WHO: Francine Goldstein & Rolf Scamander. WHAT: Confirming a theory. WHEN: The morning of 1 April. WHERE: St. Mungo's morgue. WARNINGS: Mentions of violence.
It didn't take much to convince Martin and Liesel to scatter for an hour — they half didn't want to be here on a good day and when Francine told them to leave, she hadn't even needed to launch into her negotiation voice before they left the morgue. It was kind of disappointing. Her negotiation voice was really good. But it meant that they could move on with their investigation.
Opening the door just slightly and poking her head through the space, she scanned the area for any trespassers or observers (as if this was a top secret mission, which she liked to think it was). Satisfied that no one was looking in on them, Francine hissed at Rolf to come inside. "Hurry," she added, just for effect.
Rolf crept into the room, eyes darting about as if someone could happen upon them at any moment. He found the sterility of the morgue oppressive — he didn’t understand why anyone would want work in a place like this. Perhaps people would be better if they all worked outdoors with their hands. But, he supposed, that was neither here nor there.
“Thank you again for doing this,” he told Francine, his voice solemn. He raked a hand through his hair as he continued, “I know it’s a sensitive subject.”
"I'm not doing you a favor," Francine said, crossing her arms as she led the way towards the part of the room that held their files. "I've decided that if you're right, and that's a big if, because it just seems really impossible to think about," she paused, realizing that was something she would've said about Layla as well. "Well, it'd be better to know. Than to not, you know?"
Rolf nodded as he followed Francine. “After Layla and Graham—” He broke off, looking sheepish. “Well, I guess everyone knew about Graham but me.” He wanted to change the subject before Francine could seize the opportunity to say I told you so, so he eyed the file cabinets. “Only six people died at the Quidditch match, right?”
She pointedly ignored Layla's name and stopped in front of the section of cabinets that represented the last month. "The reported deaths, yes. The Death Eaters probably killed more but just disguised it somehow."
“What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think they transfigure the bodies?”
"Probably," she said, gasping a second later. "A bludger could be a dead body."
Rolf looked skeptical. “I don’t think the bludgers are dead bodies…” A moment later, he remembered Francine was doing him a favor and quickly tacked on, “I mean, it’s possible. But it sounds like inconvenient spellwork for the Death Eaters.”
“They’re the ones who’ve dedicated their lives to evil,” Francine scoffed. “That’s a lifetime of inconvenience.”
“I think we’re getting sidetracked.” Rolf gestured toward the file cabinets. “Six people died, right?”
He clearly thought that she couldn’t multitask, but she’d just prove him wrong. “Officially, yes,” Francine answered, opening the top cabinet and rifling through the folders until she got to the right date. She pulled the six files out and held them out to Rolf. Suddenly, it felt weird to have them in her grasp.
“Right, okay.” Rolf stared at the files for a moment. It was strange to see Richenza’s name on the side of a manila folder, even though Richenza’s death was the reason they were doing this in the first place. He idly flipped through the folder of the first victim, mouth tightening as he read over the details. “This person was crushed by debris in the stands, so it wasn’t them.”
He set the first folder aside and skimmed through the second one. “This person was killed by a killing curse.”
Having spent her days reading over causes of death in reports just like these, Francine found it easier to skim through quickly to find the information they wanted. “This guy died on the way to St. Mungo’s. Head wound. Blusher.” And because she couldn’t resist: “Or a transfigured person.”
Rolf did not feel the urge to roll his eyes very often, but it took a considerable amount of effort to not roll his eyes at Francine’s addition. The urge passed once he began to read the next report. “This man was impaled by a broom?” His gaze snapped to Francine’s face, his eyes widened in awful. “How does that even happen?”
"That depends, I guess. Where was he impaled?" Francine leaned over to read for herself, instead of waiting for an answer. "Oh, maybe the Death Eater used it as a STAKE. You know," she mimed the action, driving her fist against her chest. "It seems really easy."
“Does it?” Rolf made a face. “Why wouldn’t they just use magic? Impaling someone just seems like so much work.”
"Maybe they used magic to sharpen the broom into a stake or used it to target this guy." Francine frowned at the file as if she was apologizing to the man for speculating on how exactly he died. "They probably get bored with just using the Killing Curse."
“Do you think he saw it coming?” Rolf blurted out the morbid thought before he could think twice about it, his frown deepening as he warily eyed the file. “It’s just… what a terrible way to go.”
"For his sake, I hope not," she finally said with a grimace. Now that she had to think about it, it sounded a lot worse than she had made it sound. She pulled the penultimate folder up and opened it, shaking her head after a minute. "Slicing Curse."
With the five others down, there was only one left to check. Tightly, Francine clutched Richenza's folder before shoving it in Rolf's face. "You do it."
Rolf nodded, swallowing hard as he ran his thumb over Richenza’s name. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what it was going to say, and he was pretty sure he knew what it would confirm. His mouth was set in a thin line as he opened the folder, eyes quickly skimming over the words until his gaze snagged on the cause of death.
“Francine,” he said quietly, “she’s the only one that fell off her broom. It has to be her.”
"It's not," Francine said automatically, glaring at Rolf before snatching the folder back, scanning it herself, and then scanning it again. With the words right in front of her, it was impossible to deny it anymore. At least Rolf had been right about the cause of her death. And if he was right about that, then — "What are you going to do?"
“I have to tell the Order, at the very least.” Rolf sounded more certain than he felt — he knew he was doing the right thing, but it still felt like he was betraying Robinet on some level. “Maybe they can hoot the truth or make some kind of post about it. People deserve to know that Richenza was — that she wasn’t who she said she was.”
Francine didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to tell the Order. She didn't want to wonder about how long Richenza had been a Death Eater and who had known and who had kept it from her. But she nodded, still holding the folder that had basically confirmed it. "What about... " she paused, hesitant to say it, "Robin?"
“Robin will probably hate me,” Rolf admitted, paling at the thought. But that fear was mingled with anger, too. “But… he shouldn’t have protected her. If she was hurting people, then he should’ve done something.” He met Francine’s gaze in a level stare. “He’s just as bad as the other purists.”
Caught off guard by the intensity of Rolf's reaction, Francine reared back slightly before scoffing. "You don't have to tell me that," she said, although it sounded more like a reminder to herself than a factual statement. "I know that."
“I know you do,” Rolf replied. Then, sadly: “I can’t believe our friends were lying to us again. I guess you really are the only person I can trust.”
"That's what I've always said," Francine said, but it was without the usual hostility that would've accompanied it. She felt guilty about how she'd paraded her better judgement in front of him, even after she'd been so wrong about Layla, and that guilt made her uncomfortable. "Come on. You should probably tell them sooner rather than later."
“Okay.” The accompanying sigh was heavy and unhappy, but Rolf was grateful for Francine. He didn’t always agree with her, but at least they would always have each other’s backs. It seemed more necessary now than ever — after all, they couldn’t count on anyone else.