Standard Disclaimer: Not my characters.
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Harry didn't believe in capital punishment.
Well, not anymore.
He was the first to admit that there were a few wizards he was pleased to see fall before him under his wand or that of another Order member. But, that was in battle. It was something else entirely to bind a helpless witch or wizard to a stake and watch as their soul was forcibly torn from their body and greedily devoured.
The first execution via 'the kiss' that he had witnessed was that of Alecto Carrow. Alecto had screamed and raged and thrashed violently against her bindings, her threats and insults meeting ears that were increasingly eager to see the last of her. Harry would never forget the moment that the dementor glided into the room, its hissing breaths and putrid stink almost imperceptible within the overpowering dreadfulness of its aura.
Alecto had stopped mid-screech.
Caught in the hypnotic, chill horror of the beast, she had stared with wide, glassy eyes, her limp jaw hanging open with unintentional tantalizing appeal to her executioner. As its mouth connected with hers, the mesmerized look on her face vanished. Cognizant, completely aware of the full measure of the Hell she was being banished to, she gasped and whimpered and trembled and, finally, wet herself.
When it was over, the dementor glided back with a sickening sigh of satisfaction and Alecto remained still as a doll. The spreading pool of urine that surrounded her steamed in the dead cold of the dementor's shadow and a tear glittered hauntingly on her lax and pale cheek where it had frozen in mid streak.
But, what Harry remembered most of all, what he couldn't get out of his head no matter how hard he tried, what made him lie awake at night was not her screams or her fear or her awareness. It was not her gasps or her shudder or the grotesque image she presented when it was all over. It was her soul, just as it passed from her lips and into that merciless oblivion.
Her soul was bright white.
A soul that by all counts should have been blacker than nights of Hades had shown so brightly, it was hard to look at it without the instinctual worry of going blind.
It was an unsettling paradox, and yet, somehow, it made unbearably perfect sense.
Harry didn't wonder what color Draco Malfoy's soul would be as he looked into the eyes of the man in question. Those cold grey eyes that had always held such zealous bigotry, such vicious wickedness, such seething hatred, now stared back hollow and defeated. If they glimmered with anything at all anymore it was a twinge of regret. But, not for those that he had made suffer. Not for those that had endured his pranks and insults. Not for those who had crumpled up in agony at the tip of his wand. Not even for those that had given their own lives in an attempt to save his. If he were sorry at all, it was only for himself.
And Harry knew this. He knew, and he reasoned, and he puffed up at the visage of such selfishness. Such arrogance. Such unabashed iniquity. But, after all he had done and seen and forced into fruition, Harry didn't guess at what color Malfoy's soul was. He didn't need to.
And he didn't want to see it.
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A/N: Just a little ramble to prove I'm not blocked. What do you think of it?