Project Mutare

Prologue – Part 1

Disclaimer: The setting and canon characters are J. K. Rowling's, I'm simply lending them for a while. Ara, however, is mine. Not that you'd want her anyway.

He'd expected an attack this close to his goal; although to be frank he hadn't expected it from her and certainly not in the way that she'd gone about it. He wasn't exactly old but then again he wasn't young either, and prying a full-grown woman off of his back while she attacked him tooth and nail was something he'd rather not have to do twice.

Still, it gave him the proof that the poor girl wasn't in her right mind, any normal witch would have tried to hex him as soon as he walked through that door. He got her off and Stunned her easily enough; she was ever-so-slightly built and hardly weighed anything at all. No doubt Grindelwald forgot to feed her more often than not; he might have liked his pretty things, and Maher certainly was that, but he lost interest in them so quickly.

Leaving her lying there was hard, but he had other work to do and the Imperius on her would lift when it was all over. He moved her prone form to the side of the room and went on.

Time passed.

On his way out, he released her from the Stunning spell, the others would find her and explain to her how she was now free; he had to go and explain the same to the others now first. Before he left though, he cleared the few bits of rubble off that had fallen on her during the battle. One piece looked to have done some damage to her leg, bruised it quite badly, but she'd heal, the others would fix her up.

He took one look at the gently stirring angel lying there on the floor and smiled, she was free; it was that sort of thing that made the war worthwhile.

He Apparated out before she discovered the corpse in the next room, before a howl of despair from a broken woman filled the night sky.

She'd run.

She'd run through dark alleyways and brightly lit streets packed with Muggles but to no avail. Apparating hadn't helped; they seemed to have some magical tracker on her, so that wherever she'd gone, they'd followed an instant later. She'd tried hiding, but the same tracker had given her away each time, even when she'd changed forms completely. Her suspicion was in the number they'd tattooed onto her arm, it was the one thing she couldn't change, couldn't hide and now, despite everything, she was tired, chased down like a rabbit by a pack of hounds till her energy was spent. All there was left to do now was fight.

She turned towards them, those hooded, faceless creatures and stood out of breath and shaky, her wand clutched tightly in her hand. They waited at the end of the path for her, just out of reach of the spells she would be able to cast with her remaining energy.

"Why are you after me? What have I done?" she pleaded, but the figures made no move to reply.

"Please, let me go!" she was crying now. She knew what was coming, what had to be the result of this chase. But she closed her eyes anyway, refusing to watch the inevitable happen. "I'll leave, you'll never hear from me again. All right? You've won, I'll go. Just please let me live." It was a pointless request, but it was always worth a try. It was just a shame that she hadn't said it loud enough for any of the cloaked figures to hear. Not that they would have cared if they had.

Two figures stepped forward, one supported by the other. The weaker was a female, she could see, a woman known throughout the Wizarding World and supposed to be dead, killed a number of days ago by Dumbledore when her consort, no, husband fell. The rumors were apparently wrong though. Terribly wrong she thought as the woman's arm rose. She was paralyzed with fear at the sight. All she could do was clench her eyes tighter and wait.

"Exuviae."

The screams that followed filled the night sky.

The door opened and she stood, head held high despite her condition. She still had her pride even though everything else had been taken from her in this living Hell. She knew the face of the person who entered quite well; it was the one who she cursed every night. This time there was something extra, an uncured leather, hooded cloak surrounded it, blood matted in the golden curls of the woman's hair. Despite everything she'd seen in her time here, she still felt bile rise in her throat at the sight.

"Lyta, how are you?" The musical voice of the tormentor sounded, edged with grief now though. She couldn't help but feel a little glee at her loss, whatever it was. She stayed silent, not giving the woman the satisfaction of an answer; she hadn't spoken a word to them since the first time they had met.

"The war's over, Lyta." This wasn't a surprise; it was a taunt she used every time they met.

"We lost, Lyta." This was new, and she let the astonishment register on her face.

"Apsel's dead, Lyta." And so she spoke to her, even though she knew what that last statement meant for her.

"Good. It couldn't have happened to a nicer person, Ara."

There was no reply, which was unusual for Ara, as Lyta knew she loved the sound of her own melodic voice. She just pulled the hood of the cloak down making a horrid wet sound as she did. The creature that it came from must have been freshly killed, she knew. And what was that strange marking on the skin that sat on Ara's left shoulder, she had to squint to get a closer look, her eyesight had been fading recently, no doubt as a result of her treatment.

This time she did throw up. The branding was unmistakable, not when she'd seen it so many times around the camp.

"How could you?" she asked, knowing it was a pointless question, the monster in front of her wasn't human, unlike the skin she was clothed in.

The answer she got was strange indeed, nothing verbal but the skin began to shift until a face appeared. It was her own; in fact the whole cloak had morphed around Ara's body to create a perfect illusion of Lyta's. And then she understood, understood everything. Why she was here, why these things had been done to her and most importantly what was to follow.

She watched as her own face smiled at her and then spoke to her, "It wasn't personal, Lyta, I hope you know that." And strangely enough, she did.

"Concremo."

The only sound that followed were the screams that came in from outside.

After it was done, another came in. Ara-who-was-now-Lyta turned to them.

"Turn her over."

The newcomer did so, the blackened corpse disintegrating a little as they did. They then lit the single candle in the room as it was getting dark and it was part of Lyta's routine to do so. Here in the camp the woman had lived in relative luxury, a prisoner only in name really compared to others. She was important, well up until the last few moments at least, and she was allowed light and food, in moderation of course. The body was rather transparent now, the candle light shining through it as the ashes fell apart.

Ara-who-was-now-Lyta glanced at the shining light and frowned, "Blow it out, and save all her ashes for me; they will help keep the illusion real. Then go, I will see you again when all this is over."

The figure nodded and held her hand for a brief moment before leaving. She knew what was coming though; without Apsel's support, the others would soon fail. This war was lost, both were. She only hoped that her dear husband's name would be remembered by Dumbledore and the rest of the world for when her time for vengeance finally came.

Oh yes, Grindelwald would be a name that would be known for centuries to come, as would that of Ara Maher. It would be heard in the screams of a thousand dying Muggles and Wizards alike for what they had done to her. She would make sure of it.

The happy laughter that came from inside was covered up by the screams of the dying as the Allies invaded the concentration camp.

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