A/N: So. I was bored and someone told me to write a chapter. I said sensibly: "but hey, I haven't written a chapter for any of my stories in ages. I'll get the tone wrong. I've forgotten most of the story lines I'd developed. It would just be disappointing to see me try to fumble my way through it!"

Other person: "Fuck you, how does it end?!"

So this was created. (True story, bro.)

Recap of the characters so far:

Dirkrog was a patient and well-meaning goblin who cared deeply about others -

Wait, scratch that. That's wrong. Let's try again. Ahem.

Dirkrog was a patient and well-meaning goblin.

Nope. Still not right.

Dirkrog was a well-meaning - well,

Dirkrog was a goblin, okay.

Lispy Sir Steve King was an innocent doe-eyed 'charment bebe' with a less innocent doe-eyed hitchhiker.

More on that as this story unfolds.

In hindsight, Dirkrog knew there were things he might have done differently in his life that would have altered it drastically for the better.

Loathed, dimwitted creature no. 12*, the floppy-hatted old wizard who always picked his nose noisily and obviously before handing over his Gringott's key, was a prime example of history that should have been altered. *(he must have a name, Dirkrog knew, but he had put so many years of effort into forgetting it that the string of obnoxious syllables no longer came to mind).

On the rare occasion he'd permitted himself to be distracted by fantasies (for he was a sensible goblin who seldom even ventured outside the realm of rationality, let alone vacationed across its borders) Dirkrog had imagined feeding the man's toothy face to the dragon Zvezdnivezni one vacant eyeball at a time.

If Dirkrog had done this in his first week working at Gringotts, he would never have been assigned permanently to the tills.

He would have been summarily tried for homicide, if caught, probably locked away in solitary confinement for a decade or so, and then disallowed to ever approach humans again under Goblin Law.

The only reason Dirkrog had not taken advantage of this glorious win/win situation was because it was neither subtle, efficient, nor, most importantly, intelligent.

These three things, the hybrid of which often was mistaken for professionalism, determined his character. Unlike wizards, he was a master of self-control and ice-cold civility. It would take more than one insolent, snotty witch or wizard to make him snap.

(Solvruk and Krakleg had made the point of loathed, dimwitted creature no. 12 moot by letting the wizard fall into a cursed vault.

After a long lunch break, over which they idly discussed the merits of classic satirist Poet Zulduk versus the dramatic modern Poet Šotek, those most ardent wizard-friends had even alerted Aurors that they had discovered a catatonic wizard in one of their vaults. How alarming!

On a totally unrelated note, Dirkrog had treated them to drinks every night for two weeks).

Dirkrog had honed his passive-aggression to sharp point. Now, the slightest glance from him could make any wizard feel ill at ease. Unfortunately, Dirkrog had just discovered an anomaly. When reviewed in retrospect, this creature had all the earmarks of catastrophe.

Dirkrog would later write up a list of things that in hindsight he oughtn't have said to one Steve King or 'Thteif' King, as the lispy and disgraceful-waste-of-flesh-and-dirge-of-civilisation pronounced it.

This list would include the hint that Zvezdnivezni ate unwelcome newcomers who would not learn to hold their tongues.

Due to some new construction of the lower vaults, he had been forced to slow the cart considerably. This meant that his passenger was no longer too winded to speak and resulted in a veritable diarrhea of words. Because the nincompoop was afflicted with some severe mental deficiency, he had taken Dirkrog's icy silence for rapt attention.

This. Was. Intolerable.

Dirkrog would not be mocked, not by fate, not by the gods-that-likely-weren't-but-perhaps-were-and-if-so-shitted-on-Dirkrog's-chances-of-happiness. He was an efficient goblin who was good at his job and he had not asked for any of this.

Assuming, generously, that the blabbering child didn't have soup for brains, Dirkrog had intimated that Zvezdnivezni did not appreciate the sound of human language. Assuming that this may be too subtle for the idiot, he had added, caustically, that the wraith dragon expressed this lack of appreciation by melting the flesh of those that produced such noise before gargling such miscreants whole down its massive, shimmering throat. It ate them bones and all.

The boy had stopped chattering about how 'cool' the labyrinth of mine shafts were, and Dirkrog had mistakenly thought that the child understood the severity of angry dragons. This reprieve lasted about 0.01 of a second, before the soft-headed imbecile's smile stretched wider and his eyes lit up in delight.

Dirkrog, for the first time in his life, felt nausea during a cart ride.

He told himself that he should have known that his optimistic nature would get the best of him, eventually. His estimation of the boy's mental capacity dropped from low into negatives.

"Oooooh! You mean a real dragon – and, and a wraith one?! Are its teeth as big as my arm? Can it fly through walls? Could it melt my bones with just a sneeze? Ano – I'm sorry," he paused sheepishly, ducking his head from where a rafter might have knocked some good sense into it and scratching white tufts. "I'm being rude. Is there something you would prefer to talk about?"

Dirkrog had looked at the boy steadily with his stoniest expression. He held the pause in which most souls would shrink back or drop their gaze, and for once the child seemed to pick up on that obvious cue, shuffling a little and fidgeting with the ties of his ratty cloak. The silly twit had twisted suddenly to one side, chest angled forward and eyes a little wide.

The minuscule pulsing of an eyebrow muscle preluded Dirkrog's flat tone:

"How long can you hold your breath?"

The twerp shrugged, gaze oozing disgusting amounts of earnestness. His hands kept attempting to brush down large finger-like lumps on the left side of his cloaked chest. A cart flew overhead and Dirkrog felt a sudden dull envy toward whichever goblin was in said cart because their passenger, surely, was merely another arrogant wizard sitting in silence.

"Practice," Dirkrog commanded coldly "Now."

'Thteif' looked at him curiously, before beaming. "Ano – okay!" His eyes crinkled into a smile that made Dirkrog briefly hallucinate rose-petals fluttering around him.

He blinked away the image, mildly horrified.

Their cart slipped past rows of ruby lanterns as he did. A trick of the light slanted the brat's eyes and pulled the shadows of his smile into a predatory smirk. Beneath the collar of his cloak, something stretched out gleaming golden fingers.

Then the white lanterns were back and 'Thteif's cheeks puffed out as the idiot actually attempted to hold his breath. Feeble-witted wizards, indeed.

Dirkrog felt an odd nagging due to the string of strange hallucinations, but decided these irregularities of vision were due to weariness and the hazards of dealing with the filth that was Wizardkind. Their inane chatter was enough to make any poor goblin's brain rot.

At least the boy had finally shut up.

Of course, it was then that physics and nature decided to flee the mortal plane.

The cart shuddered, sparks flying from the wheels. That...was not supposed to happen. Ever. That was impossible. The cart picked up speed, ignoring both Dirkrog's complete inner meltdown and his application of brakes.

Thteif's mouth flew open in a nonsensical yelp of "Yammeeeee" before the idiot's tone shifted suddenly to laughter in an oddly deep register. Something like static crawled up the back of Dirkrog's neck as the cart swerved in a u-turn, brakes shrieking but ineffectual. He clung to the levers for dear life. This was a terrible, abnormal day.

His stomach dropped when the cart flew off the tracks.

In the moments before death, they say you can see your life flash before your eyes.

Dirkrog saw no such thing. He hadn't believed such nonsense anyway, so it didn't surprise him in the slightest.

His heart had climbed into his throat and he was falling so fast his skin was retracting into his skull. Still, he was oddly calm. The only thing that disturbed him was the illogical manner of his death. Dirkrog was a rational goblin and he saw no reason to panic when it could result in nothing useful. Still, he was a rational goblin and knew that it was physically impossible for the cart to have reacted as it did. These carts were immune to human magic and nothing less than magic could have caused it to topple.

He forgot about the boy behind him entirely. In times like these, Dirkrog only remembered incidents and persons of importance.

He saw a shadow rise from the ground, black and shimmering. He saw it ripple like the wards on the lowest vaults. The impression of a palm and short, human fingers scalded his shoulder. Something golden and blinding exploded behind him.

Then the warping molasses-black shadow swallowed the cart, bones and all.

Dirkrog knew no more.

If anyone was wondering, originally I got Dirkrog's name from dørkrog, which is danish for a type of door-catch. When it comes to goblin I was just messing with a bit of Dansk, Bulgarian, Nordic, and Czech (hurrah for google translate!).

Zvezdnivezni is the phonetic Bulgarian word mush meaning star scales.

Solvruk is a mix of Danish and Bulgarian 'Solv' meaning silver in Dansk and 'ruka' meaning hand in Bulgarian. Krak is Bulgarian for 'leg', so I literally called that one legleg. Zulduk means goblin in Bulgarian and Sotek means goblin in Czech (I know, I know, goblins named goblin :P)