Disclaimer: This entire fic is hereby disclaimed. That means that I'll totally pwn you in lawsuits if you try to sue.

This is the fourth book in the Saga of the Lightning Speaker, which means that you should really go back and read Harry Potter and the Sorting Hat's Gift and its sequels first. You should also read Behind and Between, which contains deleted scenes from the series. Also, I'm now taking requests for Behind and Between.

The leaders of those days understood that they must make their choice- not just the clan lords of our own people, but also the archons of the centaurs, the chieftains of the mer, the ladies of the veela, the dwarven lords, the lycanthropic alphas. All of the so-called 'magical sentients' had to decide, and quickly.

-Sayern nar-Hazozh (The History of the Treaty), translated from Gobblededook circa 1952

Harry James Potter- or, as he was known in this form, Pollux Ophion Riddle- knew full well the value of patience. He had learned it both through Voldemort's memories and through his own experience.

But there were times when patience seemed so much less valuable than the pure, simple satisfaction of vaulting over the desk and throttling the source of his ire.

Those moments had been happening much more frequently lately.

The goblin smiled, revealing pointed fangs. He knew exactly what kind of effect his stubborn pigheadedness was having on his guest.

Pollux fixed his best death glare on the smarmy little paper-pusher. Had he been Saysa, the glare alone would have solved his problems- the goblin would have been Petrified. Unless, of course, she had resumed her ordinary form to loose the full force of her killing gaze. Harry didn't think that she would have done so- the Guardian was almost one thousand and eighteen years old, old enough to be patient- but this goblin was particularly infuriating. Perhaps she would have given into the temptation and destroyed him.

Or not. It was a pleasant little fantasy, at any rate.

At that lovely thought, a cold smile spread over Pollux's illusionary face. The goblin's eyes narrowed. He didn't trust this sudden smirk.

"A pity," the Slytherin drawled, "that your leader still isn't ready to speak with me. I thought that Ragnok was more organized than that."

The goblin's nostrils flared. He was just a secretary, but not even the lowliest of his kind liked hearing their leader insulted. "What was that, Master Riddle?"

Harry kept his face impassive. Inside, though, he was cheering. The goblin had shown anger first. He, Harry, had won.

"It has been over a month since Alpha Ulfhednar provided proof that the werewolves are cured," he explained. "My comrades and I had a deal with Ragnok- he would listen to us, help us, if we proved ourselves by saving the werewolves. We have proven ourselves. He has not."

"What are you implying?" the goblin growled.

"I'm not implying anything," Harry replied, voice low and dangerous. "I'm simply observing that a month and a half after I fulfilled my end of our bargain, Ragnok has done nothing to fulfill his. Why, if I didn't know better, I'd say that he was ignoring me on purpose."

"He is busy," the goblin snapped. "He has important things to do- emissaries to deal with, funds to raise, things like that."

"Why didn't you say so?" Pollux's features morphed into a mask of surprise. In a sugary sweet voice, he continued, "If I'd known that Ragnok was too busy to deal with me, I'd have gone directly to the other races without his intercession." He reached into his pocket, extracted an old and powerful ring.

The ring had been carved by Salazar Slytherin himself, just over a thousand years ago. He had formed it out of green stone, fashioned it into an ouroboros- the serpent which devoured its own tail. Even now, centuries later, the every last one of the snake's scales was perfectly preserved, as were its golden slit-eyes and tiny white fangs.

"What are you doing?" the secretary demanded.

"Ragnok is busy," Pollux explained serenely. "Since he's too busy to even speak with me and set up my appointments with the veelas and dwarves, I'll just have to do it myself." His smile was a baring his teeth, just like the goblin's had been. "I wouldn't want to disturb his important business with little things like the fate of the world, after all. Good day." He nodded once, rolled the ring between his fingers.

Of course, he was already in indirect contact with the veelas. Hermione was on holiday in France, one of their major population centers, with her parents, and she had volunteered to use her free time to speak with Estella Papillion, the veelas' chieftain. Not to mention the local centaurs, and the local mer, and the local werewolves, to whom she was bringing the Chalice of the Moon, the legendary cure for lycanthropy.

Not that Ragnok or his kindred knew that. They arrogantly believed themselves the Lightning Speaker's only tie to the other magical races. Pollux Ophion Riddle had gathered the Fae and centaurs on his own, and the werewolves followed him out of gratitude, but surely the goblins alone could ally him with the mer and veela and dwarves?

To the goblins, the idea that Pollux could simply contact the others without their reluctant, sabotage-filled 'assistance' was a new and original concept.

"Just a moment," the goblin said quickly. He wasn't sure how to react to this new, original, and dislikeable concept, but Ragnok should probably know about it. "I'll see if he is available now."

"No need for that," Harry replied. By some miracle, he kept the smug triumph out of his voice. "Ad insulam fundatorum."

Magic flared, pulling him away from the goblins' bank. Half a second later, it deposited him on the rocky shores of Founders' Isle.

A black dog, which had been helping a teenage boy chase seagulls, sprinted towards him. He jumped, paws pressing against Pollux's chest, knocking him to the ground.

"SIRIUS!" the wizard howled, scandalized. "Gerroff me!"

The dog responded with a big, sloppy lick. The teenager burst out laughing.

"Get off or I'll hex you," Pollux grumbled.

The dog huffed but obeyed. He backed away. A moment later, a shaggy-haired man stood in the animal's place. "You're no fun, Pollux," he pouted.

"Blame the goblins," he grumbled.

Sirius scowled. "They stood you up again?"

"They stood me up again," he confirmed.

"That's stupid," the teenager said.

Dudley Dursley had changed so much that, had Harry not witnessed the transformation, he would never have believed it. Two years ago, his cousin had been a pig in a blond wig. All he'd been missing was the tail and pointy ears- he'd even had a snout.

But a months-long stint in Azkaban and several more months recuperating on Founder's Isle had done wonders for the porky boy. No longer did he resemble a living ham. He would never be thin- his build simply wouldn't allow it- but he couldn't be called fat. His thickness was due both to a wide bone structure and to the hours he'd spent helping Sirius construct buildings for the new, still-nameless 'town.'

His face had changed as well, and its transformation was even more miraculous than his body's. The snout had shrunk to a normal, though admittedly rather large, nose. His eyes were no longer buried under rolls of fat, and his hair was clean instead of covered in enough grease to make Snape proud.

In short, he bore a striking resemblance to an actual human being, something Pollux always found astonishing.

But, he thought with a tiny sigh, people do change. Just be glad that Dudley changed for the better, not for the worse.

"I know it's stupid," he grumbled. "Ragnok doesn't seem to realize that some things are more important than petty power plays."

Dudley nodded. It seemed he was in one of his good moods; on bad days he didn't speak to Pollux at all. Then he frowned. "But don't you need the goblins?"

"I do," his disguised cousin replied, "but not as much as they need me." His jaw clenched. "And I think it's time to remind them of that. Who else is here?"

Since the middle of July, when the werewolves of Britain had been freed of lycanthropy's curse, more people than ever had been able to access Founder's Isle. Hermione - or Pallas, as Sirius and Dudley knew her; outside of the prophesied five only two werewolves and some centaurs knew who Pollux and his friends really were - had created a trio of Portkeys that would only work for werewolves. They were hidden in the depths of the Alpha of Britain's old apartment, which had been abandoned since he left the CC (short for Concentration Camp) last December.

She had intended the Portkeys to be for emergency use only, in case someone let something slip and the lycanthropes had to evacuate. Instead, the werewolves had started using Founder's Isle in two ways: first and foremost, to keep in contact with their alpha Tyr and with Pollux's posse. Second, they thought that the thousand-year-old castle, rocky beaches, and quaint, albeit incomplete, little village made the Isle an excellent vacation spot.

Sirius began ticking people off his finger. "Tyr and Saysa, of course…."

Tyr Ulfhednar had arrived on the Isle in May after several months overseas, searching for the Chalice of the Moon. He lived in one of the first cottages Sirius had erected, a quaint little one-story with a thatched roof. Technically, he owned another property, but couldn't live there. He was a wanted fugitive who had once been accused of kidnapping several pureblood girls. That he hadn't had been known for months- Lucius Malfoy had been caught red-handed- but the Ministry hadn't bothered lifting the warrant for his arrest. He was a werewolf, after all, and he had left their slave camp. Therefore he must be up to something evil.

Lady Saysa of the Chamber was the most recent addition to the Isle's permanent residents. Until just two months ago, she had dwelt in the legendary Chamber of Secrets under Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But in June, her hidden home had been invaded by Harry's twin brother Mark, who believed that she was an evil murdering beast. In the process of hunting her down, he had opened a hole in the wall that led directly into the heart of her domain. Now anyone could enter her former home by sliding down the entrance in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"…and obviously the Sorting Hat." Sirius frowned, pulled up short. "Does the Sorting Hat count?"

"Let's say it does and leave it at that."

Like Saysa, the Sorting Hat had spent most of its thousand-year life within the protective walls of Hogwarts School. It had been in the Chamber when Mark invaded, along with the phoenix Fawkes (who sadly was still enslaved to Albus Dumbledore), and Saysa had taken it with her when she fled her former home. They had formed an odd but not unexpected friendship. No one who knew them was surprised. After all, they were the same age, had known the same people, dwelt in the same place (or at least very close to the same place) for centuries. And of course, Saysa rescuing it hadn't hurt.

The two ancient beings lived (if 'lived' was the right word; one was a hat, which meant that it wasn't exactly alive in the first place) in a tiny stone cottage near the foot of the castle. At first, Saysa had tried to live within the castle itself, but that hadn't worked. She was too accustomed to solitude to share with Sirius, Dudley, and the hat, not to mention all the werewolves traipsing through. She needed the quiet and aloneness.

"If the Sorting Hat counts, then the owl from the archons probably counts too."

Pollux smiled, finally something going right.

The archons were the four centaur leaders. Like all their people, they took prophecies and the like very seriously. They had been the first to accept him as the Lightning Speaker.

If only Ragnok were more like them….

"A bunch of dragons, but there are always dragons here."

That much was true. Saysa was a Queen of Serpents. Dragons were serpents, magically if not anatomically, and that made them her subjects. Courtiers, really- dragons were considered lords and ladies among snake kind, and they took their nobility very seriously.

Most of those dragons were Hebridean Blacks, as Founder's Isle was located in the Hebrides Isles. A few were Common Welsh Greens, who had flown up from Wales when they heard that a basilisk was on the Isle. The last dragon was a Norwegian Ridgeback, Saysa's foster-daughter Norberta.

"I think that's it," Sirius concluded, smiling innocently. "Do you think that's it, Dudley?"

"I think that's it," the Muggle agreed. He, too, was smiling.

Pollux quirked a brow, "Are you sure? Because you don't look sure."

"Absolutely positive."

"What he said."

The eyebrow continued to climb. "Who is it, then? Moony? Alexander? Bianca?"

Moony was Harry's godfather, Sirius's best friend, and Tyr's unofficial second-in-command. He was one of the few people outside the prophesied five who knew the quintet's true identities. Learning that Harry was running around the country endangering himself had put some strain into their relationship, but he couldn't deny that he was proud of the boy. And because he was proud of his godson, and because he believed wholeheartedly that Harry could change the world, he allowed him to continue his work.

With rules and a curfew, of course.

Alexander Chamberlain and Bianca Frost were the Prince of Flowers and the Daughter of Frost, respectively. They were also Neville Longbottom and Daphne Greengrass, two young teenagers disguised by Fae magic. Not that Sirius and Dudley knew that, of course, and they wouldn't learn for a very long time. Remus had given Harry a deadline for telling Sirius, and he would fulfill that- he kept his word- but Dudley…. The Muggle's relationship with Harry had certainly improved in the past half-year, but he loathed Pollux.

So Harry wasn't entirely certain if he would ever tell Dudley.

"Nope," Sirius laughed. "It's not Bianca, Al, or Moony- though Remus was here earlier, before you left for Gringotts."

"Apollo, then? Harry?"

Even after a year and a half, it was downright bizarre to refer to himself in the third person. That was Voldemort's habit, not his. Admittedly, the Dark Lord didn't talk about "Tom Marvolo Riddle" like some kind of secret identity, but….

"Nope. Not Apollo, and definitely not Harry." Sirius frowned. "Have you ever actually met Harry?"

"Yes." Pollux wasn't exactly lying- being someone probably counted as meeting him- but he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. "We've had tea a couple times this summer."

Padfoot nodded, accepting the half-truth. Moony had been known to invite the five over for tea. Once he'd even had Saysa visit. "Like I said, not Harry. Keep guessing, Pollux."

"A werewolf? Tonks?"

But his question was answered as a female voice shrieked "POLLUX!" at the top of its owner's lungs.

The wizard spun around, grinning widely. The expression took years off his face, made him look- not quite his age, but much closer to it than before. "Pallas!" he laughed, engulfing the witch in a hug. "You're back!"

The petite Indian woman beamed up at him. "I'm back," she confirmed. "And it's absolutely wonderful."

Just under a month ago, Hermione Granger had gone to France with her parents. They had been extremely busy, touring the entire country, lounging on beaches, visiting the many historical sites. And, though Mr. and Mrs. Granger didn't know it, their daughter had spent her spare time as Pallas Dhar, speaking with France's magical creature communities, mostly centaurs and mer (with help from centaur translators, of course), but a few veela and a small pack of werewolves.

"How was France?" he asked.

"It was absolutely marvelous," she gushed. "The history there is so fascinating! Not to mention seeing the interaction between veela, centaurs, and the mer. Some of their communications rituals are simply gorgeous- I've never seen any so complex. And the laws! Did you know that every student is given a Portkey that transports them to a secure location so they can practice magic during the summer months? It's legally required for them to attend at least fifty percent of those summer practice sessions. Of course, there are some things that don't make sense- that's true everywhere- but on the whole their legal system was much more practical than ours."

Pollux rolled his eyes, but the gesture was fond. "Only you could visit one of the most beautiful countries in Europe and end up preoccupied with its education policies. Tell me, did you remember that you were supposed to be on vacation?"

"Haven't you ever heard of a working vacation?" she teased back.

"I have," he retorted. "And I firmly believe that the key word in that phrase is 'vacation,' a word of which you don't know the meaning. Please tell me you didn't spend your every waking moment pouring over dusty old tomes in dustier, older libraries."

"Of course not. We spent a great deal of time seeing the sights-"

"-reading every placard you could find-"

"-and lounging around on beaches."

"Oh, is that where you brought the dusty old tomes?"

Dudley watched the interplay with curious fascination. As Pallas cheerily denied bringing dusty old tomes to the beach ("They're too delicate, Pollux; you know that. I brought un-dusty, new tomes to the ocean instead."), he came to one inevitable conclusion. When the witch paused for just a couple seconds, he blurted, "When are you getting married?"

Pollux and Pallas froze. Sirius guffawed.

"Er- we're not," the disguised Ravenclaw explained. She seemed somewhat perturbed by the idea. "We're not even dating. Whatever gave you the impression that we were… er… interested in each other like that?"

"You mean you aren't?"

The two magic-users shook their heads, utterly befuddled.

"Oh," he said, torn. On the one hand, he liked Pallas but not Pollux. He didn't want her to end up with him. On the other, it was a bit discouraging to be wrong all the time, especially as this was his second romance-related mistake of the week. Just two days ago he had asked Bianca point-blank if she was in love with Alexander, and had received vehement denials in return. "I just thought… you were laughing with each other."

"Well, yes, but Pollux and I laugh with lots of other people."

Dudley shrugged, looking rather depressed.

"What else happened in France?" Sirius asked, changing the subject for his ward's sake. "Handsome muscular men, romance under the Eiffel Tower, boating on the Seine, what?"

Pallas rolled her eyes. "Are you attempting to play matchmaker, Padfoot? Because you're not very good at it."

"Is it that obvious?" he gasped, fluttering his lashes. Then, "But seriously, keep talking about France. I haven't been there for… wow… it'd be almost twenty years now."

"I never knew you went to France," Pallas told him. "When was that?"

"I like this story," Dudley muttered, plopping down onto the turf to listen. He was grinning widely.

"I was fifteen," the Marauder reminisced. "Young, gorgeous, and irresistible to the fair sex, even more than I am now. I know, I know- how can that be possible? I'm not sure, honestly. However, I assure you that it was."

Pallas rolled her eyes. "You went for the beaches, didn't you?"

"I wish," he grumbled. "No, my dear old mum dragged me there kicking and screaming because she wanted to betroth me to this fat witch who was ten years my senior and had a face like a goat. I'd already made it clear to all the British purebloods that I'd be a horrible husband, if only out of resentment at being forced into marriage. My parents thought that a foreign witch might not have heard my reputation.

"For a while, I didn't even realize that they were trying to marry me off. I thought that we were visiting her- can't remember her name, sorry- for business. And in all honesty, I didn't particularly care what my parents were up to.

"We spent a few days touring the country, mostly so my parents could keep up the charade that they weren't in France to get rid of me. If a house-elf hadn't let slip the real reasons for our visit, they'd probably have negotiated the contract and I'd be stuck in France right now trying to remember how to speak English." He shuddered.

"But Merlin was looking out for me, and the house-elf did slip up. So I owled James for some Dungbombs, and…. Well. The rest, as they say, is history." He spread his arms wide, grinning like a fool.

"Really funny history," Dudley laughed. "Sirius didn't just put the Dungbombs in the halls and stuff. No. Tell them where you put them, Padfoot."

"I never really liked French cooking," the Animagus told his captive audience. "It's always rather frightened me. So I thought, where better to put the Dungbombs than with the other unspeakably horrendous things?"

"He dumped one in the soup pot, stuffed another down the- what kind of animal was it again?"

"Nobody knows, and we're probably better off not knowing."

"Well, the point is, he shoved a Dungbomb into its stomach, and he put the last one inside a huge hunk of bleu cheese."

"Because cheese is not supposed to have blue veins of disgustingness running through it."

"And he took refuge under the table half a second before it all blew up."

"And they were all so furious," Sirius concluded. "And I didn't get engaged, which is even better."

Pollux was howling with laughter. Pallas seemed torn between amusement and disapproval; she was quite glad that Sirius hadn't married some random French witch, but had three Dungbombs really been necessary?

"I don't suppose you pulled anything like that, huh?" he asked, slapping her on the back.

"I'm afraid not," the Ravenclaw replied. "Unless you count going behind Ragnok's back to speak with Madame Papillion and the others."

Sirius considered. After a few seconds of thought, he announced, "I think I will count that, if only because it will annoy the goblins as much as my Dungbombs irked my family. How did that go, by the way?"

"Brilliantly!" she enthused. "They're very interested in setting up a meeting, and Madame Papillion volunteered to get in touch with Lord Bouldershoulders if Ragnok doesn't. She didn't seem happy about how Ragnok didn't contact her- she's been hearing rumors that the werewolves were free, but she didn't believe them because she thought that the goblins would corroborate them if they were true. I think that she and Lord Bouldershoulders will take our side against Ragnok, if it comes to that. Not to mention that we've got Tyr, the archons, and the Guardian herself."

"In other words," Pollux laughed, "our position is assured."

Pallas nodded. "Quite assured, at least for now."

"Good," her Slytherin friend agreed.

The Ravenclaw spent the next several minutes elaborating on her adventures in France. She was hindered by the inability to let slip that she was really Hermione Granger and her tendency to go on tangents, but no one minded. It sounded like she'd had a blast overseas- and that she'd accomplished quite a bit for their cause.

"Can you tell the others that I'm back?" she asked once she had finished. "I'd like to give my full report to the rest of us. And then…." Her eyes went bright with hope. "Is the Animagus potion ready yet?"

Pollux nodded. "It's been ready for days, and let me tell you, the others have been so tempted to take it. But they didn't- we were waiting for you."

Next chapter: Animagi and confusion. See you then!

-Antares