Kronk's food truck glided over the English countryside with the majestic elegance of a turbo-charged saucepan fueled by sugar coal. Inside, soft lights flickered like domesticated fireflies, and a magical radio played a strange mix of relaxing jazz and Bulgarian goblin choirs.
"Well, Harry," said Kronk, gently turning the wheel with flight gloves embroidered with the "Combat Cuisine" logo, "you can stay with me for the rest of the summer, sleep in the staff bunk next to the oven. I even have a floating hammock—with moth repellent!"
Harry smiled but shook his head.
"Thanks, Kronk. Really. But if I stay with you, the Ministry will find me," he explained with resignation. "The thing with Aunt Marge... wasn't exactly subtle." Harry laughed, but his eyes were steady. "I need to be with the Weasleys. If I hide, I'll just look more guilty. And Ron's dad works at the Ministry—maybe he can help clear things up."
Kronk nodded, proud as a father taking his kid to work.
"Good choice. The Burrow, here we come!"
A few minutes later, the food truck descended onto the grounds of The Burrow with all the stealth of a dragon in an owl costume. Behind them lay the open fields, and ahead stood the beloved, crooked, magical structure the Weasleys called home.
Harry stepped out with his trunk. At the door, Molly Weasley appeared with a flour-covered apron, teary eyes, and the expression of a mother hen ready to crush someone in a hug.
"Harry, dear!" she rushed over to embrace him the moment she saw his vulnerable state. "Where did you—?"
"Kronk," the boy explained, jerking a thumb behind him.
Kronk poked his head out the driver's window and gave a cheerful salute.
"Special delivery!"
Molly blinked. Then slowly nodded, concluding it was best not to ask Kronk—surely Harry could explain everything... this.
…
Weeks later, the air grew cooler.
Summer was coming to an end, and Hogwarts was preparing to welcome its students. Kronk, true to form, had no intention of paying for a train ticket when he had a flying vehicle with retractable wings, troll-resistant shock absorbers, and a self-replenishing napkin dispenser.
"Smooth landing, just like last year," he murmured to himself, adjusting his chef's hat and spotting the Quidditch pitch in the distance like a neatly pressed patchwork quilt.
But then, the sky darkened.
A bone-chilling cold descended without warning. The sun, which had just been shining, seemed to vanish behind a cloud of pure melancholy. A pair of tall, floating figures draped in black cloaks emerged from the nearby trees, moving with the sluggishness of a sticky nightmare.
"Hmm... that doesn't look like natural fog…" said Kronk, slowing down.
A third Dementor appeared—directly in the landing path.
"What are these guys doing here?"
One of the Dementors raised its arms as if to stop the vehicle.
"Are they... fining me for unauthorized landing?"
That made no sense! There was no fine last year!
The food truck came to a screeching halt mid-air.
In a movement too swift and synchronized for creatures with no visible nervous system, the Dementors lunged toward him.
"NOPE! NOPE! NOPE! NOPE!"
Kronk slammed the big red button labeled "DO NOT PRESS UNLESS IT'S AN EMERGENCY"—which he'd installed after the whole mummies-and-sphinxes-in-Egypt fiasco.
In an instant, a warm light burst from the truck's roof, releasing the scent of chocolate, toasted marshmallows, and the comforting breeze of home.
The Dementors recoiled, hissing.
But they didn't stop.
Kronk frowned and yanked down the defense levers. Panels on the roof opened, blasting Hawaiian siren songs—the cheeriest thing Kronk had on file—while the food truck plunged toward the ground at full speed.
"I just wanted to skip the train ticket!"
One of the Dementors latched onto the rear bumper, and the truck began to shake violently from the uneven weight.
"NOT NOW, I'M DRIVING!" Kronk shouted, activating an extra reflective spell that wrapped the truck in a golden glow.
The Dementor flew off like a kite without a string.
Finally, after a dizzying spiral, Kronk crash-landed in the middle of the Quidditch field, kicking up a cloud of grass, dust... and what looked like a forgotten Hufflepuff banner.
Kronk slumped over the wheel, breathing heavily.
"Well," he said, pulling a pocket watch from inside his hat, "technically, I'm on time. The train probably hasn't even left the station yet, right?"
At that moment, a sleek owl descended gently onto the truck's hood, a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest tied to its leg.
Kronk opened it while the owl gave him that "I just work here" look.
Dear Kronk,
Although we greatly appreciate your enthusiasm and punctuality, we remind you that this year Hogwarts is under strict surveillance due to external threats.
Therefore, and for everyone's safety, aerial or otherwise magical arrivals without prior authorization are strictly prohibited.
We strongly advise you to take the train like everyone else—at least until the situation is under control.
Sincerely,
Pomona Sprout
Head of Hufflepuff House
Kronk sighed.
"Now that's what I call a last-minute notice. If I'd known, I could've saved myself the scare with those... things."
The owl took off, and Kronk could only watch as it returned to the Owlery—probably eager to brag about the shortest letter delivery in Hogwarts history.
"Next time... train," Kronk concluded.