The rain drummed insistently on the roof of Hagrid's cabin, which smelled of strong tea, freshly baked rock cakes, and a distinct hint of… fresh slug.
"Filthy Mudblood!" Ron groaned for the tenth time as he vomited another giant slug into the metal bucket beside his chair.
Blagh!
"I know, Ron," said Hermione, her eyes red. "You've said it, like, seven times."
Right before each slug.
Hagrid gave her a clumsy pat on the back.
"Don't you mind those nasty words, Hermione," Hagrid tried to comfort her. "There's nothing wrong with being Muggle-born. That 'Mudblood' rubbish is just used by stuck-up wizards with bad influences, like the Malfoys, to make themselves feel more important than they are."
Harry clenched his fists, remembering the look on Draco's face when he insulted his friend.
It had been cold and proud.
Ron leaned over the bucket again.
BLAAAGH.
At that moment, something rustled behind a pile of grain sacks and a poorly folded quilt in the corner.
"What was that?" Harry asked, pulling out his wand.
"Nothing, nothing!" came a low voice, followed by a stifled sneeze.
Hagrid sighed.
"You can come out, Kronk."
From behind the sacks emerged Kronk, crouching, holding a foldable tray in one hand and a small reading lamp floating over his shoulder. He had a blanket wrapped around him like he was part of the furniture.
"How long have you been there?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"Since before Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron found me," Kronk whispered with genuine fear in his eyes. "They wanted to invite me to Nick's 500th Deathday Party."
"What kind of food do they serve at a ghost party?" Ron asked between dry heaves.
"Rotten, putrid, decomposing food. 'Aged to perfection,' they said." He made air quotes with his fingers. "The worst part is Nick winked when he mentioned the 17th-century rat liver stew."
Hermione turned pale — that didn't sound remotely appetizing. Or edible.
"That's... culturally interesting, but disgusting," she said diplomatically.
Kronk nodded in agreement, still looking spooked.
"So I hid here," he gestured around. "Hagrid brought me some cookies and a blanket. Everything's under control."
"Do you hide often?" Harry asked.
Kronk thought about it for a second.
"Only from very specific situations," he began counting on his fingers. "Like this one. Or from Lockhart on Thursdays — he asked me to help him 'practice signing poses' live. I just wanted to review the Herbology book; Professor Sprout told me to dig deeper into the subject."
Hagrid snorted and sat back in his enormous leather armchair.
"Well, this cabin's always open for anyone who needs it," he glanced at Ron, "with or without slugs."
Ron vomited another slug.
Hagrid was starting to wonder if they might be useful for Potion class ingredients.
Kronk stood up, took a paper bag hidden among the sacks, and offered it to Hermione.
"Maple cookie?"
She took it with a weak smile.
"Thanks, Kronk." She took a bite. "I'm glad you don't mind that I'm Muggle-born."
"Why would I mind?" Kronk frowned deeply, clearly puzzled. "You know how to bake, right?"
"Eh?" Hermione was caught off guard. "Well… a bit, yes..."
She had read many books about it, but for some strange reason, her parents always panicked when she tried to cook anything. Why was that?
"Then welcome to my squad," Kronk said solemnly, as he split a cookie in half and offered it to Ron. "We don't allow intolerance or rotten food."
Ron, still pale, took the cookie with a tired smile.
"Thanks… Kronk. Blagh..."
"Careful," Kronk added, making a mental note. "Slugs and sugar don't mix well."
And so, under the rain, in the uneven warmth of Hagrid's cabin, with buckets full of slugs, avoiding ghosts nobody wanted to see, and a cookie that tasted like home, the group found a brief moment of peace.
"I feel like I'm forgetting something..." Kronk thought.