The grey stone was barely visible through the thick foliage, old moss-wrapped boulders long forgotten now twisted in the powerful clutches of the forest. Few noticed them; they were invisible to the hordes of Muggle peasants, the blind passerbyers who could no longer sense the little magic that had once been granted in their version of the world. Even those that remained sheltered from the Church, free to live their old ways in sight of their Goddess, praised the rare glimpse one of them might be given as an old temple of their own legends. Whatever the reasons, it was accepted fact and common knowledge that the forest held her own secrets that even the most talented wizard dared not read upon.

But this was not one of them. Godric knew the way, as he was sure did many a wizard child who had grown up near the forest. Not that he knew, not in his generation, at least. The secret he had sheltered as his own.. . . he was not so naive as to assume no others knew of it. And yet it was his, in his own possessive way. He had found the way at an early age, more out of the serendipitous play of climbing and tunneling given to small children than any premeditated plan to find the ruins. Now a boy of fourteen years-almost a man-getting there was both simpler and harder. As he wrestled through nets of fresh plants and eons-old trees, he reminisced solemnly of the efficiency of small size. But instead he wielded more strength, always helpful in itself. Branches, furious at the intruder, whipped and scratched at him as he tumbled over fallen logs, but he whispered the charm to keep them at bay. They sullenly obeyed, drifting back into the shadowy green like banished phantoms.

Not that Marigold cared. He could her climbing after him as chaos amid the serene trees, occasionally cursing in disgust at what she considered dirt and weeds. He couldn't imagine what else she might have expected.

"Ricky!" she shrieked, yanking her dress from the snarling branches of a tree. "I changed my mind! I want to go home!"

"Then go." The reply was a taunt, the jest he knew Marigold recognized and still was tormented by. He laughed as he watched her face turn red with anger to near matching her vivid hair. "Go back and tattle to my mother, and I'll return when I return."

"Tattle!" There was more offense in Marigold's voice at the suggestion she would commit something so blatantly infantile than fury at her position. "Ricky, I would never-I'm not a child."

If only she were, a younger playmate for him, still interested in a spoil of adventure before the expectations of lordship were final. Godric had always wished for a sibling, but he knew to consider himself lucking to have Marigold, as obnoxious as she was. His mother's baby sister, she was a year older than him and already the subject of a family debate concerning marriage. That brought with it the demand that she behave as ladylike as possible, but the lack of peers around the Evans manor made her only too open to Godric's escapades. And so they were friends, albeit the friendship based on desperation, age, and the granted bond of family.

One thing was for certain-he wouldn't be letting Marigold leave on her own, and he knew she wouldn't leave without him. She had yet to master Apparation, and though the Evans manor was not far, it was hardly proper to leave a girl, even a witch, alone in the woods. He knew her far tool well to worry about her. At least, that's what logic told him. But he still stood in child-like awe of the woods. They held the ruins. . .what else did they hide?

"I'm sorry," he apologized., stopping at the gnarled root of an ancient oak to wait for her. It still lived, breathing out its own fresh, woody scent. "I know you won't tattle."

Marigold snorted, but continued toward him, tossing her thick mane of red hair over her shoulder. "You better not think so. But. . ." the familiar look of fearful impatience overcame her. "Please, Ricky, let's go back. I know Rose wouldn't like this."

"She doesn't mind." He did not know if that were true or not. He knew his mother had been to the ruins before-that much had entered her stories, the knowledge of true experience scattered like raindrops in the stale tellings of what every other child around knew. But did she know her son had actually found them? "I don't understand why you are so afraid. We've been here before."

"I know, but-"

He rolled his eyes and started again into the trees. "You did bring your wand, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. I'm not a fool."

He smiled. So she was prepared. That meant she planned to follow him every step of the way, like she had done so many times, nearly each time he and his mother had visited the Evans manor. "Then there's nothing to worry about."

Marigold groaned but followed Godric determinedly toward the ruins. It was a silent march, broken only once by a bird springing like sparks into the air.

Then, barely perceptible, the air warmed, a gentle mist sliding from before them.

Godric closed his eyes to it, enjoying the sensation on his skin. "We're almost there."

"I know," Marigold replied softly. Whatever qualms she had held were gone.

The forest did not clear the way, but the rare beams of sunlight that made their ways in revealed more of the rock, giant grey boulders somewhat green with furry moss and tree-shadow.

With a shout Godric rushed forward, dodging the obstacles before him with all the clumsy skill he could muster. It made no sense, the excitement he felt each time upon reaching the old foundation.

"I forgot how dull it is," Marigold said in the false distaste Godric immediately saw through. Her brown eyes, not unlike Godric's, scanned the tiny area, taking in the haphazard pile of boulders and grass-covered marks of the foundation.

She would admit to nothing pleasing her, Godric thought. "I heard you still might find ashes under the stones. They're what make the heat."

"Ashes?" Marigold frowned. "It's been centuries; there wouldn't still be ashes around. Would there?"

He laughed and climbed onto one of the boulders. "I didn't think you believed in the old phoenix alters. That this is one of them."

"Well. . . what else could it be?"

"A phoenix alter. Uncle Jonas spoke of them. A long time ago, ancient wizards built them for the birds."

She clambered up next to him, forgetting the threat of damage to her dress. "I know. You've told me every time we've come here. And Jonas speaks to me as well."

"But don't you find it interesting?"

"I think it silly. A phoenix will burn wherever he will burn. Why build an alter for the creatures? Perhaps that is why they are no longer built."

"Mm." He ran his hand along the warm, cracked stone. The aura of magic was still strong, pulsating through the air. Why could Muggles not sense it? "Why not build them?"

She gave a small shrug of indifference, turning her gaze to the canopy of leaves above. "They're phoenixes. They die and are reborn. Call me a foolish girl, but to me they seem a symbol of hope. Which is why the Fighters now are so fond of them. They can survive anywhere. To think they can only burn in a certain spot takes all meaning away."

Godric cringed inwardly. The logic was convincing, a perfect example of Marigold's soundness. Only she could come up with something to berate the divinity of the ruins. He turned from her, frowning. "I"m sure the wizards who built them had their reasons."

"They certainly are romantic, though," she mused. "I"ll give them that much. It would be lovely to come here with someone. . . special."

He choked back the laugh that would have earned him a stinging slap from Marigold., but failed in keeping back a smile. "Has my grandfather picked a suitor for you yet?" Such womanly gossip would not usually interest him, but Marigold was merely an object of teasing.

She didn't so much as blush, only shook her head. "Some have come, all of good wizarding families. Father wants me to select someone, if I can." She sighed. "They're all so dull. And one. . .I'm sure he had troll-blood."

"You're already trollish enough, Marigold."

He watched her flinch as she chose to ignore the statement. "Rose was allowed to pick a husband. She didn't choose a wizard at all, but a Muggle."

"My father," Godric said automatically. A title more than a name, one with little personal meaning. He had no memory of a father. Far back there were his mother and the house-elf Grimop, the loving faces of his mother's family, the rarer but just as loving faces of his father's relatives. Most of the time he simply forgot about the necessity of a father. "He was murdered." A simple fact given voice.

Marigold's eyes flashed in surprise. "What do you bring that up for?"

Was he supposed to feel sadness? "I don't know. It's much of what I heard about him. You've heard the stories."

She nodded, more somber. "Mother speaks of it sometimes. Like she speaks of my brother Frederick. I don't remember him, either." Her voice was cutting yet flat, like a dull knife. She clearly wished to return to the topic of marriage.

It was a strange topic, the deaths of family. Scarcely more than a family story that had happened before their time. Godric shifted his gaze to the surrounding trees, still even against the wind he heard above. It was difficult to see in them-only trunks and branches and the darkness beyond them. Except. . . he squinted. A trick of the light, perhaps? The little light given.

The shape moved again, a darker substance against the shadows.

Marigold froze. "Ricky?" He motioned her to be silent, but panic filled her eyes. "You see something?"

He nodded. Much of him felt so calm, yet his heart raced beneath it all. Logic told him everything... others had to know of the ruins. But it was his spot, a place he shared only with Marigold. That someone else might know of it. . . a personal attack! He carefully rose to his feet. "Who's there?"

No reply, except a faint stirring of leaves.

He felt something tight at his arm; Marigold, clutching him.

"Ricky, who is it?"

"I don't know." His want was in the pocket of his robe, already warm with expectant magic. "Stay here. I'll go see." He made to jump to the ground, but she held him back.

"Don't!"

He shook her away, feeling ridiculous in doing so. She expected his protection, was entitled to it. And yet he threw her back. But. . .he had to know, had to see. He had never been one to sit back. "I'll be back soon."

The shadow moved again, shrinking into the forest, the tell-tale sound of the brush echoing afterwards.

"He's leaving," Godric announced. He had a sudden urge to follow."

"Let's go back," Marigold pleaded.

How easy it would be to follow. . . He stared around him. The ruins. . . they somehow seemed polluted. An unexplained chill in the air-his self, most likely. "We'll go back," he heard himself say. Like defeat.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Salazar had not gone far, darting only enough into the trees that they might provide a better hideout. The girl and the boy-he knew better than to assume they would think him fled. He could still see them from his position, faint figures with firm brown eyes watching him, searching him like willow-the-wisps in the night bog.

Intruders, he thought. Strangers that didn't belong in the woods anymore than he did. But the Stone Place, that had been his. The fen held its own appeal, but it was familiar. The woods, the Stone Place, they were different, magic in their own way. The Stone Place didn't care if he belonged there or not, if he were a poor boy from the wetlands, son of a servant of the wizard Clearwater. It allowed him refuge. His own father knew nothing of it. No one was supposed to know.

Yet the girl and boy did.

Muggles, he supposed. Brats of some Muggle nobleman, capering in the forest. The forest... it still belonged to the wizarding world, the little land that did, that had not been taken away over the centuries, claimed by one group of feuding Muggles or another. The Christians, the others who were swiftly falling under the name of pagan, the pasture folk-Salazar knew he belonged in neither world. His father had spoken of it many times. The wizarding world had always been a separate one and would always be.

How dare Muggles interfere.

He watched them leave, the red-haired girl clinging tightly to the brown-haired boy, and he laughed to himself. They'd leave, they'd forget the Stone Place, and it would become a faint memory soon changed. He might even consider putting a repelling charm on it in the future.

But he couldn't go to the Stone Place. Not now. There was work to be done-for the break he had dared snatched was done. How dare his time be ruined. And soon Master Clearwater would be expecting him.

The branches of the trees scarcely stirred as he disappeared.