London was wrapped in soft shadows, lit only by the flickering streetlamps and the occasional meow of a cat offended by the lack of easily accessible food.
Amid that nocturnal calm, a fourteen-year-old boy walked aimlessly, dragging a trunk with an owl cage on top, his glasses slipping down his nose and the uncomfortable feeling that, for the first time in a long while, he was completely alone.
Harry Potter had run away from home.
The situation echoed in his mind like a heavy spell.
He had made Aunt Marge swell up (accidentally, though he didn't feel particularly sorry) and now wandered a random Muggle street, with no idea where to spend the night or what to do.
His stomach growled dramatically. He should've grabbed some food before storming out...
"Perfect," he muttered, pressing his jacket against his stomach. "On the run and starving."
Suddenly, the ground vibrated slightly—not much, just a hum, like someone had turned on a microwave miles away. Then, a pair of lilac and green lights peeked around the corner of the street.
Something very big, and very shiny, was coming toward him.
Harry stepped back, ready to dodge whatever it was.
The vehicle turned the corner without the slightest engine noise, gliding like a chrome shadow with LED lights. It was a food truck with a smile painted on its front bumper and speakers playing a funky melody... in an incomprehensible language.
But only inside the vehicle. Nothing could be heard from the outside.
It stopped right in front of Harry. The doors opened with a hiss of steam, and from the interior emerged the most improbable figure: a burly man with a perfect jawline, a chef's hat, aviator goggles pushed up onto his forehead, and an apron embroidered with the words Caution: contains magic, hope… and cheese.
"Harry!" he shouted enthusiastically. "Hop in, champ! Hungry?"
Harry blinked.
"Kronk?"
"In the flesh! And in my trusty food truck. Flying, with a muffin compartment and a freshly installed magical creature evasion system," he said, tapping the chrome with his finger. "Redesigned after the Egypt incident! Err… multiple incidents. Did I ever tell you about the mutant sphinxes? Quick tip—don't believe the rumors. They hate fish despite being half-cat."
"No," Harry replied, still confused. "What are you doing here?"
"I swear," Kronk said, lowering his voice as if confessing to an international conspiracy, "I was just looking for a service station to restock my magical ketchup supply... and I felt someone needed a sandwich."
He offered one, perfectly triangulated, hand-wrapped in paper.
Harry, as expected, took it.
"You said there's no ketchup?" he asked, momentarily lowering his guard.
"Not when destiny calls!" Kronk exclaimed, pointing toward the interior of the truck, now bathed in blue neon light.
Harry figured he was being invited in, so he stepped aboard.
The inside was... bigger than it looked.
A mix between a rustic kitchen, a spaceship, and a refurbished Hogwarts Express car—upgraded by someone with access to a lot of Muggle spare parts. A teapot whistled in one corner, while a toaster emitted purple lights every time it popped up bread for the next sandwich.
"Where were you headed?" Kronk asked as he activated the engine with a lever labeled: PULL THE LEVER, KRONK!
It had been a while since anyone had said that, so he improvised. It would do for now.
"Nowhere," Harry admitted. "I left home. I didn't know where to go."
Kronk nodded with genuine understanding.
"You know what I used to do when I needed to think? I followed George's advice. Climbed to the top of the South Tower, threw pastries into the void, and tried to hit Filch on the head. Never succeeded, but it was good exercise—and Filch earned his pay sweeping up the cream."
Harry laughed for the first time in hours.
Kronk pulled a copy of the Daily Prophet from the glovebox, tossed it onto the folding table in front of them, and set the food truck to Secret Agent Invisible Flight Mode. Silently, it lifted above the rooftops, hidden from Muggle eyes by a magical curtain that smelled faintly of vanilla cookies.
Harry flipped through the paper out of habit.
Sirius Black Escapes from Azkaban!
The image of a gaunt, disheveled man with sunken eyes and hair like wet snakes stared back at him with a wild expression, screaming into the void.
Harry's heart skipped a beat. With hair that greasy, Sirius could almost be related to Snape.
"Do you know this guy?" he asked, pointing to the front page.
"Black? Oh yeah, a little," said Kronk as he deftly maneuvered through the clouds, recalling a conversation with Arthur. "Best to steer clear. Bad vibes."
"They say he betrayed my parents," Harry said, voice low and tense.
Kronk turned his head slightly.
"You know what a turbaned scorpion told me at the Cairo market? That the people who seem most guilty sometimes just have really bad luck. And a terrible hairdresser."
Harry stayed silent. At least the part about the hairdresser seemed true...
That must've been why Snape always looked so suspicious—just like with the Philosopher's Stone!
"Besides," Kronk added, "if you ever feel in danger, remember that my food truck has an escape hatch, emergency boosters, and an ice cream cabin for crisis situations."
"An ice cream cabin?"
"Yep. With tiny spoons and twenty kinds of toppings." Kronk sighed. "Therapeutic."
Harry smiled, though he didn't believe food was the answer.
And for a moment, up in the starry sky, aboard a silent winged food truck that smelled like freshly toasted bread, his worries felt a little smaller. They didn't disappear, but they were easier to carry.
Maybe, Harry thought as he bit into his sandwich, not all rescues come with capes and wands. Sometimes, you just need an optimistic driver, a good conversation… and enough cucumber.
What? He liked his sandwiches with a lot of cucumber.
Just a few minutes earlier...
A black dog had watched as Harry climbed into a strange vehicle and soared into the sky with a dazed expression.
How much had the world changed while he was locked up in Azkaban?