Several days had passed since the incident in Myrtle's bathroom. Kronk hadn't given much thought to the talking tunnel—he had far more urgent matters on his plate: Hogwarts was about to host its traditional Equinox Barbecue, and he had been entrusted with the most important part of the event.
"Chicken wings marinated in fermented pumpkin juice and ground white pepper," he murmured, holding a large specimen of Creole magical chicken, its iridescent feathers gleaming and its screech so sharp it could shatter fine glass.
That afternoon, while he was preparing it in the service yard near Myrtle's bathroom, the chicken (who didn't share Kronk's enthusiasm for cooking, especially after realizing it was part of the recipe, not the guest list) broke free from its bindings and bolted at full speed.
"Hey! Get back here, you walking drumstick!" shouted Kronk, chasing after it with an apron on and a basting brush in hand.
The bird, in a burst of speed worthy of a near-magical creature, darted through an open grate in the girls' bathroom. Without a second thought, Kronk dove in after it.
"Stupid Victorian plumbing," he grumbled as he slid down the tunnel he had discovered days ago, completely forgetting it was supposedly a mythical and dangerous entrance.
After several minutes of pursuing it through dark, slippery, poorly-ventilated tunnels, the singing chicken darted into an opening adorned with carved serpents.
Kronk followed.
"Next time I should secure it more... permanently," he thought, trying to keep the fugitive from escaping its sentence. "Nothing a good honey glaze won't fix!"
And so, Kronk (unknowingly) entered the Chamber of Secrets.
An immense chamber of damp green stone, thick with ancient magic, stretched out before him. Statues of snakes flanked the central path, and at the far end, Ginny Weasley lay motionless on the ground, pale as marble.
Beside her, Tom Riddle's diary lay open, pulsing with darkness.
But Kronk hadn't seen any of that yet, because just then, the Singing Chicken perched on a statue and let out a shriek—its species' signature cry—which vibrated through the walls and echoed off the ancient stones.
From the depths of the Chamber, the basilisk stirred, awakened by the sound, slithering forward with rage and terror… until the chicken's second screech hit its sensory and brain-like ears directly.
The great serpent convulsed, tripped over its own tail, and with a final hiss, collapsed—dead.
Kronk, panting and covered in mud (he hoped it was mud), arrived just in time to witness the monster collapse with a THUMP that made the walls shake.
"Wow!" he said in awe at the massive creature. "That's one giant eel. Wonder if it can be smoked?"
The Singing Chicken, apparently satisfied with its knightly feat, fluttered over to where Ginny lay and, in a scene of divine comedy, tripped on the diary, which flew into the air due to the slick floor. The cursed object arced through the air, landed on one of the basilisk's still-raised fangs, and was impaled cleanly.
A flash of darkness erupted from the book.
An incorporeal scream echoed through the Chamber—and then, silence.
Ginny blinked as Tom Riddle's hold on her broke instantly.
"Where am I…? What… what happened?"
"Oh, don't worry!" said Kronk warmly. "You almost landed on the chicken."
Said chicken's face was turning a lovely shade of purple, as Kronk had taken advantage of the moment to grab it firmly by the neck to prevent another chase.
Ginny looked at him, then the chicken, then at the giant dead basilisk.
"Did you… kill that?"
Kronk scratched his head, almost as puzzled as little Weasley.
"Technically, it was him," he said, pointing to the chicken, who now had its tongue lolling out from lack of air. "But I brought him and chased him here. So… co-author?"
Just then, a familiar figure stepped into the Chamber with his usual calm gait: Albus Dumbledore.
"What ha—?" he stopped short.
He surveyed the scene: Ginny alive, the basilisk dead, Tom's diary destroyed, the singing chicken giving him a pleading look, and Kronk kneeling beside the enormous corpse… with a tape measure.
"Hmmm… if I cut it into five-foot sections, maybe I could fit it in the basement potion oven…" Kronk murmured.
Dumbledore remained silent for a long while. Too long.
At last, he spoke:
"Kronk… would you mind giving me a small explanation?"
Kronk smiled without turning around.
"Sure. See, I was prepping a chicken for the barbecue, but it got away, so I followed it down that pipe I found the other day. We ended up here, the chicken sang, the giant eel fell, Ginny woke up, the book flew, got stabbed on a fang and… well, that's that." Kronk turned to glare at the chicken for making him run all over—"Want to try a drumstick?"
Dumbledore opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I believe… I'd rather you make some lemon tea for me and Miss Weasley," he finally said. "We'll need a little chat."
He had to ensure Tom's influence hadn't affected young Ginny too deeply. Also, for some reason, eating the chicken that had just slain Slytherin's ancient mascot felt… wrong, considering its valor.
"…Can I keep the eel?"
Dumbledore wanted to tell him it wasn't an eel, but a basilisk—a dark creature born from evil magic crafted by Herpo the Foul—but honestly, he was curious whether it might taste good.
After all, that meat had been marinating for centuries!
And the house-elves had recently acquired white pine charcoal and Japanese soy sauce. If he cooked it like eel...
"You may," he said, trying to hide the string of drool slipping from his beard. "But! Only from the head down—it has venom glands in the head."
"Deal!"
The Singing Chicken sighed in relief, wiping sweat from its brow with its wings.
"Don't think I've forgotten about you," Kronk whispered, still smiling toward Dumbledore. "You're going in the pot tonight!"
The chicken shot him a look of pure injustice. Did his feat mean nothing?
He had slain an ancient beast.
He had saved a young maiden!
"Relax, I'll use premium onions."
…
In the end, the chicken managed to escape its fate, claimed by Ginny as her savior and sent to The Burrow, where he would be surrounded by beautiful hens… until he grew old and ended up in one of Molly's stews.
Her words, not Kronk's.
"You know," the angelic shoulder-Kronk said, adjusting his reading glasses, "I have a weird feeling in my gut, like we just disrupted some kind of destiny."
"I told you not to have second helpings of the chili," the little devil retorted, diving into his third bowl. "You angels can't handle a bit of spice!"
"It wasn't the chili!" A low grrrrrr rumbled from the angel's stomach. "Oh no, not again!"
Puff.
The angel vanished, racing toward the celestial toilet.
"Told ya," the devil chuckled. "Rookie."