it down. There was a desk beside the window that was littered with countless half-empty bottles of black ink, pointy feathered quills, and a few stray rolls of parchment. However, the remainder of the room seemed unnaturally empty for a bedroom regularly inhabited by a teenage boy. The walls were bare of posters and were instead plastered a stark white, giving the room a desolate, lonely feel. The bed was old and creaky from rusted springs, and was made up with several thin, moth-eaten blankets. The only noises distinguishable came from the whispering breeze outside, and a soft scratching on the corner of the shabby desk.

There was currently only one living creature inside the drab bedroom, and it wasn't a thirteen year old boy. A magnificent snowy owl blinked her eyes blearily form the confines of her metal cage, waiting impatiently for her master to return. She glanced at her empty water bowl in yearning. Her master hadn't been back to the room to feed her since he'd left at dawn, and she had grown quite hungry. Hedwig shook her white feathers restlessly, and returned to picking and scratching at the lock with her talons; she had never been so eager to escape into the summer skies and stretch her wings. It must have been at least seven days since she'd last felt the open air ruffling her feathers in flight.... She distracted herself with the lock for a while, and was hoping that perhaps this time she might be able to free herself, when a loud CRASH sounded from downstairs. She emitted a loud hoot of alarm.

"BOY!" a loud voice boomed, echoing up through the floor. The white owl closed her eyes in exasperation.

Downstairs in the kitchen, a skinny bespectacled boy with chaotically messy black hair scurried around in a panic, hunched over, trying to scoop up the broken fragments of his aunt's vase before his uncle could see what had happened. The usually spotless kitchen was now littered with glittering white pieces of porcelain. Harry was just cautiously reaching for a particularly jagged piece, so as not to slice his finger on it, when the enormous bulk of his uncle appeared in the doorway.

"What the devil is going on in here?" Vernon seethed, his teeth bared. When his beady eyes noticed the sharp fragments scattered across the linoleum floor, his face swelled, and began to turn a nasty shade of purple.

"Nothing," Harry said quickly, and hastened to inconspicuously deposit the sharp piece in the waste bin.

"Nothing? So that's the story now, is it boy?" A vessel was throbbing in Vernon's neck. Harry didn't take this as a good sign, and a familiar sense of foreboding began to seep up through the pit of his stomach.

"It was an accident. I- I tripped." Harry began to sweat as his Uncle Vernon realized that he was being lied to. His eyes turned black with fury, and with a deep growl, he had marched up to his nephew and seized him by the shirt collar. Thrusting his purpling face so close to Harry's that he could count every pore on the young boy's nose, Vernon bared his teeth with a snarl and began to speak.

"After you clean up this mess, you will weed the flowerbeds, mow the lawn, and mop the kitchen," he hissed, his putrid breath stinging Harry's face. "If you are not finished by dark, you will severely regret it. And if I hear any sound from you, boy, anything at all, you will wish you had never been born." He backhanded Harry across the face with as much force as he could muster and Harry staggered, his hip slamming painfully into the antique kitchen table. With that Vernon stormed away, most likely into to the living room to watch yet another pointless television show.

Harry slowly brought a shaking hand up to his burning cheek to feel if it was swelling. The skin was stinging badly, but not nearly as badly as the lightening bolt scar on his forehead. It was this scar which had been the reason Harry had stumbled into the vase in the first place. As he pressed his hand against it his eyes screwed up in pain, and he could feel an even larger panic spreading throughout his entire body, numbing everything else. The only times that his scar hurt had been when Lord Voldemort was near Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school Harry attended. Therefore, Harry reasoned, that had to mean that Voldemort was currently lurking somewhere close by to number four, Privet Drive. Why else would it be hurting like this?

But Harry was tempted to dismiss this thought as quickly as it had come. How could Voldemort possibly be anywhere near Privet Drive? He was nothing more than mere vapor and was without a body.... Unless, Harry pondered, his thoughts straying to his previous Professor Quirrel, Voldemort had found another devoted follower who was willing to loan out the back of his head....

Harry was about to enter his third year at Hogwarts, a school dedicated to educating its students all about the hidden magical world. He had been in the face of danger several times throughout the past two school years, but Harry wasn't sure if he could hold off Voldemort yet again. In their past two encounters, Harry had escaped Voldemort's clutches purely on luck, or so he thought. And he was bound to run out of luck eventually.

His instincts were telling him to alert Albus Dumbledore about his scar. But would Dumbledore believe him? Harry had already sent a letter off to his headmaster, requesting that he spend the remainder of the summer with the Weasleys. However, Harry's letter had been ignored, as he hadn't gotten any sort of response back. Perhaps the wise old wizard was finally getting impatient with him and his immature problems? His stomach churned guiltily at the prospect of bothering Dumbledore. Because of his stupid, careless nagging in that letter, Harry might have lost a lot of respect in Dumbledore's eyes (or so he thought). He was ashamed to admit it, but he was slightly afraid of confessing to Dumbledore and asking for more help.

Maybe he should just wait the summer through- he had a high tolerance for pain. It wasn't as though he couldn't take care of himself, after all. He wasn't an invalid.

Harry finished cleaning up the now worthless vase, and then quietly bounded up the stairs to grab his wand. If there was any danger around, he at least wanted to be prepared to fight. Screw the Ministry and their restrictions, he thought savagely. As he entered his room, Hedwig gave a soft hoot of hunger. He grimaced.

"I know, girl," he murmured, hovering in the doorway and eyeing the large padlock on his owl's cage. Hedwig's large amber eyes rested on his helpless face. She mournfully hooted again.

Harry shook his head sadly, and walked to his bedside table and grabbed the holly and phoenix feather wand. He hated not being able to care for Hedwig properly. The last two times he had been caught picking the lock on the cage, Vernon's wrath had been frightening, and Harry knew that he couldn't risk getting caught a third time.

"He's watching me too closely right now," Harry whispered to his owl. "Hang in there until I'm done. I promise I'll be quick."

Harry turned and stealthily crept back down the stairs. After a quick glance to see if Vernon was still in the living room (he heard the low rumble of voices on the TV, which confirmed his suspicions), Harry tiptoed to the front door and eased it open. Then he was out in the bright sunlight, potentially safe from any harm for the next few hours. With a deep sigh of relief, he went into the garage, grabbed the weeding tools, and got to work on the flowerbeds.

The late afternoon sun beat down on his exposed neck as he labored. His sore arms dripped with sweat, and he wearily wiped his brow on his sleeve. The dirt in the flowerbeds was almost rock hard; it had been baking in the heat for days now, so the surface was caked and crumbling. His fingertips were sore from the gunk under his nails, and the skin raw from scratching repeatedly against the hard surface.

Harry yawned. His eyes itched from fatigue. It had been a while since he'd gotten a good night's sleep; Uncle Vernon had Harry rising at the crack of dawn to wash his car and cook breakfast before he went to work, and Harry didn't get to bed much earlier than midnight each night. But no matter how tired he was, he couldn't seem to get rid of the feeling that he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, occasionally followed by a twinge from his scar. Every time he sat up and looked around, however, his eyes were greeted by a deserted landscape and a few scattered rain clouds that had been blown in by the wind. Shaking it off, he forced his mind back to the task at hand, convinced that he was just being paranoid after what had happened earlier in the kitchen.

On and on he worked, for what seemed like several hours. At least there's a bit of a breeze, he thought wearily. Without thinking, he wiped his brow with his dirty sleeve, and groaned. Brilliant. I probably have a nice dirt stain across my forehead now. Let's hope I don't meet any neighbors and embarrass myself. On a second thought, maybe it'll hide my scar….

A bee was buzzing around one of the rose bushes. The sound was hypnotic. Harry found himself sitting back and surveying his semi-completed chore with a frown on his face.

There aren't even that many weeds in here, he thought grumpily. Why couldn't Dumbledore just let me go straight to the W-

"Harry?" A timid voice tore Harry away from his depressing thoughts, and he whipped his head around in search of the source. His wand was out of his pocket before he could even stand up.

The man leaning against the front gate looked youthful, with light brown hair and cheery amber eyes. But when Harry got a closer look, he noticed that the man's hair was flecked with gray, and his face was lined with premature wrinkles. Do I know you? Harry thought desperately, racking his brains for situations where he might have come across this man before. He could think of none. The man looked innocent enough, though, so Harry cautiously rose to his feet.

"Er- can I help you with something?" Harry carefully stuffed his wand back into his jeans pocket as he approached the man. All the same, he readied his reflexes in case the man tried to pull a wand on him.

"Yes, actually... I'm a friend of one of your neighbors. Erm, she sent me here and was wondering, er, whether you would be willing to do some work around the house for her. She lives down on Wisteria Walk, at number six."

Harry knew perfectly well who lived at number six. It was Mrs. Figg, the batty old lady who was obsessed with cats and lived in a house that reeked of cabbage. Harry almost scoffed at the man's suggestion, but caught himself. He was being asked to do even more work? Couldn't this man see that he already had enough on his plate?

"Sorry, but I've got loads to do around here. I don't think I can spare any more time." Was it just him, or did this man look highly disappointed? But before he could take a closer look, the man's expression changed. He was now regarding Harry with newfound interest.

"Alright. I'll just deliver on the message, then," he said pleasantly. There was a brief, awkward silence, and the man still didn't leave.

What's he waiting for? I can't stand around all day. Uncle Vernon will kill me, Harry thought, deeply annoyed.

"Why are you working outside on such a hot day like today?" the man questioned again.

"Er…," Harry didn't know what to say. 'I broke my aunt's favorite vase because the stupid scar on my forehead started burning like hell, which means that Lord Voldemort might currently be on this street, and I got punished for it' didn't seem like the right thing to say, for some reason.

"Chores," Harry mumbled. The stranger's eyes roved over him.

"What happened to your face?" He was peering closely at the ominous bruise on Harry's cheek, which had by now swelled up to be the size of a golf ball.

"Nothing," Harry answered, perhaps a little too quickly. When the man raised an eyebrow, Harry hastily made up a story. "I tripped over a chair in the kitchen, and hit my face on the stove."

The man simply stared at the bruise some more. Harry decided that it was time to end this conversation and swim away from these dangerous waters.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, er, Mr-?"

"Remus Lupin," the young man stated, holding out his hand. Harry regarded it for a second before shaking it. It was also lined with wrinkles, and Harry felt some rough calluses rub against his palm and fingers. He noticed Lupin glance at the scar on his forehead (apparently it hadn't been hidden beneath the dirt streak), and Harry quickly withdrew from the handshake.

"Well, I'd better get back to work now. It's almost dark, and I'm not even halfway finished." Harry faked a smile, turned, and walked back to the flowerbeds. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Lupin was gone.

____________________________________________________________

The rain started around six o' clock that night. It wasn't the light kind of rain that makes a soothing sound on your roof at night, and lulls you to sleep. It was a hard pounding, like a thousand little fists, threatening to break into your bedroom and wash you from your bed.

Harry had dismissed the idea of picking the lock on Hedwig's cage and sending her out to Dumbledore. Not only did he want to avoid his uncle's ire, but he didn't want his beloved owl to get lost in the freak storm raging around the house, and she hadn't had anything to eat until a few minutes ago. As if she could read his thoughts, his poor owl hooted at him in restlessness from being cooped up for so long. As he grabbed her empty water tray and pulled it through the bars, she gently nipped his finger.

"I know, I'm sorry," Harry told her quietly. "You can't go out tonight. I don't want you to get lost." Her large amber eyes blinked up at him for a moment, before she tucked her head beneath her wing and went back to sleep.

Harry opened the door of his bedroom and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom to refill Hedwig's water, making an effort to remain as quiet as humanely possible. He let the water run for a few moments before placing it under the faucet. As he glanced around at the photos of Dudley in distaste, his thoughts strayed to the man he had met earlier. Lupin…. He had an odd feeling he had met the man somewhere before….

"BOY!" A dangerous shout came up the stairs. Harry froze. Oh no. What did I do now?

He quickly turned off the sink and leapt across the hall to his bedroom, spilling water on the carpet in the process. He deposited the tray on his desk just as his uncle lumbered to the top of the stairwell.

"What did I tell you to do earlier?" He hissed in a dangerous voice, his enormous bulk blocking the entire doorway to Harry's room. The vein was throbbing in his neck again, and his moustache quivered ominously.

Harry was bewildered. What had he forgotten to do? He tried to ignore his racing heart as he replied with an unsteady voice. "You, er. You told me to-"

"MOW THE LAWN!" His uncle roared. He strode over to Harry, kicked a few books out of the way, and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt so he could bodily haul his nephew down the stairs. They passed his aunt and cousin who were sitting in the living room, pointedly staring at the television despite all the commotion behind them. Harry was soon slammed face first into the kitchen window.

"Look out the window. What do you see?" Harry blinked the stars away from his blackening vision and focused on the yard, trying hard to ignore the increasing difficulty to breathe.

"Er." What did he see? What were those gleaming eyes doing on the opposite side of Privet Drive? Harry peered closer. "I see a dog."

"A dog? NO, you freak! You see the unmown grass! WHY DIDN'T YOU FINISH YOUR CHORES?" Vernon shook Harry's collar, increasing the pressure on his windpipe.

"I mowed it two days ago!" Harry choked out angrily. That, and the fact that it had started raining and Harry really didn't want to get sick on top of everything else. He had been hoping that his uncle wouldn't notice. Obviously, his hopes had been futile.

Vernon shoved Harry around to face him, his nose an inch from his nephew's. "Well guess what, you little freak? I'm not paying for your food and shelter if you don't work it off. " He aimed a punch at Harry's cheek but missed, instead splitting open Harry's lip. Blood spurted out and dripped down the front of his shirt. "I want you out of this house, NOW!"

And with that, Vernon pushed him down the hallway, threw open the front door, and shoved a staggering Harry out off the porch steps. The last thing Harry heard from within were the shocked exclamations of his Aunt Petunia, before the door was slammed shut and Harry was left alone in the hard, cold downpour.

It took a moment for his shocked mind to register what had just happened.

"Damn."

Now what was he going to do? All of his belongings and Hedwig were stuck in his room upstairs, along with his wand. Harry tried to remember whether or not he had closed his bedroom window. He could always climb the tree near his room, jump inside, and grab his stuff-

As he had been thinking, Harry had walked over to the tree and looked up at the dark, wet house. The window wasn't open. Brilliant.

Harry slipped under the canopy of leaves for shelter as he evaluated his situation. He was stuck in the pouring rain, he was sopping wet, and locked out of the house that held his most precious belongings. He had an alarmingly swollen cheek and a split lip, his scar was burning fiercely, and-

Wait. His scar was….

Bloody hell.

A/N: Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Chapter two will be posted in a few days. :)

p.s. Should I come up with a new title/ summary for this story?