Diagon Alley was different that summer.
Usually, it was a hive of laughter, haggling, and the unmistakable scent of old parchment mixed with freshly baked bread. But now, people spoke in whispers, shop windows were covered with security and darkening charms, and even the rats seemed to be in more of a hurry than usual.
The return of someone had made even the bravest wizards glance over their shoulders with caution, unwilling to cross paths with certain sympathizers of the wrong cause.
However, Kronk had other problems.
"No way…" he muttered, peeking from behind a cauldron stand. "Not them again!"
Three tall, muscular figures were marching down the Alley, shoving aside anyone who dared to get in their way.
Their leather armor barely contained their muscles, and the spears they carried looked far too ornate to be harmless. Their faces were serious, their steps firm, and hanging from their belts were various kitchen utensils. Clearly, they had studied their prey and come prepared with the right bait.
"Kronk," thundered the voice of their leader. "Come out and fulfill our lineage!"
Kronk shrank, pressing his cap tighter against his head.
"I told you it wasn't personal…" he whispered, looking for an escape route. "Besides, if I became a dad this early, how many birthdays would I have to celebrate each year?"
It would be his ruin!
He slipped between two shops, clutching a carefully folded shopping list.
It read, in large letters:
Flour (the good kind, not the bad one)
Eggs (not explosive or glowing)
Yeast (VERY important)
New pans (for the collection)
Grated cheese (there's never enough cheese)
As he hurried along, the murmurs of the Alley surrounded him—rumors of disappearances, of the Ministry hiding things, of Harry Potter trying to draw attention.
But Kronk barely listened.
For him, the real danger had a name, a spear, and arms the size of tree trunks.
Just like his.
"Maybe I should leave the country for a while," he told himself, trying to sound calm. "Nothing serious, just a… spiritual retreat."
And that was when he saw it. In a slightly secluded corner, beneath an old awning and a handmade sign, stood a small stall. The crooked, dusty sign read:
"Rob's Kitchen Antiques: Of and For Cooking"
Behind the counter, an old man with a white beard and kind eyes was arranging jars, spoons, and a strange clock that ticked backward.
Kronk approached curiously.
"Good morning," greeted the old man, his voice gentle, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Looking for something in particular, lad?"
"Yeah, something normal," Kronk lowered his voice as he glanced at the jars. "Nothing that talks, moves, or tries to take over the world."
"Ah…" Rob smiled, discreetly setting a few jars behind him. "The tricky part is finding something normal in this Alley. But I think I've got something here that might interest you… give me a moment."
He rummaged through a wooden box and pulled out a small amber-glass jar with a nearly faded label.
"This is it," he said, blowing off the dust and polishing the glass with his sleeve. "A bit of grandma's yeast—a classic."
Kronk froze. The air seemed to thicken, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.
Was it the same kind of jar that had sent him to this world?
…Nah, what were the chances?
"How much for it?" asked Kronk.
"Hmm…" Rob stroked his beard. "Honestly, it's more of a keepsake than a sale, but let's say… ten Galleons."
"Deal!" Kronk tossed the coins onto the counter and grabbed the jar like it was treasure.
Rob watched him disappear into the crowd, the sound of the giant's footsteps fading away.
The old man sighed, smiling wistfully.
"He always ends up coming back," he murmured.
When a distracted wizard walked past the stand, it vanished as if it had never been there.
…
That night, Kronk found refuge in a cave by a lakeshore, far from everything.
He had managed to hide his food truck among the rocks, casting a web of enchantments to camouflage it. From the outside, it looked like an empty cave; from the inside, it was a cozy home on wheels.
Soft lights illuminated a table cluttered with utensils, steaming pots, and a recipe book full of drawings. On the oven door, a sticker read: "Champion's Kitchen – Version XII."
Kronk dropped onto the seat by the window.
"Well, looks like I barely escaped this time."
He sighed, gazing at the jar of yeast, its glass faintly glowing under candlelight.
"And what are you doing here, huh?" he asked the jar, as if expecting an answer. "I guess a few fritters wouldn't hurt." His stomach growled a little, so he headed to the kitchen.
The sound of the whisk, flour falling, the aroma of sweet batter filling the air.
Yes, today Kronk decided to make sweet fritters—he'd earned it!
He moved with natural rhythm, humming a tune that reminded him of his tournament days.
"Flour, eggs, butter, honey… and a bit of…" he looked at the jar. "Well, if I'm wrong, I survived the first time…"
He popped the lid open, and a familiar soft scent spread through the air.
He poured a pinch into the mix, and for a few seconds, nothing happened.
"Did I get the dose wrong? Impossible."
Then, the batter began to bubble.
"Oh, good, it's working."
First slowly, then eagerly.
Small golden sparks appeared on its surface, and the air vibrated.
"Uh…" said Kronk, stepping back. "Yeah, this feels familiar."
The light grew brighter, and Kronk squinted, peeling off the jar's crooked label—only to reveal another beneath it:
"Interdimensional Transfer Powder – Do Not Confuse with Fritter Yeast."
"Yeah, this definitely happened before," he managed to say with a sigh, smiling in resignation. "Well then… round two!"
A golden flash filled the cave.
The food truck trembled, and then… silence.
Only the faint echo of laughter lingered in the air.
Hours later, the lake reflected the moon.
Outside, on a nearby rock, a llama watched the vehicle.
It snorted in satisfaction, as if to say, "About time."
Then vanished into silvery mist.
…
Far, far away…
A pink dawn lit up a valley covered in flowers, the sound of birds drifting through the air. In the middle of that landscape, a large man wearing an apron and chef's hat woke up on the ground. He looked around, confused.
"Oh…" he said, blinking. "Well, looks like the fritters will have to wait." He laughed.
He stood up, brushed flour off his hands, and gazed at the horizon.
The air smelled like freedom and… vanilla?
"Uh, Kronk?" the little angel appeared on his right shoulder. "Did you make fritters with—"
"Yes."
"Again?!" the little devil looked around; he could already tell they were in another world.
"Yes."