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The adrenaline of the attack had long past, leaving the churning feeling of exposure, of unease, in its wake. Frank felt outraged, like a blind idiot, for not expecting an attack of this magnitude to occur.
He gave a last lingering look at the dead witch laying at his feet before lifting up the opaque plastic blanketing her and covering the cold, frozen features of her face. Task finally completed, he stood slowly, struggling wearily, as if he was working against the weight of the world forcing down his back.
There was a fine dust permeating the air, remnants of cement or brick buildings that had been whole before the explosion; Frank could see sunlight shining through the grit, illuminating it, could see where the wind currents caught it and sent it swirling, tumbling to land on any possible thing, to invade any possible space. It graced the twelve body bags lying in a crescent around him, just as it clung to the scarred or skeletal remains of this block of London.
Frank coughed but made no move to clear the dust from his hair or eyelashes; he was far too preoccupied. He ignored, for a moment, the way the wooden beams of wounded buildings jutted off at sharp angles into space, the way the still-smoldering brick walls wafted smoke lazily into the air, the way his companions tripped over hot and twisted metal fragments on the floor and eyed the weakened foundations of standing structures suspiciously.
He instead focused on the men and women who appeared ghostlike and grisly through the gloom of dust, letting his gaze drift over them as he searched for a certain man. There were many witches and wizards milling about (probably more than was necessary or safe), all with hurried intent: the Healers tended to the remaining wounded, Aurors searched nearby buildings or spoke with witnesses, over one-hundred muggles were getting their memories erased, and Aurors-in-training such as Frank scuttled about on varied assignments, such as Frank's recently completed task of gathering and identifying bodies.
Finally, as Frank's eyes passed over the gaping hole in the side of King's Cross Station, did he spot the man he was looking for. The man was barking something to a junior Auror, who, Frank was amused to see, looked slightly startled at the man's intensity, or perhaps it was the deep scars crossing the man's face and cutting harshly into his features, recent acquisitions that Frank had admittedly not gotten used to. If the man noticed the woman's apprehension, he didn't appear bothered by it. At last the woman went away, and Frank motioned the senior Auror over.
"Hope the smell's not getting to you, Frank," growled the man upon reaching Frank's post, his beady eyes whirling to look around the scene.
Frank shrugged. "It'll take a hell of a lot more than a sour smell to get to me, Moody," he responded, more confidently than he felt, planting his hands lightly on his hips and pointedly forgetting to add a respectful title to the end of his statement, challenging the playful insult.
Moody laughed, and Frank was bewildered that the two of them were speaking of death so lightly. He shook himself as the Auror spoke. "Wouldn't doubt it for a second, son. Now, what did you need?"
"Well, Sir," said Frank, kneeling once again among the dead and gesturing to the bodies. "I've finished gathering the bodies; those seven over there are muggles, and then there are three witches, and two wizards. We got off relatively easy on this one, though I think these three at the end had just escorted their children to the train."
Moody was silent for a moment. "We'll have to alert the school, then. Get these bodies to St. Mungo's for inspection...the Minister'll have a job sorting out the muggle deaths with the Prime Minister, I don't envy her that," he added, almost as an afterthought.
Frank nodded. No, you'd rather be sorting out the Death Eaters than sitting around talking about the problem, and I agree with you there, he thought with an inward smile, albeit a grim one.
"Was that all, Longbottom?" asked the senior Auror, beginning to turn away.
Frank paused for a moment; it was probably nothing, side effects of the explosion, flying shrapnel... and then, "N-no, Sir. I noticed something..."
"Well, what is it then?"
With some trepidation, Frank fumbled with the plastic shroud he had just done up, slid it from the woman's face, from her shoulders, and gently rolled her over onto her stomach.
Moody didn't say anything, he merely inhaled before going utterly still. This unnerved Frank more than the evidence staring at him: the deep gashes down the woman's back, bite marks on her shoulder, the wounds partly concealed by coagulated blood... after a moment, Frank pulled the plastic back up and let the woman gently rest on the ground.
"Sir," he ventured tentatively, "is it what I-"
"Be thankful she died, and that's for sure," said Moody, cutting Frank off hurriedly and leaning down to whisper gruffly to him. "When you deliver these bodies safely to Mungo's, stop by the Dai Llewellyn ward, see if anyone has come in with strange bites or marks like these."
Frank nodded, standing. "Yes, Sir."
"If any have, you let me know. Then I want you to go back to your desk and start researching known werewolves. I want a dossier of each one in the United Kingdom on my desk by morning."
With that, Moody left. Frank sighed, glanced down at his watch. It was barely noon. Resignedly, upset that this job should have to be done at all, Frank took out his wand and disillusioned the bodies before levitating them and letting them drift aimlessly a few feet off of the pavement.
He bit off a tired curse. Nobody had ever told him the proper procedure for bringing dead bodies into St. Mungo's.
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