The Black Lake had never looked more like a nightmare made of ink.
The once dark but mysteriously elegant waters had turned into a viscous, opaque mixture that gave off a sweet scent with hints of molasses and aged rum.
For days, every wave that broke against the shore released a drunken bubbling sound that filled the air with intoxicating vapor, and the grindylows—who used to scare students—now floated belly-up, singing out-of-tune sea shanties.
Headmaster Dumbledore had declared a day of inter-school cooperation, which in simpler terms meant: everyone grab a bucket and a brush—time to work!
The Beauxbatons students floated gracefully above the lake with cleaning spells so elegant they looked like ballerinas.
The Durmstrang students scrubbed rocks with such determination you'd think it was a strength competition.
And the Hogwarts students… well, they tried to look like they knew what they were doing.
Meanwhile, Kronk was exempt, despite being the main cause of the entire "incident."
"Champions are not to participate in manual labor," Bagman had said officiously. "Just focus on the tournament—you're doing great."
To which Kronk, of course, had replied with his usual sunny grin:
"Oh, what a shame. Guess I'll just have to supervise from afar."
In reality, "supervise" meant something very different to Kronk.
…
Beneath the shade of a nearby willow, Kronk had set up a small makeshift table.
On it, a tray of desserts gleamed with a faint blue flame: flambéed soufflés with Black Lake essence, as he called them—though that "essence" still contained more rum than water.
Each cake gave off a dangerously sweet aroma, somewhere between vanilla and the memory of a pirate tavern.
Kronk decorated them with the care of a master pâtissier, humming a tune while the fire danced atop the caramelized sugar—never burning, just perfect.
Then came the sound of footsteps on the grass.
Out of the trees emerged Dumbledore, Snape, Karkaroff, and Ludo Bagman, intending to inspect the cleanup progress. But the smell stopped them in their tracks.
"What is… that heavenly aroma?" whispered Karkaroff, narrowing his eyes.
"Definitely not part of the cleaning program," Snape grumbled, though his nostrils flared involuntarily. Discreetly. Almost imperceptibly.
Dumbledore, smiling kindly, murmured,
"It smells like something only youth could cook… without immediate consequences."
Ah, he was getting old—he could no longer eat a few hundred lemon drops a day like thirty years ago.
"Dessert?" Kronk offered cheerfully, raising the tray. "Not much alcohol, I promise. Just enough to make the fire look pretty."
Bagman was already seated before anyone could stop him.
"By Merlin, I accept!"
Dumbledore sat as well, scholarly curiosity twinkling in his eyes. Karkaroff followed, pretending indifference, and Snape… sighed in defeat before sitting down too, face stern but hand moving toward the plate faster than anyone's.
Kronk served them carefully. The desserts shimmered under the sunlight, a thin caramel shell that cracked open to release aromatic steam.
"Careful—they're still hot. And, uh… technically on fire."
One bite. Then another.
And for a few seconds, the world stopped.
Dumbledore's eyes half-closed as though he'd reached enlightenment through the ultimate lemon drop.
Bagman burst into euphoric laughter—this was incredible!
Karkaroff muttered something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer of gratitude.
As for Snape… he said nothing, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips was the emotional equivalent of a standing ovation.
No one spoke; only the sound of crackling sugar and a collective, satisfied "mmm" filled the air.
Dumbledore was the first to break the silence.
"Kronk, my boy… this is, without a doubt, a work of art."
"Premature statement," Snape coughed. "Possibly illegal."
"Illegally delicious, perhaps?" Bagman joked, laughing.
Karkaroff cleaned his mouth with a quick spell.
"I'd say this is worthy of Beauxbatons—if it weren't so… decadent."
Secretly, he was pleased that Maxime had missed out on it.
Kronk nodded proudly.
"Thank you! I always strive to keep the standard high—and tasty."
Then Snape raised an eyebrow.
"You said there was rum in this dessert, correct?"
"Well, just a pinch," Kronk replied. "It burns off with the fire, so there's no more—"
"Nevertheless… alcoholic ingredients are forbidden for students," Snape declared dramatically, collecting the plates. "Confiscated. For… disciplinary purposes."
Dumbledore hesitated.
"Perhaps a more detailed analysis would be wise, Severus."
"Yes, yes, of course—analysis," Snape replied, already tucking two more plates into his robes.
Kronk nodded in perfect understanding, suspecting nothing.
"Of course, professor." He stood and stretched his arms. "Well, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my workout."
And with his relaxed stride and familiar humming, he wandered off toward the forest.
The silence that followed lasted only a few seconds.
Bagman leaned toward the tray.
"Snape, you're not actually going to confiscate all of them, are you?"
"I'm analyzing the texture," Snape replied, fork already in hand. "A sacrifice I'm willing to make—for everyone's benefit, naturally."
"Of course you are," Karkaroff scoffed. "'Analyzing.' Hand me three!"
Dumbledore sighed.
"Gentlemen, please… let's behave. There's enough to share, surely?"
But the scent filled the air again—sweet and irresistible.
A spark here. A shove there.
And suddenly, a magical duel erupted in the clearing.
ZAP! A disarming spell sent Bagman flying.
BOOM! Karkaroff dodged one of Snape's curses with an indignant yell.
POOF! Dumbledore, trying to restore order, accidentally turned the chairs into lions that attacked everyone.
Spells flew in all directions, bouncing off trees, robes, and faces.
When the chaos finally ended, the group was left panting—covered in grass, splinters, and ash.
Snape was the first to speak.
"…Where are the desserts?"
They all looked around.
Nothing. Not a single crumb.
…
Elsewhere in the castle—specifically, in the Charms classroom—three professors were quietly savoring their hard-earned spoils.
"Oh, this is exquisite," Pomona Sprout chuckled in delight.
"I admit, Kronk has a unique gift for cooking," McGonagall nodded approvingly. "Why can't the Weasley twins create something this productive and not so…?" She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
"They mocked me years ago for it," Flitwick murmured with a mischievous smile, holding a stolen dessert, "but discretion—and small stature—do have their advantages."
Sprout raised her teacup.
"To Kronk. And to Flitwick, our nimble-handed requisitioner."
The three clinked their teacups cheerfully.
In her Beauxbatons carriage, Madame Maxime suddenly had the unsettling feeling that she had just missed something truly wonderful.