The shortest and probably most poignant of any story I have ever written.
I would say enjoy... but I fear that may express entirely the wrong sentiment.
There was a woman strung up on chains in the dungeons at Askaban. The only place on earth that was darker than the cells. When I say woman I use the term loosely, what was strung up there was a monstrosity.
Tubes snaked from her abdomen and she is attached to the wall my metal rings all over her arms and legs.
She cannot move.
She cannot feel.
She is the perfect example of what happens to the soulless in Askaban.
Strung up and milked of any valuable human parts.
Her fingers and toes chopped off for use in potions.
Her hair shaved every couple of years to be sold for making wigs.
Bone marrow and blood sold to muggle medicine.
Half digested food and other liquid equally or more disgusting extracted from the organs where they were created.
Because they sell for a great amount of money in China.
Because she has no soul and cannot feel anyway.
Because she is not technically a human anymore.
Because no-one in the magical world pays tax's.
And because Askaban must be funded somehow.