Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. JKR does.

Warnings: Strong Violence. Language not suitable for those under thirteen. Implied Adult situations. Will delve into a lot of Celtic Paganism so for those who do not have a high tolerance of other cultures and beliefs I would strongly advise you not to read this.

Pairs: Ginny Weasley/Harry Potter

Chapter One

The murky water of the Thames slapped heavily against the old grey stones of the Tower Bridge. Disgruntled ducks desperately scrambled on to the bank only to be dragged back in again by the large waves caused by each passing river taxi. Tourists had braved cold late autumn weather for the sights and sounds of London City. Armed with their cameras and backpacks they milled through the gates of the old Palace walls on their way to the Crown Jewels and Tower of London exhibitions.

A small girl, dressed in bright yellow frog painted wellies and a purple spotted rain coat ran ahead of her parents as they made their way to the stairs of the Tower bridge. In her hand she held a squashed and crumbling heel of bread. She was going to feed the duckies. Ignoring the shout of her mother to wait she giggled and ran through the passage way, artfully dodging between the legs of the adults that towered above her. She came to an abrupt halt and carefully edged her small body around the massive wall towards the ducks.

“Emily! Emily? EMILY!” she heard her father bellow as he scrambled after her, slipping and sliding on the wet cement.

The ducks quaked loudly as she scattered bits of bread for them, careful not to break them off too big. Mummy had always told her that their necks were too small to swallow anything too big. She gazed out onto the grey waters, watching the sea bois bob up and down with each passing boat. The water leapt up, splattering her boots and track suit bottoms. She paid it no heed. Her bright blue eyes were transfixed by something bloated and bluish looking that bobbed past her. She didn't even tear her gaze away from it when her father grabbed her roughly by the arm to lecture her.

“Daddy?” she asked, before he could begin. “Daddy? What's that?”

Her father followed his daughter's tiny finger to the object that was floating in the water. His eyes widened and his stomach churned.

“Oh God,” he choked, immediately grabbing her head and shielding her from the bloody human torso that was being swept along by the current.

The constant ringing of the telephone had been blaring through her office all morning. Her mother, the head office, the forensics lab, the press, bereaved relatives, her ex boyfriend... you name it they were ringing. She ignored it as she poured over the Autopsy Report in her lap, swinging from side to side in her office chair. Caucasian female aged between eighteen and thirty five. Cause of death- Decapitation by sharp instrument... Head still missing... Findings; Mutilation... Legs and arms removed... disembowelment... traces of Phoratoxin in blood system... Victim has a blue tattoo on left shoulder.

Ginny closed over the file and chucked it on her desk, feeling sick and uncomfortable. She had just been given this case on Monday and already there was another body. The Murder Investigation Team of the London Metropolitan Police was under huge pressure to solve this case. So much so that Ginny was now the third Investigator to be placed in charge of it. She had nothing to go on, just like her predecessors. She sighed with frustration and glared at the stack of files. Five bodies, three of which still remained unidentified. All female, all aged between eighteen and thirty five, all missing their heads. Nothing to link them together with, bar their gender and deaths. She knew there was a reason, a pattern. Something that would help them find the next victim before it was too late. But finding the link was the problem. These brutal deaths echoed the ritualistic murder of the young boy found in the Thames eight years ago. Little 'Adam', the victim of human trafficking and demonic religious practices.

They had raided the flats, had set up cross counties investigations with Ireland, Germany and France, they had chased up every lead that they had had concerning Adam, desperately trying to find a link between the poor little boy and these five women. There were none. They had probably unearthed every single underground cult by this stage. Every back alley, basement, apartment and warehouse had been searched. No stone had been left unturned and still the culprit alluded them. And that was why the case was handed to Ginny Condor.

She had a sharp eye for things, a hunch as her colleagues at the London Metropolitan Police liked to say. It was the reason why she had been placed in the position of Head Investigator on the “Thames Case”. She'd feel sudden chills, or her stomach would twitch. As a child she had frustrated the other children to no end as she always able to tell when they were lying or where they were hiding. She swore she heard voices sometimes too. Ones that told her what questions to ask, or where to find what she was looking for. But there was none with this. No, in the Thames case all she got was a feeling of dread. Many would argue that even though she had never failed to solve a case she was still too young at the age of thirty to handle the complex mind of a serial killer. Her superiors were gambling all their chips on her, she knew this.

“Are you going to answer that?” asked an amused voice.

Ginny smiled and looked up to see her partner, Sergeant Dean Thomas standing in the doorway holding two white polystyrene cups and a brown bag with Butlers printed on the front of it.

“It's Mike,” she said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “I'm the end of my tethers with all this,” she gestured furiously to the stacks of paper in front of her. “And he bloody well keeps on ringing up to try to get me to meet up with him for “relationship therapy” this Friday!”

“Wasn't he the one to dump you?” Thomas asked, sitting down opposite her and handing her a cup of coffee. His tone was casual, hiding his curiosity. It was a badly kept secret amongst the staff that Thomas held a torch for his fiery co-worker. Ginny just pretended to be oblivious to it. Although Thomas was an attractive man he just didn't do if for her. There was no spark, no umph and also she had to work with him on a day-to-day basis (messy). Besides, he was way too gentlemanly, always opening doors and getting stuff for her. It was sweet, it truly was but it was head wrecking.

Mike on the other hand had wanted her to be the man. She had always thought him to be a bit effeminate with his soft tones and graceful gestures. He was fun to hang out with, a bitch and great in the sack but his mannerisms began to grate on her sense of female identity. The final straw came when he asked her if he could 'be the woman' during sex. Sorry, but strap ons and Trannies was where she drew the line. She had come to the conclusion that she was forever doomed to live a spinster's life with only Truffles, her cat, a glass of wine and The Johnathon Ross Show to keep her company.

Ginny glared at Thomas. “It was a mutual agreement,” she snorted, taking a sip of her drink. Ah coffee! Drink of the Gods. Her mother would be having kittens right now if she knew how much her only child was pumping her body full of caffeine. “Any luck at Erzulie's?” she asked, flipping back open the file she had been looking at.

“Nope,” Thomas sighed, placing a chocolate muffin in front of her. “Found a few chicken heads bound together by straw and five Voodoo dolls under the counter but nothing satisfactory.” He crumpled up the bag and chucked it in the bin. “The lads were so annoyed at the end of it we arrested one of those New Age Traveler Hippies for fire dancing in the street.”

Ginny cocked her eyebrow at her partner as she idly flipped over the page of the report. “Because that is what the Murder Investigation Team deal with,” she said dryly. “Fire Dancers. A fine waste of resources, Thomas. Well done!”

The man flushed and bit down into his muffin. “There was something weird about him,” he muttered.

Ginny ignored him and stared down at the photograph of the victim's tattoo. An odd pulling feeling was drawing her towards it from her forehead. A plain blue circle with a crescent moon at either side of it. It was common enough that she knew she had seen it somewhere before but mysterious enough for her to know that it had a specific meaning behind it. Not just anyone would choose this for a tattoo.

“Thomas,” she said, not tearing her eyes away from the photograph. “I want you to run a scan on religious symbolism.”

Thomas stiffened in his chair. “What? Again?” he said, rolling his eyes. “We've been through every single Voodoo-”

“Well, maybe it's not Voodoo,” she replied shortly, breaking a piece off her muffin. “Have you seen this before?” She passed the photograph to her partner.

Thomas took it, his eyebrows creased in concentration. He was right though, since they had been assigned to the case they had been harassing Historians and Archaeologists for any information concerning ritual killings. Only the disembodied limbs and head held any significance to Voodoo culture. Thomas looked at her grimly and he placed a finger over one of the crescents.

“The man,” he said slowly. “The traveler bloke we picked up this afternoon. He's got one like this on the side of his neck except-” He turned the photograph vertically so that his finger covered the bottom crescent while the other one stood on top of the circle like a pair of horns. “-it's like this.”

Ginny's eyes flashed and she stood up suddenly. This might be the connection they were looking for. “Thomas,” she said, pulling on her black jacket, her half drank coffee and muffin forgotten. “Is he still in custody?”

He looked up at her startled. “We only just brought him in five minutes ago...” he said, clambering to his feet. “You don't think he has something to do with it, do you?” His question was almost hopeful. Ginny's hunches often led them to the direct killer.

“I dunno,” she replied, seizing the photograph and files from her desk. “Run a background check. He might be able to tell us what this means.” She marched out the door, Thomas following close behind.

The holding cells of New Scotland Yard were located in the basement of the building. The man, whoever he was, was probably in the middle of getting the forms filled out or being let go. She rushed down the stairs in haste, not bothering to wait for the lift. They would only keep him there for fifteen minutes max. Fire dancing though dangerous to public health, was not their top priority here. With any luck he might have a history of previous convictions they could stick him with for an hour or two. Hopefully it was Hermione that was interviewing him. She tended to give the petty criminals a stern lecture, like a mother would give their child.

Ginny tore through the reception with Thomas hot on her heels. Her red hair had come out of it's bun and she was pretty sure that her face had turned a dangerous shade of purple. As she reached the counter she slammed her hands down hard on the wood making Constable Creevy jump to attention. He muttered a quick goodbye to the person on the telephone before turning to face the panting woman.

“Detective Chief In-” the man began.

“Traveler man-” she panted, cutting him off. “Came in around five minutes with Thomas. Where is he?”

Creevy paled and looked quickly down at one of the sheets on his desk. “You mean Harry Potter? Er, Chief Constable Granger has got him in the back now. Room C15.”

Ginny nodded briefly and bolted down the corridor, her black shoes echoing off the marble floor. She completely missed the startled exchange between her partner and Creevy behind her. Skidding to a halt in front of the door, she cursed loudly as she almost slipped. Damn none grip soles! She could see Chief Constable, Hermione Granger through the glass in her uniform, taking sternly to a man with dark hair wearing a green and black hemp jumper. Ginny raised her hand and banged loudly on the door before pushing it open.

Hermione stared at her in shock, half risen from her chair as the red head stormed into the room, her hair whipping the air behind her. She nodded to her colleague before turning to face the detainee. Ginny suddenly became all too aware of her sweating face and messy hair as she stared at the man before her. He looked no older then twenty six, with shaggy black hair that gazed his cheek bones and the most piercing set of emerald green eyes that she had ever seen. His lightly tanned skin contrasted nic- Ginny smacked herself mentally. This was nether the time nor the place to be checking out fine specimens of manhood, especially criminal ones. Her sharp brown eyes flickered towards his neck and sure enough, just as Thomas said the odd horned moon symbol was tattooed there in black, just below his left ear.

“Your tattoo,” she said breathlessly, forgetting all introductions. “What does it mean?”

The corners of the man's lips curved into a half smile and he chuckled deeply. Ginny felt her stomach flip. It was a pleasant laugh. “I thought you lot had me in here for Street Preforming?” he said in a teasing voice. He was well spoken with a tinge of an Irish accent, not the type of voice you'd normally associate with a traveler. “I wasn't aware that you needed to quiz me on my physical appearance as well.”

Ginny's face flushed and her eyes narrowed. She placed the photograph of victim number five down in front of the man. “Fine,” she snapped. “But can you tell me what this is?”

The man stared down at the snapshot, his eyebrows furrowed. “The Triple Goddess,” he said simply, looking back up at her. “Symbol of the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone. The waxing, full and waning moon.”

“Is it Celtic?” Ginny breathed. She had a feeling, a strong feeling. It tingled in her chest like pins and needles.

“It's universal,” he said seriously. “One of the oldest symbols known to man. Forgive me Inspector...?”

“Condor,” she replied quickly. “Detective Chief Inspector Ginny Condor. I'm heading a murder investigation at the moment, Mr Potter.”

“Ah!” His mouth twisted into a lopsided smirk. “Because Fire Dancing and Homicide coincide so well together.”

Ginny glared at him and sat down beside Hermione. The bushy haired woman eyed her warily and she tapped her pen on the table. She was getting into dangerous territory here. They had no proof that Potter had anything to do with the murders, nothing at all. If she didn't handle this carefully they could have the Travelers Rights blokes on their ass for discrimination.

“How long have you been in London?” she asked, grabbing a pen and paper.

“Two weeks,” the man replied casually. “We just docked at Camden Lock. You can ask the locals.”

'Docked', Ginny thought to herself as she stared at the man. 'Water Gypsy then'. “I will,” she muttered. “And do you believe in this Triple Goddess?” she asked, nodding her head towards the photograph.

He smiled wirily at her. “Of course. But if you're insinuating that my beliefs have anything to do with the murder of this poor girl then you're very very wrong. The Goddess is not a spiteful person.”

Ginny's head shot up. “How did you know that the victim was female?”

Potter arched an eyebrow. “I may be a Gypsy, Inspector,” he replied dryly. “But I do read the paper. This is one of those Thames Girls, iddinit?” he nodded to the photograph. “Tell you what, you release these cuffs and I'll try and help you as much as I can.”

The red head breathed heavily. “Granger,” she said, turning to her colleague. “Would you mind leaving myself and Mr Potter alone for a moment... Along with the key to his hand cuffs?” Oh she could think of many things to do with that man involving handcuffs an- No Ginny! Too young and a criminal! It was days like this she was utterly convinced the world was out to get her.

Hermione bit down on her lip and for a moment Ginny thought she was going to protest. She probably was well aware of what was going on in her co-worker's mind. The woman sighed and clipped the silver key off her chain and placed it in the red head's out stretched hand. She'd give her hell later on about this but Ginny didn't care, this man held the key. Or a least a fragment to the whole picture. Hermione nodded to her stiffly before leaving the room. She would only have a few minutes with him, maybe even seconds. They couldn't detain him for long without hard evidence.

“So,” began Ginny as she stood behind the man to uncuff him. “This faith of yours, do you know anyone who might practice ritual sacrifices?”

The man chuckled darkly and rubbed his free wrists. “If I did,” he replied. “Wouldn't you think that I would have said something to you by now about it by now?” Ginny's gut twinged. He wasn't telling her the complete truth. But if he was innocent then why did he need to hide it? “Tell me, how exactly were these girls killed?”

Ginny slipped back into her seat opposite the man. She studied him curiously. He was surprisingly calm. “Decapitated,” she replied without thinking. “Disemboweled, dismembered and drugged,” the words just hopped from her mouth before she could stop them.

The man ran a hand through his hair and whistled lowly. “Blimey,” he muttered, his eyes darkened. “I hope it was in that order for their sake.”

She smiled hardly at him. “Why does the matter of their mutilation hold a specific significance to your religion?”

He looked at her sharply and Ginny could swear he could see everything about her. Those eyes, those eyes were haunting. “Aside from their suffering, yes,” he replied, resting his lower arms on the table. “I assume you've heard of the Bog Bodies?”

Ginny nodded. “The sacrificial bodies found in the Peat Bogs of Northern Europe.”

He grimaced and leaned forward in his chair, the sleeve of his jumper were pulled back to reveal a leather bracelet with a single blue and white china bead in the center. “They used to disembowel people to read their entrails and then slit their throats,” he replied quietly. A cold shiver ran up her spine.

“What the crystal ball not good enough for them?” Ginny snorted. The man smiled at her but it didn't reach his eyes. “But these bodies have been dismembered and beheaded, that's usually associated with African Paganism.”

“The human head was seen by the ancients as being the house to the soul,” he told her. “The center of the emotions as well as life itself. It's a symbol of divinity and of the powers of the other-world. As for the limbs?” Potter rapped his fingers off the desk top in thought. “Can't tell you anything about that. It must be some part of a ritual.” Again, another lie. What did he need to lie about?

“Didn't the Celts use to keep the heads of those they killed as some sort of trophy?”

“Ai,” he said leaning back in the chair and scratching his jaw idly with his thumb. “They used to preserve them in cedar oil.”

“So you're telling me that these murders aren't the work of Voodoo practitioners,” she asked him, gesturing to the files and reports in front of them. “That this is the work of a cult, one that probably follows the Celtic religion?!”

Harry smiled and folded his arms. “Maybe,” he said. “So you can leave the vast majority of those innocent practitioners alone. You know modern Voodoo, like modern Wicca, doesn't use human sacrifices.”

Ginny grunted, animal sacrifices hardly seemed innocent. “Do you-”

“Condor?” she heard Hermione call from the door. “Mr Potter is free to go.”

The red head could have turned to her colleague and screamed. For the first time since she had taken on the case she actually felt like they could be getting somewhere. Ginny smiled falsely at her and Hermione rolled her eyes before leaving.

“Well Mr Potter,” she sighed, picking up the photograph and placing it back in it's the file. “How long are you staying in Camden Lock?”

The man's eyes twinkled. “Probably another month or two,” he replied, standing up. Ginny found herself at eye level with his chest. He was tall, very tall. Probably the tallest man she had ever seen. She idly wondered how he managed to move around in one of those boats. “See where the river takes me.” He followed her towards the door.

Before they parted in the reception, Potter held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Inspector,” he said softly.

She tilted her head back to look into his handsome face and smile as she clasped it in her own. He'd probably whack his head off the top off the door frame as he left the building. His hand was strong and callous against her soft skin. “No doubt you'll be seeing me again,” Ginny told him. “Unless the culprit hands himself in sometime later this week. Try and keep yourself out of trouble, won't you?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Gotta make some money somehow,” he frowned suddenly and bent his towering figure, so that his dark hair brushed her cheek. “Numbers,” he whispered. Ginny shivered as his warm breath tickled her ear. His scent was of earthy. A mixture of pine wood, fire and something else, something very alluring. Her vision began to haze over and she unwittingly licked her bottom lip.

“Numbers are very important.” And with a wave he walked briskly out of the automatic front doors, leaving a very startled woman in his wake. He didn't whack his head off the door but he did have to slouch.

“The Gauls believe that unless a man's life is paid for by another man's, the majesty of the immortal gods cannot be appeased...”- Julius Caesar

Ginny wrinkled her nose as she stared at the white screen, her eyes were red and sore from the artificial light. She had been researching Celtic Gods and Rituals for hours on her office computer and her neck was beginning to strain. It wasn't proving promising, mostly she had been bombarded with page upon page of Wiccan or 'Neopagan' site links. The New Age Religion had little to do with its ancient counterparts. In fact, the followers had picked freely the gods of different religions to worship with no dark magic, no blood and no sacrifices. How disappointing.

Her search was proving even less fruitful as she delved in and out of the little known facts about the Celtic civilization and religion. It was either second hand accounts by the ancient Greco-Roman writers, folk lore and myths written by the Early Christian monks or archaeological speculation. To protect their ancient beliefs the Druids had passed them down through the generations by word of mouth which were now lost in the fabrics of time. The second hand accounts were no doubt over exaggerated by the foreign hostilities but they were gruesome none the less. Despite their secrecy, sacrifice had clearly been a intricate part of their lifestyle.

Women had their breasts cut off and stuffed in their mouths and impaled to trees. Limbs were removed and scattered. People were burned alive in fantastical wicker structures. Heads were collected and preserved and could be sold for no weight in gold. Sacrifices for war, for harvest, for death, for marriage, for divination... For everything really. Omens were interrupted through body spasms, the flow of the blood, the twists of the entrails. Slaves, prisoners of war, even members of their own tribes and families were sent to slaughter. It made the Sacrificial Rituals of the Voodoo look like mercy killings.

She had scored the web for numeral significance just as Potter had told her too. Thomas was right, he was odd yet she had no logical reason to think that he was untrustworthy. He did not give the usual gut retching feeling she had come to associate with killers but he was hiding something. What did he need to protect? She had never been wrong about a murderer before but maybe she was this time? Maybe the stress of this case was affecting her normally crisp intuition? Those eyes, she shuddered and typed in the number three into her favourite search engine. She had never seen such eyes like that in her whole life, ancient and so piercing. Being trapped in them was like being stripped bare... and under normal circumstances she wouldn't have minded being stripped bare around him. Ginny scolded herself mentally, no provocative thoughts about possible suspects. She turned her attention back to the task in hand, three was an obvious number, those spiral designs she had seen on necklaces and t-shirts looked like something you'd find at Stonehenge or one of those kinda sites.

It turned out that 'the triple spiral' was largely interpreted as the cycle of life, death and rebirth in modern society but it was not from Celtic times, as she had previously thought, but from Neolithic period. In the Newgrange Passage Tomb in County Meath, Ireland, a large granite stone stood in front of the doorway to the ancient structure with the mystic spiral carved into it's face. The passage tomb itself was five hundred years older then then pyramids and at least one thousand years older than Stonehenge. Thus out dating the Celts, who's artwork and weapons only began to really appear during the Bronze Age. Ginny's eyes narrowed but they had adopted the concept as the Triple Goddess, just like Potter had said. She clicked on a link entitled, ''Tuatha Dé Danann'; Gods or Men?”

Her computer whizzed and up popped an essay of enormous length. Ginny groaned and glanced up at the clock. It was twenty to twelve already and she needed to be in work by half eight. There was no way she could catch a tube at this hour, sighing to herself she pressed the printing button and began gathering up her belongings. It was going to be a long day at the grinding stone. Hopefully they would have an identity on that girl too. The link between the beliefs of her ancient ancestors and the murders now seemed laughably obvious. Her predecessors on the case, including herself, had been blinded by their so-called civilised society, it was little wonder that the Celts were overlooked. That Potter man, she would have to look into him more. Ginny gathered up the essay and tucked it into her briefcase. There was definitely something funny about him. Maybe he was using a false name as no previous convictions had come up under his name... Or maybe he wanted to be caught, a niggling little voice told her.

“Oh! You're still here?”

She looked up as she closed her buttons. In the doorway stood Chief Constable Granger, her brown eyes wide with surprise. Ginny frowned at her and pulled her hair out from under the neck of her coat.

“I could say the same for you,” she replied, picking up her briefcase. “What are you doing up here anyway?”

“Just came to check if the appliances were all off,” Hermione replied in a casual voice. “Is everything alright?”

Ginny's eyes narrowed and she stared at her but said nothing, Granger was a terrible liar. “As alright as being a Murder detective can be,” she snorted. “I trust no more dead bodies have turned up tonight?” She hoped not, she truly did.

Hermione smiled stiffly and she traced her hand off the wood of the door. “No,” she said. “I'll get one of the boys to take you home.”

“I'm fine.” The red head rolled her eyes. Honestly the woman was worse than her own mother at times. “I'm taking a taxi.”

“I'll call one for you!” Hermione said in a high voice.

Ginny shook her head and turned off her computer. “No, it's fine,” she said shortly. “I'll get one in the street.”

“Please,” Hermione said quietly, leaning against the wall. “Just so I know you're safe...”

Ginny softened at her words. The murders had everyone on edge around the city and in the office. Thomas had taken to checking up on her regularly as had her mother. Hermione was the worst though, she had made it her own personal mission to keep track of her. Ginny wouldn't be surprised if the woman had bugged her briefcase by now. She was held up by five minutes on Tuesday morning and mobile had been bombarded with series of hysterical voice messages and SMS messages from the Chief Constable. When she eventually got through the door she could have sworn Hermione was barking orders for a patrol squad to be sent out after her.

“Okay,” she agreed. Relief was not the word to describe Hermione's expression at her words. She looked like she had just witnessed Ginny escaping a near fatal accident.

Ginny arched her eyebrow at her colleague's bizarre behaviour. Definitely crackers that one was. Hermione fumbled with her phone. “Shunpike could you please pick up Detective Chief Inspector Condor from the front office?” she asked. “Undercover please.” She hung up and beamed at Ginny. “There!”

Ginny groaned. “You're impossible,” she grumbled. “I said a taxi!”

“But Officer Shunpike will be driving a taxi,” Hermione replied. “It's part of the undercover work. We're trying to keep as many girls off the street as possible, you know until...” she trailed off.

The red head's chest tightened with guilt. Until they found a satisfactory link between the murders all girls were at risk. The two they had identified, Hannah Abbott and Lavender Brown, where both from two completely different backgrounds. Brown had been a Drama Student at the London Academy of Performing Arts. She'd just finished a production of Macbeth in the West End with a sparking career in front of her. Abbott had been working as a nurse in the Royal London, they'd probably gotten her while she was on her way home from work. From what she heard, Mr Abbott, her father had had a heart attack when he got the news. Only child and adopted. It was even more heartbreaking to think that they had been given something only to have it snatched so cruelly away.

“Condor,” Hermione called, snapping her out of her daze. “Shunpike's waiting for you.”

She smiled stiffly and walked out her door. Hopefully they'd get an ID on one of those girls tomorrow.

The next morning Ginny hemmed herself up in her office as she poured over the essay, occasionally taking sips of coffee to keep herself awake. She had arrived home safe and sound last night after listening to Shunpike natter on about the kitchen fittings in his new home. Never again was Granger allowed to allocate him as “Ginny Chaperone”. She had been so tired when she entered her small two bedroom terrace that she had fallen asleep on her couch fully dressed. Much to poor Truffles's displeasure. She'd have to ask her mother to come in and feed her at night time in future, but that would only lead to conversations with the woman.

It was an area she tended to avoid, her mother would start telling her that if she settled down then she wouldn't have this 'problem' as she liked to say. She constantly reminded her daughter that she was single, married to her job and childless. Every single phone conversation revolved around Ginny's lack of love life. You'd have thought that Nettie Condor would have been proud that her daughter was off solving murders and catching criminals but no! All she wanted to know was if Ginny had accidentally gotten pregnant or married and forgotten to tell her. You couldn't blame her though, the woman had gotten her womb removed following a terrible car accident and then her husband had run off with a younger woman. So when Ginny turned up on her doorstep out of the blue nearly thirty years ago, she felt like her prayers had been answered. She called her daughter her 'very own special gift from God'. Now why anyone would name a gift from God, 'Ginerva' was beyond her.

[...The Tuatha Dé Danann (People of the Goddess Danu), are the race of people (Gods) who came from the Islands of the North and settled in Ireland. Believed to be the descendants of the Earth or Mother Goddess, Danu(1). Though many argue that in the early written accounts of Irishfolk lore and myths, these “Gods” were suggested to be merely mortals with mystical powers or highly skilled individuals, this author disagrees however. It has been proven countless times before that in order to secure the successful and peaceful transition from one civilisation to another, (or this case one religion to another), the foreign invader has adopted many of the beliefs and customs of the native culture into their own. The Christian aspect of many of the mythical tales of Celts is often conflicting or ill placed and would so suggest that in order to ease the integration process, the Early Christians either moralised the old Pagan Gods or turned them into Saints i.e Saint Brighid was once known as the Irish Triple Goddess, Brid(2)...]

Ginny sighed and scanned down the page, as she twirled her highlighter in her hand. The essay, like all essays based on fictional information, was rather tedious. She had to hand it to the author though, Professor Tom Riddle (of Celtic Studies and Civilization at Oxford University), knew his folklore thoroughly. She had been highlighting names furiously all morning with the fluorescent green ink; Lugh of the Longarm, God of the Sun... Danu, Goddess of the Earth and Fertility... Brid the Triple Goddess (some sort of Celtic Version of the Muses) the list was endless. Riddle had carefully written down their Welsh, Gaelic, Briton and Gaulic equivalents. He had made it clear throughout his essay that although 'Tuatha De Danann' was an Irish name given to the set of deities, the same set of Gods were followed by the Great Celtic Nations; Ireland, Wales, Scotland, The Isle of Man, Brittany, Cornwall, parts of Spain and at one point the whole of England and France.

If Ginny could familiarise herself with each of their powers, legends and worship practices, it would at least give her some sort of clue as to what her killers' mindset was or more, who they were sacrificing to. That would cut out hundreds of deities and mean that they would be able to rule out most of the covens. With the killer (or killers) striking once a month it meant that they had little time to single out their next victim. Ginny sighed, what she really needed was a crash course in Celtic Mythology, Gods and Worship. That would free up her time to do her actual job of solving the murders. She flicked over the essay to the front page. Professor Riddle had been kind enough to leave his contact details. She smiled, a visit to that Gypsy man wouldn't go amiss either since so far he was her only connection to the practicing world of Celtic Paganism.

As she picked up her black cordless phone, her office door swung open to reveal Sergeant Thomas with a grim look upon his face, followed closely by the Forensics Lab brain child, Doctor Neville Longbottom. They both seemed agitated but in a good sense. No doubt Longbottom had gotten a hold of the DNA tests, he looked delighted with himself. She placed the phone back down on its receiver and stared at the two men questioningly.

“Well?” she asked, crossing her hands over one another.

“We've got an identity!” Neville said proudly, thrusting the file under her nose.

Ginny took it and flipped it open. The blue tattooed woman was twenty three year old, mother of two, Daphne Greengrass of Glasgow City, Scotland. The Detective's lips pursed into a sad frown as she stared at Greengrass's heart shaped face. Two children left motherless.

“More importantly,” Thomas added, placing his hands on the desk. Ginny looked up, the lanky man's eyes were blazing in triumph. “We've also got a link.”

A/N: For those Celtic mythology freaks like myself please note that I will be twisting certain things to suit this story so no complaining, just go with it. There's a reason for everything in this. PLEASE REVIEW, YOUR OPINION IS THE ONLY PAYEMENT I GET!