if you flick back to chapter 3
'The worst thing was his eyes were clear he wasn't under the Imperius curse.'
thats what i meant, in other words people with clear eyes are doing this out their own free will or are beyond caring.
i dont own anything HP related
Voldemort stroked Ginny's hair, enjoying the brightness of it in the darkness of the room. It looked so out of place to him.
As a child he had had a fascination with the rare and delicate. He had looked after a rare breed of glass snake that could shatter if you dropped it. The glass snake was absolutely clear, every single organ, nerve and bone was clear.
The eyes though, they were never clear but a dark smoky unsettling haze.
"I killed Victoria today" he finally said breaking the silence.
"Pardon?" Ginny said her lips quivering.
"She was irritating me," Voldemort said giving her a kiss on the cheek.
Dumbledore studied the crystal brandy holder. He poured himself his third shot of brandy and miserably threw the lid on top of the bottle.
His brain wasn't clear anymore, and every horrifying memory was flying out of his mind at a fast rate into a Pensieve or washed into oblivion by the drink.
His eyes were unclear as he poured his fourth shot of brandy. As he attempted to put the lid onto the bottle he knocked it over and laid his head onto his desk.
Dumbledore wasn't the wizard Voldemort feared anymore.
He was an old man resting on his desk as brandy flowed onto the floor before him and his thoughts were erased from his aging mind.
Ron sat in his room.
He had new ethics.
He had new morals.
He had new beliefs.
He had no compassion.
He could hardly remember any clue of what he was like before. One thing ran clear in his mind though, Hermione.
That one single name made him link back to a time when he played Quidditch as keeper, laughed with his friends and dated Hermione.
It all felt very alien to him but somehow familiar.
He doesn't remember it no more it only slides into his mind like clockwork as though it only clicks every half hour.
It doesn't come to his mind as much anymore, it's leaving him... and so are his memories.
Harry sat in the damp trenches. He levitated his helmet that was instantly smashed. This gave him a clue though, as to where the death eaters were positioned.
"They're on the cliff, they can't see us clearly because of the hill in between but they can see us if we move about thirty centimetres out of this trench" Harry said to his weary troops. He could see their fear.
"What are we going to do?" a man with a gun asked. Wands were effective but guns could also kill people, the dark side refused to use them because Muggles invented them. Thus giving an advantage to the light, but the dark's ever increasing numbers weighed it out.
"We are going to—" Harry started. One of the underground troops ran forth screaming with terror.
"SIR! SIR!" He screamed running forward and grabbing the front of Harry's shirt.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked trying to pry the alarmed soldier's hands off.
"H-H-He killed himself!" he wailed. Harry's green eyes widened in shock.
"Who was it? And how did he kill himself?" he asked trying to keep his cool.
"It was that new recruit, with the gun."
Harry paced swiftly down the primitive stone slab squares and into the ground. He opened the metal hatch to be greeted by a grisly sight.
The new recruit who came in last summer had shot himself through the mouth. He was crumpled against the wall, eyes open and covered with flecks of blood.
There was a trail of blood from the back of his head and from where he shot himself down the wall.
Harry walked over and knelt by the corpse. In his left hand was the gun and in his right was a note.
It was a poem by a Muggle poet.
Suicide In Trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon
1886-1967
Harry folded the sheet carefully and placed it in his pocket.
He closed the dead soldier's eyes shut and left the underground.
