Disclaimer: not mine
Genre: Tragedy
Warnings: Mentions death, hanging
Summary: We all see Callum's death from Sephy's perspective. We know the heartbreak it caused, the unimaginable pain. But how about all those who he had hurt? How about the victims of his life as a terrorist, the families of those he had killed? How about those people, who wanted Callum dead? Outsiders persepective.
A/N My first ever venture out of the Harry Potter fandom. I didn't actually mean to write this, it just sort of... happened. I think it works though. Let me know :)
The man dropped like a stone. The stands were silent, but for the sound of the rope creaking and groaning as the man's body swung slowly to and fro.
Nought.
I watched, in silent vindictiveness as the man responsible for my father's death died, and a smile spread gently across my lips.
Murderer.
The sounds of someone sobbing reached my ears, and I turned, expecting to see the man's mother. My eyes widened as they were met with the crumpled form of Persephone Hadley. She was crying.
'Traitor!' I shouted, and anger fuelled my voice.
She turned to look at me, one hand lain protectively across her stomach. My eyes widened further.
Rapist.
'How can you mourn for him?' I shouted, my eyes blazing. 'How dare you mourn for him?'
Her face crumpled, the delicate tears pouring from her eyes gathering in the recesses her sorrow had formed in her skin.
'He killed my father,' I said, speaking clearly, making sure she heard and understood every. single. word. 'He murdered him in cold blood.'
Her face held an odd mixture of denial and confusion.
'Initiation,' I replied, in answer to her unasked question. 'He murdered him, so that the Liberation Militia would accept him.'
Terrorist.
Her mouth opened then closed, tears still streaming down her dark face.
'You wonder,' I continued, 'why we're all here today? You wonder why we don't share in your sorrow, why we're glad he's dead?'
She made no answer.
'Because he was nothing,' I said, clearly. My voice held no contempt, no spite. It was truth.
'No.' Her whisper carried across the silent stands.
I laughed, cruelly. 'He was a murder, Miss Hadley; a cold-blooded, good-for-nothing, nought terrorist.' I turned my eyes to hers, watching for any sign of realisation; a sign that the truths I was telling her had registered. None came.
'He didn't want to,' she said, softly, her voice begging to be believed. 'He never wanted to.'
'And yet,' I said, coldly, 'he did.'
Perhaps he hadn't wanted to, I would never know. Perhaps he had been misguided, or forced, or threatened. He was still nothing. He had still chosen to murder, over standing up and doing the right thing.
Coward.
'I wish you luck, Miss Hadley,' I said, with a curt nod.
And then, turning to face the body of my father's murder, I gave another small smile.
Nought.
Murderer.
Rapist.
Terrorist.
Coward.
'We all must meet our creator, Callum McGregor,' I whispered, 'May he punish you justly.'
And then I turned and walked away.