Notes: Sometimes I get a story idea stuck in my head, and I cannot focus on anything else until I write it down. Presently, I have two such ideas: a story where Hermione gets visited by three separate daughters from alternate timelines, and this. For some reason, this story has taken priority over "Hermione J and the Wedding Day", so here we are. I should mention that this is set in a slightly alternate universe, although I hope that would be obvious fairly quickly.

Summary: When Ariana Dumbledore was nine, a man in white saved her from herself. He was an Astute, and that is what they do. Years later, Ariana is an Astute. A decade with the Dursleys has awakened Harry Potter as an Obscurial, and the wizarding world can never know that the Boy Who Lived is now the Boy Who Brings Death. If only that were all that Harry is now capable of.

Harry Potter and the Inferi Complex

A Fantastic Beasts/Harry Potter Crossover by

Nate Grey (xman0123-at-aol-dot-com)
Chapter 1: Rain and Ruin

from The New Astute's Handbook, by Opan Dor

The Astute's Duties

Every Astute has two primary duties. The first is to master their considerable powers, so that they will not accidentally harm themselves, those around them, or the world at large. The second is to seek out, confront, and deal with Obscurials.

Both are tremendous, highly dangerous, potentially fatal tasks. Both are worthwhile. Both must be carried out, for the good of our continued existence.

No one else is even close to being qualified. No one else has the proper amount or type of power. No one else has the personal responsibility.

You, my young Astute, no doubt have relevant questions. Why must it be you? Why not someone else?

I will tell you. Because we both once stood, where every Obscurial stands. An existence, forged in darkness and tempered with pain, loneliness, and fear. A person who has so far only known a world that will not, cannot possibly accept them as they are. They will never belong. They will never be safe. They will never survive long enough to make a difference.

Not without us. Not without you.

By the time you read this, I will no longer be with you. I wish for you to know why. I heard the tortured cries of a young girl, and I could not turn my back on her. It cost me what remained of my life. But when she looked into my eyes, finally freed of her personal demons, and smiled, I knew then. It was worth it.

It is always worth it.

My young Astute, I ask one thing of you, no matter what path you pursue. Always remember that you stand where you stand now, because another offered their hand to you. Always remember that someone thought enough of you to save you. That hand, offered with no sense of self-preservation, intending only to rescue, can change the world. It did for me. It did for that girl. And it did for you. Just imagine, for but a moment, what that hand can do, when it is yours.

THEN

It was raining heavily that day.

It didn't matter.

Though he was wet, cold, and shivering, Credence Barebone kept his complaints to himself, and continued to offer the pamphlets in his hand to the few people who slowed down enough to take even a passing interest in him. Most of those tossed the pamphlets into a conveniently located garbage can as soon as they got a few feet away. He had learned to position himself near those. A police officer had once accused Credence of littering, since obviously the pamphlets he was holding matched the ones scattered on the ground. Credence had been too nervous to defend himself adequately. If his youngest sister Modesty had not shown up in time to kick the officer in the shin, grab Credence's hand, and run away with him, he was not sure what would have happened.

Thankfully, their sister Chastity had gone back and explained things. She was usually the one that had to deal with the authorities. She was talkative, but not quite so heavy-handed, in every sense of the word, as their mother. Once, she had even rescued Credence from a police precinct, where they were giving him stern looks and considering putting him in a cell until his mother could pick him up. When he apologized to Chastity for troubling her, she gave him a sort of sad look, just shook her head, and said, "Oh, Credence," in that specific way of hers. He wanted very much to believe that she was fond of him, but it was sometimes difficult to be sure.

Modesty was much easier to understand. She would grab his hand whenever either of them was upset or lonely, but rarely ever when she was happy. Then, she would just give him a brief, big grin. He wished she would do it more often, but he understood why she didn't.

His sisters weren't with him now, though, and Credence was glad of it. The weather couldn't possibly be good for any of them. He had only volunteered because his mother had been giving him one of her looks, and last night's beating had been particularly light... which meant she had more than enough strength saved up for a major one tonight, if needed. He wished to do nothing that might earn that beating, even if that in itself was no guarantee. Best not to tempt fate. So long as he returned home on time with no pamphlets, and they could not easily be found on the ground, he might be safe. He doubted even his mother would venture out in the pouring rain, just to look for discarded pamphlets. But once the weather let up, that was a different story.

Credence was not sure how long he stood there, trying to hand out pamphlets in the rain, before a voice like the tinkling of wind chimes spoke to him.

"May I have one of your pamphlets, please?" it asked.

Despite the dull roar of the rain, Credence heard the voice quite clearly, as if the speaker was directly next to his ear. And yet, when he turned to face them, they were still a few feet away.

It was a young woman, surely near his own age, but completely unlike any that Credence had ever seen before. She was wearing a heavy, white robe, notable both because he had never seen one like it outside of a church, and because it was totally, enviously dry. Her blonde hair was tied into a long, intricate plait that reached her waist. Her skin was noticeably pale, but pleasantly so, where Credence found his own paleness to be due more to a strict diet and general unease to... well, life in general. Her lips were small, pink, and pleasant to look at.

But it was her eyes that drew his attention the most. They were the grey of new storm clouds.

Credence could not even begin to think of what to say to a woman so beautiful, and felt guilty just looking at her. So he wordlessly handed over a pamphlet, with a hand that suddenly felt heavy, clumsy, and far too brutish to be anywhere near her perfection. And he kept his fingers close to the nearest edge of the pamphlet, so that she would not have to touch him.

Strange, then, that she insisted on grasping his wrist and drawing it toward her, taking the pamphlet with her free hand. She did not read it immediately, but instead stared at his forearm for several seconds, before finally releasing him. Then she raised the pamphlet to her face and began to read the cover.

There were only ever so many reactions to the pamphlets, and given the weather, Credence felt certain what hers would be. But he was wrong.

"Do you actually believe in this?" she asked, raising her gaze to his face. It was spoken, not with doubt or accusation, but genuine curiosity. As if she actually cared what he thought.

Credence was not prepared for this, and could not come up with a response. And in any case, the truth was that he didn't believe in his mother's anti-magic propaganda. He would never say so in front of anyone, though, and especially not a stranger willing to listen to him. If his mother ever found out, she would never forgive him. Not that she ever really seemed to, now that he thought about it.

When it was obvious that there was no reply coming, the young woman smiled. "You don't have to be so nervous, you know. I won't bite, unless you ask me to." She followed this with a wink that made Credence feel certain that this conversation should have been happening to virtually anyone but him.

"Y-You're not getting wet," Credence suddenly blurted out. This seemed like a safer topic, as they were both standing in the rain, and yet only one of them was getting wet, and it wasn't her.

Her smile widened. "I think you mean to ask, how is it that I'm not getting wet?"

He nodded.

"I can tell you one thing for sure." She pointed to the pamphlet. "I didn't learn it by reading things like this."

Credence opened his mouth, planning to explain to her why his mother's beliefs were so important. But the words stuck in his throat, and he was only able to produce a sound that came out as, "Fuh."

"I suppose I'll have to guess what you want to say," she said, grinning. "And I think you want to show me where you live."

This was not what Credence wanted at all. And yet it was immediately clear that that was exactly what was going to happen, on account of Credence having no better ideas. And even if he had, he would have dismissed them instantly on her say-so.

This was not the sort of woman that people refused, he decided. Terrified as he was at the thought of his mother's reaction to his bringing this strange woman home, suddenly he could picture something far, far worse.

The woman might stop smiling at him.

NOW

He was jarred awake by a loud impact on the outside of the door.

"Dinner!" Petunia Dursley's voice shrieked, giving the door another kick for good measure.

Harry Potter sat up and quickly put on his glasses. After a few seconds, he heard the padlock rattling, and then the door creaked open. Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself for what was coming, the boy emerged into the light.

He regretted it instantly.

Petunia was staring at him with obvious disgust. He found this unfair: she provided all of his clothes, food, and virtually everything he could have used to alter his appearance. If she didn't like how he looked, she had far more power to change that than he did.

"Well, come on!" Petunia snapped, before she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen.

Harry followed at a distance. The table was already set, the food already prepared. They didn't trust him to do either, and they were right not to. Harry was not sure he would have been able to resist the temptation to spit in Dudley's food. The odds that Dudley actually tasted much of it as he shoveled it into his face were slim to none.

Harry did not have a chair to sit in. He had a rickety stool that leaned to one side, and was far too short for the table. Even sitting on it for the length of a standard meal would have been uncomfortable at best.

Convenient, then, that Harry's meals were below standard. Today's meal: a glass of water, half an apple, and a slice of bread. The apple wasn't halved because it had been cut. It was halved because someone, likely Dudley, had taken an enormous bite out of it.

Harry knew better than to complain, as this was always a possible consequence of being the last one called to eat.

Vernon and Dudley were already eating, and Petunia soon joined them. No one said anything to Harry. It was best that way.

Harry sat down, and started to pick up his bread. Dudley hadn't touched it. Dudley had no interest in a single slice of bread, unless it was paired with another and served as part of an enormous sandwich.

"Boy!" Vernon shouted abruptly, making Harry freeze. "You come to dinner looking like that?!"

Harry stared at him. The same reasoning from before applied, more so in this case, since Vernon left providing for Harry solely up to Petunia, and had no interest in it, beyond how much it was costing him. The answer: far less than it cost to provide Dudley, who, beyond not wearing standard size for his age in anything, was quite greedy and could only be satisfied by being spoiled rotten. Harry had done the math several times, and could state for certain that keeping Dudley happy cost more than it would to keep three Harrys rather unhappy.

When Harry offered no response, Vernon just grunted and went back to his dinner.

Harry actually got to pick up his bread slice before being interrupted again.

"Didn't even wash your hands," Petunia sniffed. "Filthy freak."

Again, unfair: Harry lived, if it could be called that, in a confined space regularly occupied by spiders and dust. Even if he did bother to wash up first, in that short time, Dudley would have either eaten or stolen his food. Harry knew this from experience, but accusing Dudley of anything was pointless, and would only get him worse treatment from all three.

Harry took a bite of his bread.

Vernon's meaty fist pounded the table. "Boy! Are you bleeding on my table?!"

Harry looked at his elbow. He'd lost the bandage somewhere, so he was, in fact, bleeding. No point denying it, then. "Yes, sir."

"Why are you bleeding on my table?!" Vernon demanded.

Harry knew there was no answer that would be acceptable. He decided to lie. "Banged my arm on the door." Totally truthful, if the teeth of Dudley's newly acquired pitbull, Mauler, could be called "the door"... and thankfully, said dog was currently outside, unable to appreciate that Harry was covering for him. Not that Mauler would appreciate it, if he'd been in hearing distance.

Dudley, of course, was no help. "He's lying, Dad!"

Almost reflexively, Vernon's fist lashed out.

Harry could have avoided it. Last time he had, Vernon had lost his balance and toppled over. And the beating Harry got for that was far worse than the one punch would have been. So he took the hit. Plenty of practice allowed him to stay upright and conscious. Also, he really needed that bread.

So Harry picked up his water, sipped a bit, and spat the blood and a tooth into the glass.

Vernon's fist crashed into the table, making it jump. "Disgusting boy! Out of my sight this instant!"

Harry considered his options very briefly, stuffed the bread into his mouth, and quickly left the table. He was back in his "room" in record time, and heard the padlock rattling soon after. He was locked in again. No surprise there.

"Hey, freak," Dudley muttered softly through the door. "Mauler sends his love. Can't wait to have a bite with you for dessert."

Mauler was Dudley's rather aggressive pitbull, and Harry had the bite marks to prove it. One of which was fresh enough to still be bleeding, apparently. Harry thought about re-wrapping his arm, but knew it was pointless, so close to yet another encounter with Mauler. That would be a waste of bandages, and he was going to need them. Petunia rarely bought those, as they would have been expensive, considering how often Harry ended up hurt around Dudley and Vernon, with or without Mauler's help. Fortunately, one of Dudley's old shirts was large enough to be cut into several makeshift bandages, and Harry had plenty of Dudley's old shirts.

A few hours later, the padlock rattled again. Harry tensed up when he heard a soft growl. The door opened, just wide enough for Mauler to slip in, which he did with apparent glee. Then the door slammed shut, they were alone in the dark, and Mauler pounced upon his favorite victim.

Mauler was not especially big, fast, or even heavy. If Harry had time to prepare for him, and perhaps a long, blunt object, he felt that it wouldn't be hard to put the fear of a cornered Harry into Mauler. But the few times Harry had even been suspected of breaking Dudley's things had resulted in beatings.

Aside from that, Mauler was a living thing. And Harry knew exactly what it was like, a living thing being mistreated, simply because someone could. So he didn't hate Mauler, so much as pity him for being Dudley's pet. Harry could actually believe that, beyond Dudley constantly egging Mauler on, Mauler might simply be repeatedly attacking Harry because he was the only person in the house whose skeletal structure was plainly visible, and Harry's bones were likely more appetizing than the food Dudley wasn't feeding Mauler. Even Petunia was not quite that bony, and even if she had been, any animal that bit her would have been shipped off to Vernon's sister Marge.

Getting hurt as much as Harry did had taught him a lot about his body. He had an unusually high tolerance for pain. He based this primarily on the displeasure the Dursleys displayed when the beatings never produced the appropriate amount of pain response. The only other explanation was that they were bad at giving beatings, which was certainly not true.

Harry did feel pain, of course, but it always seemed to fade, or at least be replaced by a curious numbness, before very long. It was appropriate, because Harry felt numb about a great deal of his life in general.

He made no attempts to better or change his situation, because it seemed pointless. Vernon and Petunia were well-known in the neighborhood, and, as unlikable as Harry found them, they had several friends who would recognize him on the spot if he ever ran away. He also had no money, no friends, and no real hope. He had actually been picked up by a police officer once who mistook him, by his state of dress and glum expression, as a homeless person. That resulted in Vernon explaining that Harry was his disturbed nephew who they had to keep confined to the house for his own good. And since Vernon occasionally played golf with the police chief, it never went any further than that, and neither did Harry.

And after ten years of living with and being hated by the Dursleys, Harry had come to a conclusion: his only real chance of escape was to die. He wasn't suicidal, and the thought of taking his own life terrified him. But the Dursleys had ensured that the world outside of their home would never accept him as anything other than their deranged relative who only they could control. So with no way to truly live, what was left but to die?

So as he sat there, allowing Mauler to prove he had been aptly named, Harry made a decision. Though Mauler proved to occasionally be as lazy as his owner, chewing on Harry clearly excited him. So perhaps, if Harry did not resist, Mauler might get lucky and bite something vital. And then Harry might get lucky, and die. The Dursleys could hardly blame him: they offered no medical treatment, refused to take him to the hospital, and didn't feed him enough where he could possibly be hardy enough to recover from serious injury unaided. And even if he could, why would he want to?

This thought, that death was the answer to Harry's problems, was not just a thought. Harry had no way of knowing it, but this thought became a realization for a deeper, primal part of him, and that part of him turned realization into reality. That reality was like an airborne poison, and it began to spread.

At that very moment, there was a common garden snake making its way through Petunia's rose bushes. It froze, as if sensing danger, and promptly died on the spot. And then the roses themselves began to darken and shrivel.

Not long after that, something approached Privet Drive by the air. It was an owl. And it had barely crossed into the airspace above number four's front yard when it went stiff, plummeted from the air, and slammed into the ground. It was dead before impact.

And inside that dark cupboard space, where this unseen lethal force had been unleashed, everything that lived also went stiff and instantly collapsed. But only one of them was still breathing. His name was Harry Potter, and though he could not see it, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was shining like a beacon, bathing the tiny space in an eerie green glow.

Ironically, if anyone familiar enough with the circumstances that lead to Harry being orphaned had seen that glow, they would have instantly recognized it for what it was, and thus would have done everything in their power to not be the one who had to eventually explain it to him.

But no one did see. And because this force was not, in the strictest sense, a typical occurrence of under-aged, accidental magic, an equally atypical sensor within the Ministry of Magic detected it. This sensor did not alert, nor was it in any way connected to, the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Instead, the call was sent to a space that was, on paper, listed as a very specific portion of the Department of Mysteries.

This portion was a closet, and there was nothing magical about it.

The pulsing, crimson rip in thin air beside the closet was another story. Presently, a little girl emerged from it, and skipped over to the computer console that had received and logged the call. With the press of a single key, the display lit up, revealing the message: NEW OBSCURIAL EMERGENCE DETECTED. STATUS: LOCATED.

"Yay!" the girl squealed, clapping her hands excitedly. "A new friend!" She paused to glance around the room expectantly. When no one else entered after several seconds, she pouted. "But no one's here to go find them," she murmured sadly. Turning back to the screen, she put her hands on her hips and made a firm decision. "Well then, I'm going!"

This was, as she well knew, Strictly Not Allowed, and she would be in Majorly Big Trouble not if, but when she was caught. But that was for later. Right now, there was someone out there who needed to be found.

"Wait for me, new friend! I promise I'll save you!"

The girl spun in place several times with her arms extended. In seconds, her white robes of office materialized around her body, held in place by a broach shaped like a golden sun. She drew her hood up over her hairless, dark brown head, and her yellow eyes gleamed with anticipation. She tapped the console one last time, officially changing the status message from LOCATED to REFINEMENT IN PROGRESS. The computer helpfully printed out not only the target's address, but several nearby locations that he was known to frequent.

"Alright! Astute Sahara, Grade 2, will now start her sacred mission!" With another twirl, she vanished into thin air, leaving only a few grains of glittering sand in her wake.

Continued in Chapter 2: HERA - Our Lady of Wrath

Credence's companion meets the Barebones. Dudley gets revenge.

Endnotes:

Again, this is slightly (or majorly, depending on your perspective) alternate universe. I have not so much changed the rules on becoming an Obscurial, as taken a different viewpoint on them. Although I will readily admit to altering what comes after that point. Harry, as always, is exceptional. But so was Credence. And with only the exceptional to serve as an example, I kinda had to invent the standards... for a largely exceptional people. Tricky.