The Black Lake had never been so silent.
The banners of the three schools fluttered beneath a cloudy sky as spectators settled into the stands.
The judges watched from a raised platform—Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, Karkaroff, Ludo Bagman, and of course, the Minister of Magic, who looked more nervous than any of the competitors.
Kronk, on the other hand, looked like he was on vacation.
He wore red-and-white striped swim trunks, a duck-shaped inflatable life vest, and a snorkel so long it coiled upward over three meters into the air.
On his head sat a lime-green swim cap, with a pair of pointy ears accidentally sewn on.
The other champions—Harry, Krum, and Fleur—had already prepared their spells, potions, and magical equipment, none of which seemed designed for either freshwater or saltwater.
Bagman, upon seeing Kronk, barely managed to hold back a laugh.
"Ahem… the Hogwarts champion seems… ah, well, prepared, no doubt."
Dumbledore smiled, as if he knew something the others didn't.
"In his own way, Ludo. In his own way."
…
At the blast of the cannon, the champions dove into the lake.
Harry vanished beneath a cloud of bubbles in what looked more like a failed suicide attempt than a dive, Fleur elegantly conjured a bubble of air around her head, and Krum… well, his head turned halfway into that of a shark.
Kronk, meanwhile, approached the edge, blew through his snorkel to check the airflow, and declared,
"All set!"
He jumped in with such a massive splash that the entire front row—including Percy Weasley—was drenched, forcing Percy to dry himself off with a rather irritated spell.
Kronk's snorkel stretched magically as he swam deeper, the top of it sticking out above the water and making an odd fwoop-fwoop sound that confused the nearby birds.
Underwater, Kronk swam leisurely, occasionally waving cheerfully at passing creatures as though greeting neighbors.
A confused merperson merely gestured for him to move along, unable to make sense of anything.
After fifteen minutes of aimless swimming, Kronk finally spotted the sleeping figures below.
He recognized Angelina Johnson, floating peacefully among the other hostages.
But before he could approach, a group of merfolk and grindylows surrounded him, brandishing sharp teeth and crude spears.
Kronk raised his hands in peace.
"Hey, hey, easy! I'm just passing through. Don't want any trouble—just here to rescue my friend, and maybe cook her dinner if all goes well."
The merfolk didn't look convinced—nor did they understand how Kronk was speaking perfectly underwater.
One lunged at him, and in reflex, Kronk pulled out a metal thermos strapped to his belt. In a desperate attempt to distract them, he tossed it and absentmindedly cast a basic liquid-transformation spell he sometimes used in the kitchen.
The result was catastrophic.
The thermos absorbed the surrounding water, mixed it with leftover spices (because of course Kronk carried seasonings even at the bottom of a lake—chef's common sense), and released it as a golden, bubbling liquid with a strong scent of fermented sugarcane.
A heavy silence spread through the water as the enchanted liquid began to replace the lake's natural water.
Then, the merfolk started… swaying.
And laughing.
They laughed a lot.
One hugged a grindylow. Another started singing a sea shanty with no coherent lyrics. The rest formed an underwater conga line.
Kronk blinked, picked up the still-glowing thermos, and checked the label on the back.
"Uh… wait a second. This isn't my bottle."
The enchanted liquor kept spreading, soon reaching the other competitors.
…
Krum, with his gills wide open, inhaled a hearty dose. His expression shifted from focus to pure bliss—a transcendent state of calm he'd only reached once before, during a particularly questionable party he refused to recall.
"Ah… mój… mmm… good… very good water…" he mumbled, floating sideways and forgetting entirely about Hermione.
Harry, trying to save Ron, began talking to the fish—convinced they were replying as long as he paid them with "premium buttered worms."
Fleur, meanwhile, absorbed the alcohol through her skin and found herself fixated on the water's shifting colors. Within minutes, she was singing the Beauxbatons anthem in a waltz rhythm, spinning gracefully—though completely upside down.
Chaos spread like a tide of euphoria.
Kronk, panicking, decided it was best to get everyone out of there.
Just in case.
He tied a seaweed rope as thick as a ship's mooring line around all the hostages and swam upward, paddling powerfully with his duck floaties, his snorkel poking out of the water like a clumsy victory flag.
When he finally surfaced, spectators gasped as one by one the unconscious champions and hostages emerged—followed by Kronk, smiling brightly as he dragged them to shore with one hand like a fishing net.
Applause had just begun when the lake trembled.
From the depths, a massive shadow rose—the Kraken itself, staggering, its eyes glassy.
The aquatic titan let out a confused groan, extended a tentacle and—hic!—belched a bubble so massive it enveloped the entire viewing area. Then it waved its tentacles as if dancing before sinking back down, releasing a huge cloud of black ink.
The explosion of ink splattered everyone: judges, students, professors, spectators, and even the press booth.
Dumbledore, perfectly calm, lowered the umbrella that had somehow appeared in his hand and said,
"I believe we have a winner."
Karkaroff coughed, pitch-black from head to toe.
He'd had his mouth open when the ink hit him.
Meanwhile, Kronk—who had ducked behind a wooden pillar and escaped unscathed—watched the scene with a bright, satisfied grin.
"Well, looks like everything went according to plan," he whispered.
Bagman, horrified, turned toward him.
"What plan?"
Kronk blinked.
"…You misheard. I said no plan. Definitely no plan."
Before anyone could question him further, Kronk gently placed the rescued victims beside the caretakers and slipped away behind the Hogwarts tent—moving surprisingly stealthily for his size, leaving behind only wet footprints and a faint smell of rum.
He had only wanted to help and had, quite accidentally, hosted the biggest party the Black Lake had seen in centuries.
As he walked away, he could have sworn he heard Professor McGonagall yelling at the Weasley twins to stop filling buckets with the lake's new "water."
"Luckily, it'll only last a couple of hours," Kronk muttered, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. "What a fine I'd get otherwise!"
"Kronk," said the little angel appearing on his right shoulder, looking utterly unimpressed, "would you care to explain why you're holding a bottle of 'water'?"
"That's right, big guy!" the devil chimed in, holding out a glass. "Share a little!"
Kronk looked at the amber liquid in the bottle he'd managed to sneak away with.
"I just felt like making some flambéed desserts," he said, rubbing the back of his neck innocently. "You know Hogwarts doesn't allow alcohol, and after that cold dip, I could use something to warm the blood."
"Oh, well in that case, that's fine," the angel said with a satisfied nod.
"Wait—seriously? You don't mind?" the devil asked, so surprised he almost dropped his glass.
The angel shrugged. Flambé dishes burned off the alcohol and left only the flavor. What harm could it do?