The first two victims drew little attention beyond the local press. They were strangers to the area, found helpless in a lane just outside a small village deep in The Forest of Dean, who had had their eyes gouged out and their tongues removed. When it was discovered one was from London and the other from Liverpool, local gossip soon decided they were drug dealers who had fallen foul of a Cardiff gang and there was scant sympathy for their plight.

The third attack made the national papers. It was another visitor to the area but this time his credentials were impeccable. He was a happily married man, a trouble shooter for a national supermarket chain. He was dead by the time they found him, his body savaged. For years there had been a rumour of a big cat, or more than one, running free in the area. Reports had come in from Stroud and Dursley, only ten miles away in a straight line. Had it claimed it's first human victim?

The fourth attack started a frenzy of speculation. He was another outsider, a commercial traveller, but it was no attack by a wild animal. A big cat did not drain your blood and remove your skin and bones. This was the work of a madman, now nicknamed The Forest Ripper.

The locals started staying indoors after dark, double locking their doors and opening them for nobody until daylight.

-o0o-

Auror Ron Weasley threw the report back on the desk, glad he didn't have to read any more. 'What makes you think we should get involved, boss?' he asked.

Robards gave a resigned shrug. 'Not much more than a gut feeling, to be honest. The way these men have been killed - butchered - makes me think it isn't the work of a Muggle. The bones have been removed but there are no sign of any knife cuts.'

'If I hadn't seen Lestrange killed with my own eyes…'

'Yes, I thought that as well; she would have been proud of something like this. Look, go down there and have a sniff around, see if you can find anything. Don't take any risks though. If you get even a hint of who might be doing it get straight back up here for a team. Keep your wand on you at all times. Understand?'

'Understood, Sir.' Ron glanced back at the report and gave an involuntary shiver.

'Do you know the area?' enquired Robards.

'The Forest of Dean? Yeah, a little. I spent some time camping there, once.'

'Good holiday?' Robards asked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

'Different,' Ron replied. 'The weather wasn't great and I didn't think much of the swimming pool.' He shrugged. 'I managed to upset Hermione as well.'

'Nothing new there, then,' Robards chuckled. 'Off you go, keep me informed.'

-o0o-

The Dog and Duck made a suitable base for Ron's investigations. It was a low-slung, oak beamed pub close to the area where the attacks had happened. It had rooms available and there was no problem getting a drink at the bar; Ron and the landlord were the only people in it.

'Quiet, tonight,' was Ron's opening gambit, after he'd been served his pint.

'Arr,' was the response.

'Suppose all this isn't too good for business.'

'Arr.' The landlord walked to the far end of the bar to clean some glasses that didn't need cleaning.

Ron had decided to base himself in a pub to be close to any local gossip; maybe the locals would let something slip once a few drinks had loosened their tongues, but he needed a chance to talk to them first. He'd have to rethink his strategy in the morning, perhaps.

'So what newspaper you with, then?' Ron started out of his reverie; he hadn't seen the landlord come back.

'Me? No, I'm not a journalist. I'm thinking of starting a small business down this way, get the family out of London. I've been looking at some industrial units.'

The landlord gave him a considered look. 'So you're police, then.'

'I just old you…'

'The only outsiders around here at the moment are journalists and coppers. You're one or other, I'll bet a pound.'

Ron thought quickly, perhaps he could used this to his advantage. 'I'm not with the police.' He made a play of looking around, to make sure they couldn't be overheard, even though he knew the place was empty. 'I work for…a different organisation.'

'Arr, I thought so. You with that lot down the road, are you?' The landlord's voice dropped to a whisper. 'GCHQ? Why are they interested?'

Ron could only hazard a guess at what he was being asked, but decided to take a gamble. 'That's for me to know and you to find out, only I'd suggest you don't try too hard.' He gave the landlord a wink, to show there were no hard feelings. 'Fancy joining me in a drink?'

The landlord pulled them both a pint and came to join Ron at a table. 'Bad business,' he said, as he sat down.

'Anything like this ever happened around here before?' Ron asked.

'No, and my family would have known about it if it had.'

'Been in these parts a long time, have you?'

'Arr, you could say that. We've had this pub, father to son, for the past four hundred years.' He cocked an eye at Ron. 'Like a new venture for us it is.' Ron looked suitably confused. 'You saw that old yew tree in the churchyard on your way in?' Ron hadn't, but nodded anyway; every churchyard had a yew tree in it. 'That was our work, making longbows. It's said in the family King Henry took some of 'em to Agincourt with him. That's where the name comes from, see?'

This time Ron really did look confused, and the landlord held out his hand. 'Frank Bowyer. That name goes back in the parish records as far as we can check.' He took a drink of his pint and let out a chuckle. 'Then these new fangled guns came along and we had to find other work. Arr, we've been in these parts a long time. Reckon afore churches had crosses in 'em. Never heard of nothing like this, though.'

'Go on, then. Give me a guess.'

'I'm just a simple pub landlord, but you won't find any answers in them computers and what-nots. Reckon you'll have to go back to the old ways.'

'Meaning?'

'Living in a place like this people still remember the stories their grandparents were told when they was children. Stories from the forest of changelings and such like; people maybe we don't see anymore because we're too busy looking at all our gadgets.' Frank Bowyer looked slightly embarrassed. 'You'll probably think me daft, but I put a Green Man in your room. Do with it what you want but I'm keeping one close by me 'til this is sorted out. Reckon it weren't no wild animal what killed those poor souls.' He drained the last of his beer and walked back towards the bar. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder. 'Reckon it weren't no human, neither. Look to the old ways.'

-o0o-

Ron shut his room door and headed for the bed, stopping when he saw the Green Man propped up on the dresser. It was an approximation of a human figure, crudely made from twisted willow withies, but something about it caught his attention. He picked it up to examine it more closely. The body was in the form of an inverted triangle, with a circle to represent the heart, probably. The spine was made from a single straight stick, in a different wood. Ron let out a sigh, and dropped the figure back on the dresser. He was tired and had drunk a couple of beers; he mustn't let Frank's yarns go to his head. Then he saw the figure reflected in the mirror and picked it up again. If he stood it on it's head…

'Bloody hell! It's the Deathly Hallows and he doesn't even realise it! A Galleon says that spine's made from an elder twig.'

You couldn't be around Hermione as long as he had without picking up something, and he knew the Statute of Secrecy had been signed in 1689. The Bowyers had been running this pub since around 1600 and had been in the area a lot longer. "Look to the old ways", Frank had said. He may not have known, himself, what he was alluding to but a form of the folk memory was still there, handed down from generation to generation just as the pub had been.

He picked up his notebook and pen - so much easier than a quill - and began jotting down ideas. Suppose Frank was right, and the murders had been committed by neither human nor animal. That left a magical being, so what were the options?

Redcaps were a possibility. They were well known for using a victim's blood to dye their caps, hence the name, but Ron couldn't remember any instances of the butchery he had seen in the reports.

Bogles had attacked unwary humans in the past but, once again, the injuries were inconsistent.

Veelas. Fleur's face came to mind and he hoped not, even though he had seen their true form at the World Cup final all those years ago. Besides, they were from further east and he couldn't see why they should be in this area. Banshees were closer to home, but not known to be dangerous. They lamented or foretold death, rather than being the cause of it.

He shut the notebook and put it back on the dresser, next to the Green Man. A good night's sleep was what he needed now, and then a search for real evidence in the morning. He reached for his wand and cast protective spells around the room, just in case.

-o0o-

Ron awoke in the early dawn light. He'd had his nightmare again; it was getting rarer, but still happened. Being here, of all places, probably didn't help. They all had their nightmares, in one form or another. Hermione still couldn't bring herself to wear a necklace; just the thought of having anything metal near her throat would make her shake uncontrollably.

Ron' s nightmare was the vision that had come out of the locket, and he wondered how far he was from the place it had happened. It must be fairly close and maybe he should try to find the spot and lay the ghosts. Hermione and Harry in each other's arms, telling him how he would always be inferior to them, how everyone knew he was second best. Hermione's voice, even though he knew it wasn't her, asking how he could ever imagine she'd chose him over Harry…

Ron threw himself from the bed and headed straight to the shower, running it cold and standing under the water until he began to shiver. Hermione had chosen him, he'd qualified top of his year, he'd been trusted with this job. He'd proven himself before and he'd do it again. He was the best Auror in the Ministry.

-o0o-

Ron apparated silently to a spot Frank had suggested over breakfast. It was a good call. By the edge of a clearing was their old campsite, beyond it the pool he had pulled Harry from and by the side of it…

He walked over to the rock they had laid the locket on before he had destroyed it. The memory of that night brought him to his knees and he stared. He could still, just, make out the cut mark where Godric Gryffindor's sword had sliced in to the stone. It had been the most shaming experience of his life. He had doubted his best friend, doubted the girl he loved and had allowed a stranger to drag his deepest fears to the surface. He'd been so young, then, so unwise in what it meant to face reality.

No more. That was Ron who was yet to leave his childhood behind. Now he was Ron, the man. He stood and looked around him, savouring the cool, green calm of the forest. Birds chirruped and twittered out of sight in the trees and everything felt alive.

Then he noticed the camp tucked away, almost hidden behind the bushes. Silently, he made his way towards it. The shelter had been made from branches and bracken, almost invisible against the surroundings. His trained eye swept the scene, unconsciously looking for both danger and signs of life.

The fire was old, at least a few days since it had been lit. Some empty cans, and a couple of tins of cheap lager, suggested this had been a temporary bivouac for a wanderer who was used to living out on his own. The fluttering of a newspaper caught Ron's eye and he picked it up. It was dated three days ago. Something about the scene was wrong. He didn't get the feeling that the occupant was a person who would just walk away leaving his litter behind. Ron tentatively looked inside the shelter. A couple of carrier bags of clothing and a sleeping bag that had seen better days were the only contents. Whoever had been here had gone, rather than left. He wouldn't be the sort of person who would abandon anything.

The hairs on Ron's neck stood up. This was his business. This was a crime scene, he knew it. Everything about the site suggested the occupant had been a muggle, so maybe he should leave it to them? No, he'd been sent down here to investigate unexplained murders that his boss felt were tied to his world. The pub landlord had a gut instinct that the killers were not human. Ron Weasley was an auror, there to protect the magical world, sometimes from itself, and to make sure it's secrets were not revealed. It was up to him.

It took him less than ten minutes to find the body. As soon as he got downwind he could smell death and the buzzing of flies drew him to the exact spot. Even after everything he'd been through in his life, even after reading the reports, what he saw made him vomit. The flayed corpse, laid on what looked like a blanket of blossom, was even more deathly white than a usual corpse. The empty eye sockets, staring helplessly at him, was something that would stay with him for a long time.

He would report this straight back to The Ministry and they could deal with the aftermath. It would be best to keep this away from the muggle police, who would have no comprehension of what they were dealing with. Ron now agreed with Frank Bowyer; it was neither human nor animal that had committed this act.

He was turning to apparate when he caught a glimpse of something caught on a twig. He stopped his turn, fortunately in time to prevent splinching, and went to investigate. It was a piece of red material, only small but unlikely to have belonged to the victim. There were a couple of hairs in the bush, too, slightly above his head. They were long and very soft and the deepest black he had ever seen; instinct said they came from a female. This was his first evidence, he knew it. Carefully placing them in a bag in his pocket he apparated back to London.