It sounded a little theatrical, but Goyle knew a part of him died with Crabbe in the Room of Requirement.

For better or worse, life was unstoppable. An undeniable reality, much like its counterpart. Goyle would be lying to himself if he didn't think about taking the easy way out. He was only human. But Goyle knew inflicting the same pain he was enduring on others wasn't the answer.

Besides, Crabbe would be disgruntled, say the least, if he knew that he was the excuse Goyle used to give up.

Places and feelings that weren't noteworthy before Crabbe died suddenly had this sort of unconquerable power over him. He couldn't go into Moaning Mrytle's bathroom without choking back tears. Even the smell of honey-baked ham brought him to his knees. Learning that Snape had also passed away didn't exactly help.

Even the country as a whole became excruciating to Goyle. Crabbe and Snape were all that tethered Goyle to Scotland. Goyle wouldn't extinguish himself. No, he was too spiteful and resilient to die. But he would kill this version himself. The mindless child that got whipped up in the elitist propaganda of a lich. He would emigrate halfway across the world and never hear any more of Voldemort or Harry Potter other than the occasional newspaper clipping.

Crabbe passed on May 2nd, 1998. Goyle would never overlook that date. He's considered tattooing it, but he found it didn't need ink.

Goyle had taken up residency in New York City by July of that year.

He lived in the Big Apple for three years and moved on in the latter half of 2001. Destruction seemed to follow him everywhere he went.

After that, he moved to San Clemente, a quietish beach town nestled in the empty void between Los Angeles and San Diego. He met a Muggle bartender named Lori. Goyle and Lori went on dates, fell in love, moved in together, and fell out of love. He learned to drive. He smashed his wand. He tried learning to surf and would wipe out harder than a dragon's backside.

Some questionable people would follow Goyle around. A man that would wear reflective shades at night. A woman that would wear a peacoat in August. Not enough to make him feel smothered, but the sentiment was clear. Either American or Scottish, a government knew he was in San Clemente. It wasn't until 2005 that these people ceased appearing. Seven years of unofficial probation was more leniency than Goyle felt that he merited.

The newspaper articles about Voldemort became less and less regular. Other madmen and monsters moved in to take his place. More heroes like Potter and Granger rose to fight them. Goyle knew he belonged on the sidelines. The last time he made a stand, it was the wrong stand. Voldemort cost him his childhood.

Once Goyle clued Lori in on his past and mistakes, he thought she would understand. She didn't. Not that Goyle could blame her. He supported the subjugation and extermination of Muggles all across the globe. At what point does "I was just a dumb kid." work as an excuse? Not for something this severe. He should've known better. He accepted every punishment, karmic or legitimate, with a solemn, diluted smile.

If Gregory Goyle had a nickel for every time he got involved with a conflict that would change the course of the Wizarding World forever, he would have two nickels. That isn't a lot, but it was infuriating that it would happen twice.

xXx xXx

After a pleasant day of continuing to binge Lucifer, Goyle looked at his watch and sighed deeply. It was time to get ready for work. Goyle was glad he decided to continue watching Lucifer. He had only watched the first three episodes for the longest time, then forgot about it when he found Umbrella Academy. Indeed, a well-known show like Lucifer would be worth watching beyond the first three episodes.

Looking in the mirror, Gregory Goyle had to face a harsh, unforgiving reality. He was getting old. His forehead was never small, but he was becoming bald. For not the first time, Goyle considered shaving his head and focusing on maintaining a beard. His body was still barrel-chested, with a little more hair on his body than he would've expected when he was younger. Despite avoiding alcohol, for the most part, Goyle's slowing metabolism resulted in a beer belly.

His forty-second birthday was at the end of the month. Goyle paused for a moment and took a deep breath. It was also almost twenty-four years since Crabbe died. There was now significantly more time separating Crabbe's birth and death than Crabbe's death and the present day. Crabbe was so young when he died. Suppose he had just been given the same chance that Goyle was given. He could've been a good man.

Goyle grabbed the worn-out, faux leather jacket he had bought in New York City and worn throughout his twenties and thirties. The material was fraying around the armholes. Cuts and scrapes littered the coat, each with an anecdote thousands of words long.

He scoffed to himself quietly. He wasn't a kid anymore. He wasn't even a young adult anymore. The leather jacket went back up on its hanger, and he grabbed a sensible white polo and khakis. He hopped on his older Ford Ranger and went to work.

When he moved to San Clemente, Goyle got a job as a waiter at a burger joint named Richardson's. He saw many other waiters and waitresses come and go through those doors. Kids in their late teens and early twenties are working through community college. Some older women work only a few days a week to get a supplementary income for their breadwinning husbands—a few gender inversions of that. Goyle was one of the few who stayed.

When Eleanor Richardson passed on in 2012, her husband briefly took the business over, but Jonas Richardson followed his wife to the grave only eighteen months later. He named Goyle the sole recipient of Richardson's and all its assets in Jonas's will.

The post-mortem promotion had caught Goyle off guard, but he got over it after a week and worked to make sure Richardson's would be a neighborhood staple for decades to come. Goyle put a cocktail bar in the back of the restaurant (Lori's idea) to appeal more to adults and milkshakes for the children.

Goyle was immediately greeted by two of his servers flirting in the front lobby. "Roland! Axia! I don't pay you to stare lovingly in each other's eyes!"

Like Goyle was a drill sergeant, Roland snapped to attention, "Sir, yes, sir!". Goyle caught out of the corner of his eye him giving Axia a sly wink, then walking back to the kitchen.

Roland was a good kid, barely twenty. He was one of those working his way through community college and saving up to move out of his parent's place. He was a few inches shorter than Goyle, about 5'10 or so. He was on the skinnier side, leanly muscled from years of surfing. His fluffy, black hair went down to the base of his neck. He wore glasses, and he looked like a nerd for all intents and purposes. His higher, reedier voice also gave that impression. Goyle had no idea how he carried himself with the confidence he did.

Axia was also a good kid, a year Roland's junior. For a woman, she was tall, also 5'10. She had a few tattoos, including a red dragon on her left shoulder and several smaller ones on her right arm, including a skull, a mushroom, and the word 'art.' She, like Roland, was a brunette. He was Caucasian, though, while Axia was Latina. She had slightly more muscle than Roland, and her voice was lower; she spoke more slowly. Axia reminded Goyle of Pansy Parkinson back all those years ago. If Axia wanted something, she got it without question. Unless, of course, it was something from her boss.

"Sometimes," Axia drawled, "I just don't know about that kid."

"Don't pretend that this is somehow us against him." warned Goyle with a smile, waggling his finger, "Get back to work.

Axia rolled her eyes, "Fine, but it's 3:45. No one's here yet."

Goyle waved his arm dismissively, "Then sweep the kitchen. I'm sure the lunch servers left it a mess."

Axia regarded Goyle balefully before following Roland into the kitchen.

The next hour would pass without incident, save for a dissatisfied customer that thought his sliders were taking too long (it was fifteen minutes).

Then the ground started to rumble.

Earthquakes were something Goyle had gotten used to in California. But something about this was more violent. And louder. Like the epicenter was only a few feet away.

The tremors got bigger. Glasses on the bar fell off and shattered. Guests and employees yelled and tried to find cover. Goyle felt goosebumps run up and down his arms. His cooks were in danger. All the sharp objects and fire were around. Someone could easily get into the hospital.

"Everyone out!" Goyle bellowed, "Don't worry about the bill; just go!"

His customers didn't need a second invitation. They filed out one of the two exits. As Goyle surveyed his dining room, making sure no one got trampled, he noticed something odd. Axia and Roland were utterly calm. They reached into their pockets, and Goyle's blood ran cold.

They pulled out wands.

"You think it's Tetzimoc?" asked Roland worriedly.

"There's no way Tetzimoc would attack a population center like this. He wants to be left alone."

"Is there anything else that could create tremors like this?" asked Roland. Axia didn't answer him.

Goyle made his way to his two younger employees, stumbling a few times due to the earthquake.

Roland looked up at Goyle and scoffed, "Looks like we're gonna have to erase the boss's memory again."

Axia rolled up her sleeves and pointed her wand at the front entrance. Unlike anything Goyle had ever seen, a monster was tunneling out from underneath the ground.

Goyle had seen the basilisk corpse after Potter had killed it in the Chamber of Secrets. A massive serpent nearly sixty feet long and probably weighing almost eight thousand pounds. That was the last time Goyle had seen a monster anywhere near this size. It was at least the size of an eighteen-wheeler. It looked like a giant, shellless turtle with two horns on either side of its lower jaw, a third on its forehead, and two larger ones on its shoulders. A club with the same circumference as a ceiling fan swung wildly on the tip of its tail. Hundreds of quills inhabited the lower half of its back, tail, and club.

"Still think it's not Tetzimoc?" asked Roland mockingly.

Axia's eyes were wide, and her mouth opened in shock. "What the hell is Tetzimoc doing this close to shore?"

Roland looked around the restaurant, apparently trying to find an answer. He pointed his wand at Goyle and yelled, "Stupefy!" For a brief instance, Goyle regretted breaking his wand. He wasn't sure what Tetzimoc was, but he knew the look of two kids out of their depths when he saw it. Sadly, Goyle made his choice. His body hit the ground like a sack of rocks.

When he woke up the following day, he suddenly remembered he had only watched the first three episodes of Lucifer. Indeed a show that well-known would be worth watching beyond that.