A lot of my reviewers have been telling me that Chapters 9 and 10 would have been much more effective had they been written in one chapter instead of separately - and I quite agree. Sorry if I excited you with the update and dissapointed you with it not being an update.. I have started progress on the next chapter, I promise! And, I'll let you in on a little secret: coming up in about two chapters or so is one of my favorite twists, and a couple after that is another one that as far as I know, has never been attempted on Or at least, at the same time. Oh, I don't know how to explain it.

IMPORTANT: I realize that in the first chapter when I was describing Ginny's past that I mentioned Draco Malfoy having a part in her torture. I'm making a minor plot change here - that statement is going to be switched to "The hardest part was when Lucius Malfoy had his turn." Draco is on the good side, now. Get used to it.

A Cruce Salus:

Chapter 9

This is your ghost that kneels before me / Razors on her tongue / A body full of oxygen / It won't be the last time she'll ignore me / Thinning in my skin / Without the strength to go / Winter setting in / To cover you in snow

(( Ruthless by Something Corporate ))

Previously:

"Here goes nothing."

Soon all of them felt the sensation of leaving their stomachs behind as they plummeted into their professor's thoughts, opening up doors they probably all knew should have stayed closed.

Sirius landed with a thump on what felt like a carpeted floor. The others quickly copied his actions, if the loud raps and several disgruntled "ow"s were any indication.

"What--"

"Sh," he quited whoever had began to talk, pointing to the scene laying out before them. None of them had ever been in a Pensieve before, so it was a very odd feeling to be in a room full of people that gave no sign that they acknowledged your presence. They were in the middle of a flat--a small kitchen could be seen in the far left corner, and there were various doors who most likely would lead them to bath and bedrooms. One across from the opening to the kitchen was open, which did indeed lead to a simple tiled bathroom.

A small coffee table was placed between two parallel couches that were facing each other, each occupied. In the first one sat what looked like a twenty-something man with the most outlandish mop of red hair any of them had ever seen. Lily's had always been a sleek, almost brownish-red, but this man's was a messy orange that looked as though it hadn't been cared for in a while. Underneath his mane was a dirt and blood-smeared face, littered with random jagged cuts and bruises. He also had robes on that they assumed were a version of the battle robes Samara sometimes wore. If you trailed your eyes down to his hands, you could see a bottle of firewhiskey tightly clenched in them, but it was his eyes that gave away his pain the most. They were staring off into space almost determinedly, and the gaze he held in them let the four know that he had just suffered a some kind of painful loss or tragedy. It was almost heartbreaking, looking into those eyes. And though he wasn't as torn up physically as their professor had been upon their first meeting--albeit, a rather one-sided meeting--it was simple to tell that he was straight out of some kind of battle, as well.

On the other couch, they found their professor. She didn't look any different, so they supposed this must be a recent memory. She was lying down with her legs dangling off the side and her head resting in a man's lap. Both residents of this seat, clad in their own battle robes, had simliar stains and abrasions on their skin as the first man. The one next to her sported dark waves of hair that had been crafted into a sleek ponytail. For some reason, he had a single silver streak in his otherwise elegant tresses. It was not a mark of aging, nor did it look like one--it was a brilliant strip of a brilliant color, as opposed to a random splotch of gray or white. However, this was not the most unusal thing about this man. Partially hidden on his forehead was a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt, of all things, that appeared to be practically glowing. Every now and then, he would run a hand through his bangs and visibly wince if it grazed the abnormality. His emerald orbs of eyes held a mixture of sorrow and thoughtfulness, whereas Samara's were filled with uncertainty. She nervously glanced at the orange-haired man for a while, before taking a slow sip of the alcohol she, too, held.

Tilting the bottle back, she downed the whole thing and chucked it carelessly when she was through. Noticing her glancing distastefully at where it had landed, the man next to her smiled grimly and asked, "One of those times you wish Hermione hadn't messed up that potion?"

Their professor--well, the woman who would be their professor--visibly stiffened at these words and sat up slowly.

"About that," she said hesitantly, "About.. her. I have to tell you something, Ron."

At this, she looked pointedly a the orange-haired one--Ron. He didn't look, or move, or even blink, but he spat out these words so ferociously and with such a tight grip on his firewhiskey that James was surprised the bottle didn't shatter.

"I know she's dead."

Lily gasped at this, her hand flying to her mouth at how broken this poor man sounded.

"No, you know that's not what I meant," Samara went on, "and I didn't know if I should tell you or not, but you have a right to know, I think."

The person next to her was now looking at her curiously, but the last inhabitant of the room gave no impression that he was even listening. Biting her lip, the next thing she said came out in a jumbled rush.

"She was pregnant."

It may have been in a jumbled rush, but there was no way that the man called Ron could have mistaken it for anything else. He finally looked up, and Remus tried to distinguish between the anger and hurt in his eyes.

"I- I helped her with the test. She was going to announce it next week on your..." Samara's voice became more apologetic with every word.

"Anniversary?" whispered the dark-haired man for her.

The four watched avidly, motionless, as Ron sprang up heatedly. For a moment, Samara studied him expectantly as he looked around the room in apparent indecision - but only for a moment. His face became a contorsion of hatred and grief as he fervently wiped away at the traitorous tears that had sprung to his defenseless eyes and swung his right leg up and under the stand before him. The weak coffee table toppled unceremoniously on its side, spilling and shattering the assortment of bottles that had collected themselves there in careless positions. Their professor - or the woman that would be their professor, anyway - jumped back only slightly and sighed defeatedly, as though having dealt with this before. Her orange-haired companion didn't waste any time with apologies as he turned on his heel and stormed out, taking the coat rack down with him in his escape for the door.

Pensieve-Samara shifted ever-so-slightly, as if to get up and follow the distressed man. Silver-streak laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and told her, "Let him go."

She bit her lip and consented, returning to the position they had first found her in, with her head resting on the other man's lap. "It just sucks," she commented after a bout of uneasy silence, "They were trying so hard, and for so long, and now when, finally.."

Trailing off, she grabbed one of the few bottles that had survived Ron's rampage and uncorked it. She down near half of it in one go, but this only seemed to anger her more. "Fuck," she said, "I can't even get bloody pissed properly!"

"Hey," the man said softly, "We're gonna fix this, okay?

Samara laughed cynically. "Enlighten me."

"I promise you," he replied earnestly, "I promise. We are going to make them regret everything they've done to us. Not just to me, not just to my parents, not just to my godfather, and my friends, and.. everyone! I promise you, I will make damn sure they'll wish they'd never laid a hand on you."

She bristled slightly at this. "Harry," she said warningly.

"What?" he challenged. She ran a hand through her jet-black haid and replied wearily, "Just don't. Not now."

"If not then, and not now, then when?"

She stared at Silver Streak, or Harry, or whatever his name was, scornfully. "You're tactless, you know that?" She took another swig of the whiskey, then proceeded to hurl the half-full bottle at the wall, where it broke into a million tiny little pieces as what was left of the bubbling drink seeped slowly down to the carpet.

"I don't think we should be here," managed Lily faintly, who looked as though about to throw up.

Pensieve-Samara surveyed the mess that was sprawled out before them. "We need a house elf," she commented dryly. And with that statement, the colors of the room swirled together in one big vortex and the Marauders plus one felt their bodies being swept away to the next scene.

It seemed as though the landing part of the process didn't get any easier with practice. This time, the group was catapulted to what looked like somebody's bedroom. It wasn't part of the flat they had just been in, for it had much more of an antique, homey feel. They found their professor on the couch across from the elegent bed that dominated most of the room. She was fidgeting with her hands, as though unable to settle them in one place, she was shaking, and there were obvious tear-stains on her frazzled face - but it wasn't any of this that shocked her students the most.

It was her hair.

Instead of her usual raven, it was a brilliant, fiery red - and unlike Ron's mop of orange, it was a deep and vibrant color that was far more brilliant than even Lily's. Every so often she would run a hand through it - a nervous habit? - and shut her eyes tightly.

"Why is--" began Sirius, but was interrupted by a knock sounding from behind the mahogany door. After being pushed open carefully, it revealed a platinum blonde, whose looks, Remus thought, were a naggingly familiar one.

Blondie strode over to the couch. Samara didn't look up. Blondie sat down. Samara didn't look up. Blondie put an arm around her shoulders. Samara jumped back so fast it looked like his touch had eloctrocuted her.

"Hey," said the man softly, "I'm not going to hurt you."

Sighing, she finally looked up at him. "Sorry," she said frustratedly, "It's just - god - you look so much like him!"

"I know," he said sadly, putting an arm around her shoulders once again. This time, she didn't resist, but leaned into his chest as silent tears forced their way out of her non-consentual eyes.

"I can't get it out of my head," she choked out almost incomprehensively, "I can't sleep, I tried meditating, I... Merlin, I can't get it out of my head!"

With each word, her voice was rising higher and higher until she was almost hysterical. It was disturbing, to say the least, to see a person who looked so invincible - she was their teacher and an auror, for christ's sake! - be so all over the place.

"Guys, I really don't think we should be here!" Lily repeated.

James took her hand and opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to respect his girlfriend's wishes, but the blonde cut them off for the second time.

"I know," he said again, "Believe me, I know."

Samara hiccoughed and looked up at him in horror, shaking her head as though asking him to tell her it wasn't true. "Oh, Draco, he didn't," was all she said.

Blondie-Draco didn't answer.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I'm that one that should be sorry."

"For what?"

"For not killing him when I had the chance."

Ginny straightened herself until she was face to face with him. "What are you talking about?"

Draco hesitated. "That night," he said, "That night that I left - that night that she died. I had his wand, Ginny, I did. I could've done whatever I wanted to him. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to make him suffer. But I couldn't! I mean, how pathetic is that? I couldn't even kill him! And it's not even pathetic because of that, it's pathetic because I was a coward - I didn't want to go to Azkaban. I blamed myself, thought I deserved everything that hell hole had for me there, but I couldn't do it. I blamed myself for everything that had happened.. just like you are right now."

Their professor somehow seemed to know that he didn't want any pity. "You've never told anyone that before, have you?"

"No."

Both of the distressed pair were silent for a few moments. "Thank you," she said at last, "You have no idea how much that helped."

"I did," Draco said almost so quietly that they couldn't hear him, "or I wouldn't've told you. Have you talked to--"

"I can't," she cut in quickly.

"I understand."

"Is someone going to listen to me now?" asked Lily, who was ready to blow up at them for ignoring her.

"You can go if you want," answered Sirius, who had a morbid fascination with these memories, as heart-wrenching as they were.

But Lily didn't move. Her eyes lit up as if just now realizing something important. "Did- did that man call her Ginny?"

"He did, didn't he?" said James, "I think he said Jenny, though."

"I told you she was hiding something," said Sirius triumphantly.

Lily sighed in defeat. "Then I guess I'll stay."

James wrinkled his nose, repulsed. What was that smell?

It was the next memory.

The had crash-landed in, to put it mildly, the most vile place any of them had ever had the experience of being in. It was what appeared to be a damp, ranky, dungeon in what felt like the pits of hell. The stench was that of a thousand rotting bodies - something Remus was beginning to suspect were hidden in the next room. The neglected walls were stained with the unmistakable texture of blood and various other stains wtih less recognizable traits. The sole object occupying the room was a pair of old, rusty shackles adjacent to where they were standing.

That is, until an unidentified person threw their professor in with them not-so-gracefully.

Peter gasped - she looked almost as terrible as she had the night they'd found her! After being flung onto the ground, she curled up into the fetal postion and gave a loud moan of definitive pain.

Soon after, a rough-looking man strode into the dismal room confidently. He was wearing what appeared to be Death Eater robes, and his nearly shaven-head and monstrous hands were both blotted with what one could only assume was Samara's blood.

"Get up," he ordered gruffly in his nasally, sadistic voice, which he accompanied with a swift kick to the weak memory that was their teacher. Samara brought a hand to her mouth as she coughed up more of her scarlet blood violently. It was ironic, if you thought about it - the very blood her body was procuring was nearly the same color as her hair, which was once again the atypical red. Alternatively, it could've been that so much blood was mixed in with her tangled locks that it was difficult to distinguish what was what.

"Get up!" the man repeated fiercely, and then, "stubborn to the end, this one is." His last comment had been almost to himself, said as he yanked the woman below him up roughly by the arm. Lily winced as Samara cried out with what sounded suspiciously like a pop. Sure enough, her arm was angled in an unnatural postition as her attacker shackled her unmercilessly to the wall. Once forced upright, her body slid down the stony wall as far as the restrictions allowed her, until it looked as though the chains were the only things preventing her frail structure from collapsing.

"Not so big and tough now, are you?" teased the man.

Samara looked up at him drearily. Her voice was shaking, but what came out next was spat out so fiercely that it made up for how defeated she looked. Well, almost.

"You're pathetic."

Her attacker's face contorted in fury. "Crucio!" he screamed.

None of them had ever been under the Cruciatus Curse. None of them had ever felt the nerve-tingling pain it caused. No, none of them had ever felt as though every inch of them was being stabbed with a thousand knives as the waves of fire it sent through their bodies swept away all other rational thought. And none of them ever wanted to.

But Samara.. Samara was laughing! Laughing. Was she insane? No, scratch that, she was defintiely insane, but what was wrong with her?

"Ah, Parker," she said, "Haven't you learned?"

Parker, his name was, then. And so they watched in disgust as Parker swung his fist into their professor's cheek. "The next thing out of your mouth had BETTER be some goddamn information, you good-for-nothing bitch, or I'll see to it that you won't be able to speak out of that smart-ass mouth of yours for a week."

She spat in his face.

Noticing his furious gaze, she added mock-sweetly, "What? I didn't speak that time."

"Argh!" he roared as he spun around and walked out purposefully. For a second, the Marauders were confused. Was that enough to drive such a vicious man to leave?

Apparently, it was not. He re-entered with a smug look about his face, this time with two cronies flanking his sides. They were dragging in a semi-conscious woman who had the appearance of one who had just lost a significant amount of weight in a short period of time. She had a mousy set of hair that might once have been a magnificent coffee or auburn-color. Now, however, it was matted with blood, and sweat, and probably tears.

Samara sobered up as soon as she saw her. "What are you going to do to her?" she asked with an air of indifference, but you could tell from the undertone in her voice that she was desperately trying to keep a hold of her emotions.

"Come on, you're not that stupid. What do you think?"

"I think," she answered slowly, "that you need to let her go. Now. Or the next chance I get, you will be very sorry."

"You should be, my dear, not the other way around. Crucio!"

This time, the fatal curse was aimed at the woman on the floor. And this time, the victim wasn't laughing.

"So how about it?" Parker asked casually thirty seconds later, "Ready to give it up?"

Samara, who had been attempting to stare at anything but the scene before her, opened her mouth to say something. However, before she could utter some insult or remark, the heavily battered brunette beat her to it.

"Don't," she pleaded in a raspy voice.

"Shut up!" yelled one of the men flanking her, "No one asked you to speak!"

"Don't do it," she repeated, ignoring them and talking as fast as she could, "We all knew what we were getting into, we all agreed-"

She was cut off by a foot slamming into her face, which in turn slammed her back to the ground.

"I'm sorry," whispered their professor, who now looked as though she was fighting back tears.

"Don't be," the woman whispered tragically from her beaten position, "I'm not as important."

As to what it was she didn't believe herself as important as, she failed to specify.

The Marauders were silent. Parker nodded to his henchmen.

"Crucio!"

Samara turned her head helplessly from her friend's incessant screams. Cruelly, the man beside her put both hands on either sides of her scalp and forced it back forward until she had no choice but to watch. She tried to close her eyes, but he used his monstrous fingers to pry them back open.

"What happened to that bravery? You're just going to stand here and watch her die? Dumbledore's man through and through, my arse. You can't even save your best friend."

"Oh, but I could," she responded to the taunting sadly. "You see, that's the difference between people like me and her, and people like you. If you were in this position, you would let your friend die. Why? Because you don't care. You'd put yourself before your friend.

"But us? We care so much it hurts; we care so much we're willing to make sacrifices for the good of someone else. And that - that is something you could never understand, because for that, you would need a heart."

"Good thing I don't have one then," he said sarcastically, "or I might've given a shit what just came out of your mouth. Why don't you make something more productive come out of it, like information? Then your friend goes free, and the 'sacrifices' don't have to be made."

"I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Then you had your chance. Do it."

For a seond, the Cruciatus, along with the screaming, ceased, and was replace with the girl's ragged breathing. But then-

"Avada Kedavra."

And the girl was gone.

"Enjoying yourselves, are you?" asked Samara - but Samara's lips hadn't moved.

What little color they retained in their faces was drained almost instantly as the group turned around to find their present-day professor in the memory with them.