Gristlefoot the Goblin

The following correlates with Chapter 26: "Gringotts" of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. It is, in part, a small explanation of how such a serious breach of security was allowed to happen:

Gristlefoot the Goblin slowly traipsed down Diagon Alley as the newly risen sun cast shadows over the multi-storied shoppes and boutiques therein. Having slammed about five firewhiskeys too many last night at the Leaky Cauldron, he was struggling to maintain his composure. His small goblin skull pounding, his beady eyes bloodshot, the only physical relief came in the form of the morning breeze blowing mildly across the back of his sweat-soaked shirt.

As a freshman account manager at Gringotts Bank, he was often the goblin first to arrive and last to leave work. He loathsomely trudged up the vast marble steps leading up to the great bronze doors, suspecting he was putting on some weight as his shirt collar seemed to be fixing itself tighter and tighter around his neck with each passing day.

Already feeling the need to protect this position at Gringotts (which he had inherited from his ex-father-in-law, Doonpog the Dim-Witted only five months ago), he emitted an air of complete and utter desperation in his daily tasks. His last evaluation could be described as pathetic at best, as he remembered botchily scribbled comments such as “unmeticulous,” “inept,” “odorous,” and “a disgrace to goblinkind.”

Gristlefoot oftentimes wondered how he had gone this long without being sacked. He suspected the senior executives of Gringotts were planning a fate for him worse than unemployment, as he was recently “promoted” to the account manager for only the darkest witches and wizards, all of whom were Azkaban alumni. He thought, however, that he had found a temporary solution to this dilemma by simply cowering in shame when he was aware that any of his clientèle had entered the bank. This particular arrangement had worked out reasonably well to this point, as most of his accounts were relatively unheard of in the Dark Wizarding realm; the most frequent visitors were Walden Macnair’s retarded half-brother, Dooley, and Thorfinn Rowle’s cousin, Montey.

He was busying himself by ordering a front desk teller to inspect a bag of coins and decipher for him whether or not they were Leprechaun. He attempted to sound as though he was invoking managerial privilege, whilst trying to disguise the fact that he had no idea what Leprechaun gold was.

“Bogrod,” he started sheepishly, “inspect this gold. It seems some Lepercorn gold has been turning up in recent deposits.” The addressee furrowed his eyebrows at the request.

“Leprechaun, you mean, sir?” he replied sarcastically.

“Yes of course. How silly of ---“ and he fell instantly silent, staring at incoming patrons through the front door. Immediately he shrieked in terror and flung himself under the front counter and out of eyeshot.

Bogrod looked up to the door to see who Gristlefoot was avoiding this time. He had good reason to be taken aback; it was no lesser a dark witch than Bellatrix Lestrange, entering with well-known Death Eater Travers and an uninteresting, nondescript gentleman.

Bogrod greeted them while Gristlefoot cowered silently beneath him out of sight.

"Madam Lestrange!" said the goblin, evidently startled. "Dear me! How--how may I help you today?"

"I wish to enter my vault," the dark, sullen-face witch replied.

"You have . . . identification?" asked Bogrod.

"Identification? I--I have never been asked for identification before!"

Unbeknownst to the affronted customer, Bogrod leaned down and whispered to Gristlefoot, “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know—improvise!” Gristlefoot retorted.

"Your wand will do, madam," he returned to Bellatrix while casting a furtive look to the floor. Miss Lestrange forfeited her wand to Bogrod who eyed it curiously. Gristlefoot caught a glimpse of it as well and suddenly remembered a memo that had passed across his desk in the week prior…something about a lost or stolen wand—it was impossible to remember, but the note definitely had Bellatrix Lestrange’s name somewhere on it. His little goblin heart beat with the all the ferociousness of a thousand centaurs stampeding.

"Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!" he heard Bogrod say.

‘Bogrod seems to know what he’s talking about,’ he thought, ‘ I’ll leave him to sort out this little mess…’ and slinked away under the grand front counter, his head turned back to ensure he wasn’t seen. He was almost home-free when his head crashed into something. He looked up and saw the contemptuous face of the bank president, Mr. Woopledoo.

“What in the name of Ragnuk the First?? Gristlefoot, isn’t that one of your customers Bogrod is attending to?”

“Oh, um, why of yessir, but…”

“Then why aren’t you handling it?!” Woopledoo shouted back. “Don’t you remember the special instructions on the Lestrange account?”

Though he obviously did not, Gristlefoot shook his head in affirmation and jogged off after Bogrod.

“Wait – Bogrod!” he yelled after the retreating goblin. “We have instructions,” he said while bowing, hoping the dark witch could not get a clear look at his face. He yelled the next sentence slightly louder than bank protocol would dictate in hopes that the nearby bank president would hear him and assume Gristlefoot knew what he was talking about: “Forgive me, Madam, but there have been special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange.”

Gristlefoot leaned over to Bogrod and whispered, “Hey, could you open for me next Monday?”

Bogrod merely ignored him and droned in a monotonous voice, “I am aware of the instructions, Madam Lestrange wishes to visit her vault … Very old family … old clients … This way, please … “

Completely confused by this statement, but only too relieved it played well in his favor, Gristlefoot trotted off victoriously toward the break room.

Sometime later, it may have been fifteen minutes or two hours, Gristlefoot awoke after falling asleep in the break room whilst eating his mackerel sandwich. He presently heard deafening roars and screams coming from the tunnel-vaults. He rushed to the lobby to see what the commotion was about as the wall exploded in a burst of flying marble and stone debris, goblins being thrown in all directions by the impact. Then Gristlefoot soiled himself as he saw a dragon awkwardly struggling to force its way through the lobby of Gringotts, yelping and shooting off long bursts of fire all the while. Without much effort, the dragon burst through the final wall and Gristlefoot watched him soar out over Diagon Alley and into the London sky.

A goblin ran out yelling, “It was Harry Potter! They breached the Lestrange vault! We’re all done for! Bellatrix Lestrange was really an imposter! Run for it!”

Gristlefoot slowly and robotically walked back to his desk, still in shock of everything he’d just processed. He knew what he must do. He flipped through his Rolodex, back to the “L” section and found the entry entitled “LESTRANGE” and he slowly picked up the phone.

This was going to be the hardest phone call he’d ever had to make. Indeed, he probably wouldn’t live to see nightfall.