Kronk didn't get sick often, but when he did, he did so with the drama and intensity of a soap opera.
It all started with a sneeze.
"A... A... Aaaachoo!"
BOOM!
The sneeze was so powerful it knocked over three flowerpots and sent a small garden gnome flying—one that had just poked his head out of his burrow to check today's weather. Professor Sprout sent him straight to the infirmary, claiming that no plant was safe with those sonic sneezes.
"Can't it just be a Monday allergy?" Kronk asked, wrapped in a blanket so large he looked like a caterpillar, with a meter-long thermometer in his mouth.
"You've got a fever and you're talking to teapots. More than what's considered normal," Pomfrey said bluntly. "And no, you can't make your own soup."
The diagnosis was clear: Level Three Magical Flu. Not dangerous, but annoying enough to keep him in bed for a few days. Worse still, the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was taking place that very afternoon.
"Great," Kronk muttered as he slurped a soup he had secretly made anyway.
The match began, and from the infirmary window, he could see patches of stormy sky and faintly hear the roar of the crowd in the distance.
Then, everything changed.
A heavy silence. A crash. Screaming.
And then... Harry.
Pomfrey burst into the infirmary, throwing open the doors like a theater curtain. She was levitating Harry Potter—soaked, pale, unconscious, glasses askew, and hair even messier than usual (which was saying something).
Harry was laid on the cot beside Kronk's bed, who watched from his cocoon of blankets.
"Is he okay?" Kronk asked nasally.
"Dementors attacked," Pomfrey growled, pulling out a chunk of chocolate so big it could've fed a troop of trolls for a week. "During a match! At the castle! UNACCEPTABLE!"
She pulled out an IV bag, melted the chocolate into it, and pumped it straight into his veins to help stabilize him.
"Ugh… did he break anything?" Kronk murmured.
"Just his dignity and his broom," Pomfrey said before storming off to yell at a portrait for being too loud.
Minutes later, Harry stirred with a groan.
He blinked, and the first thing he saw was Kronk and the chocolate drip.
"Kronk…?"
"Hey, little champ," Kronk said, congested. "Welcome to the Unfairly Hospitalized Club."
"What happened to you?"
"I sneezed so hard I exploded a flowerpot… or several, let's not count."
Harry fell silent.
Then he glanced around, frowning, confused by the IV bag of chocolate.
Was Pomfrey trying to give him magical diabetes?
But more alarmed by a final memory of his fall, he looked around urgently.
"Where's my broom?"
Kronk hesitated.
"Uh… well… they brought it in a while ago," he pointed to a box beside the bed. "Well... what's left of it."
He turned, reached out a trembling arm, and lifted a box that might've once contained a broom—if it had been put through a woodchipper, steamed, and then stomped on by a centaur stampede. Or two.
Harry stared at it like it was the remains of a beloved friend.
"…It was the best broom in the world…"
It had also been his first real gift and personal possession. It was more than just a broom.
"I know," Kronk said, lowering his head. "I tried to fix it, really. But… it's beyond my skills. Or anyone's. No spell can repair it without turning it into some kind of zombie broom and… I don't think you'd want that."
Harry sighed, very softly.
"Are you sure?"
Kronk looked at him with all the seriousness one can manage while holding a meter-long thermometer in his mouth.
"When I took it out of the box, it whispered 'kill me' in ancient Latin."
Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"I'm sorry, man," Kronk added, offering a bowl of his soup. "I can't fix it. But if you need help with a duel, a recipe, or taming rogue owls, I'm your guy."
Harry accepted the bowl.
"Thanks, Kronk."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Rain tapped melancholically on the windows, and the only sounds were the occasional sip or background sneeze.
Finally, Kronk broke the silence:
"…But if you want, I can build you a new broom."
Harry looked up in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I mean, sure it won't be as fast, or aerodynamic…" Kronk said, stroking his chin. "But it'll definitely have cup holders and shock-absorbing seat cushions. Oh, and maybe a confetti cannon for when you score."
"That would be… amazing." Harry smiled for the first time since waking up. "Though maybe skip the confetti."
"Awesome. I just need permission to use the rune workshop and… by any chance, do you have a magical wooden beam lying around?"
"…No."
"Well, finding one will be our first mission!" Kronk declared with enthusiasm, right before sneezing so hard he shattered every window in the infirmary wing.