The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 515, Section 524: A Brand New History 8

I can tell.

As a legendary wizard.

Ian blended in very well into the lives of ordinary people.

He casually tucked the painting between his arms, but with a subtle flick of his fingertips, a tiny shrinking and reinforcing charm was silently applied. The painting shrank to the size of a postcard, hard as a thin piece of wood, and he easily slipped it into his inner pocket. This demonstrated an effortless and precise control over magic.

It is a natural manifestation of a legendary realm.

"Mutton wine! Does anyone need mulled wine?"

Passing by a stall selling mulled wine, the sweet aroma and steam were especially enticing on the chilly evening.

Ian bought a cup, holding it in his hands, the warmth radiating from his palms. He leaned against the stone railing by the river, sipping the mulled wine, a blend of cinnamon, cloves, and orange aromas, watching the boats slowly glide by, their lights casting long, shimmering streaks on the water. A young couple passed by; the girl excitedly pointed to the lights on the opposite bank, while the boy, his arm around her shoulder, whispered something. Simple joy radiated from their faces.

"Showing off their love, how disgusting."

Ian's gaze swept gently over them, a sense of peace settling over him.

The hot drink was finished, and my body felt even warmer.

Ian then left the riverbank and turned towards a larger nearby square. The square had a fountain in the center, but it was closed for the winter, and was surrounded by benches and green spaces.

Although it was late autumn, the grass still retained some green. A number of pigeons had gathered here, their gray coats showing no fear of people as they strolled around, searching for bread crumbs thrown in by tourists.

"They're not magical creatures, but they're quite cute. They'd be delicious stewed." He was just joking. Ian bought a small bag of cheap white bread slices from a bakery by the square. He sat down on a less crowded bench and started tearing the bread into pieces, casually tossing them to the pigeons that gathered around. The pigeons immediately swarmed together, cooing and scrambling for the food, their gray wings fluttering, their little heads bobbing up and down, their movements a little clumsy yet eager. One particularly bold pigeon even hopped onto the other end of the bench, tilting its head and looking at Ian with its round, black eyes, as if urging him on. "Quite a glutton," Ian couldn't help but chuckle, placing a few larger pieces of bread in his palm and spreading them out. The pigeon hesitated for a moment, then quickly hopped closer, pecking rapidly at his palm, the sensation of its beak touching his hand slightly and pleasantly. The other pigeons cooed at his feet, but dared not approach.

"It likes you very much."

A gentle female voice sounded from the side. Ian looked up and saw an elderly woman with gray hair, dressed in a well-fitting suit, carrying shopping bags, sitting at the other end of the bench.

The man was smiling as he watched him feed the pigeons.

"They don't seem to be afraid of people much," Ian replied, scattering the breadcrumbs in his hand. The bolder pigeon flew down and joined the scramble.

The old woman was not a witch, but an ordinary person; he could sense it.

"Yes, the pigeons in London are spoiled," the old woman said with a smile, taking out a small bag from her own bag, which seemed to be specially prepared birdseed, and began feeding the pigeons on her side. "I feed them a little every day when I pass by; it's a habit. Seeing them eat makes me feel better."

"really."

Ian nodded and continued tearing at his bread. The two remained a distance apart, each feeding their pigeons, occasionally exchanging a few simple words about the weather and pigeons' habits, the atmosphere peaceful and friendly. The old woman seemed to be a talkative and kind local, and Ian was happy to interact with the world in this most ordinary way.

After the bread was fed, the pigeons gradually dispersed to find new prey. The old woman tidied up her things and nodded to Ian: "Have a pleasant evening, young man."

"You too," Ian replied politely.

After the old woman left, Ian sat on the bench for a while longer, watching the people come and go in the square. Dusk had completely fallen, and the streetlights were coming on. London's night view presented a different charm than during the day.

He felt a strange mix of alienation and belonging. As someone with immense power and a special mission, he was now like countless ordinary people, feeding pigeons, admiring the scenery, and exchanging the most mundane greetings with strangers. This ordinariness, for him, held a precious, soul-cleansing quality: "I am transforming."

The French meal in my stomach had been mostly digested, and the night air was getting cooler.

Ian stood up, deciding to find a place to stay and, incidentally, gather more specific information about this era.

He needed to know the exact year, to understand the current state of the wizarding world, especially Hogwarts, and to determine the extent to which Voldemort and his forces had become active—although the timeline revisions may have affected some details, the rise of the Dark Lord was probably still an inescapable shadow over the wizarding world of this era.

"Ugh, I need to find an alchemist, and Dumbledore, to show off my time machine." Ian left the square and rejoined the London night crowds.

This time, his steps had a clearer direction. He needed to find a place where he could settle down and still have access to the "information flow" of the magical world.

The Leaky Cauldron might be an option, but it's crowded and risky, and he could easily get caught up in the magic world's troubles. He needs a more discreet and safer entry point.

To avoid creating more butterfly effects and impacting the development of the magical world.

With this thought in mind, Ian applauded his own caution. His gaze swept over the newsstands on the street, where the headlines of the evening editions were faintly visible. He approached and bought a copy of the London Evening Standard. The front page news was about internal Labour Party debates and the economic situation, with the date clearly printed as October 31, 1979.

Halloween Eve.

Ian's gaze lingered on the date for a moment. An ordinary Muggle holiday, but in the magical world, this date always seemed associated with some unusual event. He quickly flipped through the other pages of the newspaper: international news, social news, sports… the Muggle world appeared largely calm. At least on the surface.

"What a chaotic time. I wonder where we're even going to find Dumbledore." Closing the newspaper, Ian took a deep breath of the cool, smoky London night air.

1979 years.

Voldemort's forces are likely at the peak of their rapid expansion and terror-causing activities. The Ministry of Magic is in a state of chaos, while Hogwarts is relatively safe under Dumbledore's protection.

But a tense atmosphere undoubtedly permeated the entire British magical community.

"It seems the 'peaceful' days won't last much longer," Ian muttered to himself, folding the newspaper and tossing it into a roadside trash can. He needed to find a place to settle down, and then, in a more discreet manner, delve into the magical world of this era to observe and understand. And, if necessary... to do what he had to do.

But before that, perhaps he could find some truly delicious late-night snacks? After all, he'd just expended a lot of mental energy thinking. A faint, almost ordinary smile curved Ian's lips as he cast his gaze once more into the dimly lit streets, searching for any possible culinary delights. Having fed the pigeons and soothed his stomach, it was time to confront the undercurrents of this era.

However, everything can be done gradually.

At least tonight, he can still enjoy a little leisure as an "ordinary traveler".

London at night.

It contains countless stories.

Now, it has also quietly welcomed a returning guardian.

On the eve of Halloween in 1979, the chill of the night in London deepened, but the pulse of the city did not slow down. Ian left the relatively quiet square area and followed the increasingly warm current in the air, mixed with the aroma of various foods, toward the more bustling streets.

"It's the wizarding world that's in chaos; the Muggle world isn't so chaotic yet that people are afraid to go out at night."

He didn't use any magical detection; relying solely on his sense of smell and hearing, he was as if guided by an invisible thread to a spontaneously formed night market area.

This place is not the well-planned, brightly lit food court of later generations, but rather a collection of mobile vendors and small eateries that operate in the evening, gathered in several interconnected back streets and alleys.

Gas lamps and makeshift light bulbs swayed in the cold wind, casting dappled and flickering shadows. Steam rose from the open pot, the iron plate sizzled, and the aromas of various spices, oils, baked bread, and stew mingled together, creating a warm current full of life that dispelled the chill of the autumn night.

Well, how should I put it?

It's already quite difficult to find these things in a food desert.

The crowd was shoulder to shoulder, mostly workers looking for cheap and quick dinners after get off work, young people who came in groups, and some "tourists" like Ian who seemed to have no clear purpose.

"Come and have something to eat, sir!"

"My food tastes better than his!"

"Nonsense! My food is the best!"

The noisy voices of people, the shouts of vendors, the clatter of spatulas, and the occasional bursts of laughter... all blend together into a buzzing background sound, full of the vitality of the world.

"Tsk tsk, the lively atmosphere." Ian blended into the crowd and began his exploration of the night market with great interest. He first stopped in front of a cart selling roasted chestnuts.

The stall owner, an old man wrapped in a thick scarf, was using a long-handled shovel to stir-fry cracked chestnuts on a charcoal stove, the aroma of caramel and nuts filling the air.

"One bag, thank you." Ian handed over the coins.

He held the warm, oil-paper bag in his hand; the chestnuts were still a little hot. He walked to a slightly quieter corner, peeled one open, and found the chestnut kernel golden and soft, with the unique aroma of charcoal roasting and a natural sweetness—simple yet comforting. He slowly peeled and ate it, observing the surrounding stalls. Next door was a Turkish kebab stall; a huge vertical kebab column slowly rotated, the outer layer charred and glistening with oil. The vendor skillfully used a long knife to slice thin pieces, placing them in a soft flatbread, topped with lettuce, tomatoes, and yogurt sauce. The aroma was enticing, and there was quite a queue. Ian watched for a moment, then decided to try it later.

Further on, there were Indian vendors selling steaming hot curry puffs, vendors selling golden-brown, crispy churros dipped in thick chocolate sauce, and vendors selling Mexican-style tortilla chips in paper cups, sprinkled with plenty of chili powder and shredded cheese. (While the variety wasn't as extensive as in later times, it was still dazzling enough.)

"It smells so good!"

Ian was drawn to a stall selling French crepes.

The stall owner was a skilled middle-aged French woman. She scooped a spoonful of batter onto a smooth, round griddle, quickly spread it into an extremely thin pancake with a T-shaped wooden rake, cracked in an egg, sprinkled on ham, cheese, or mushrooms, and expertly folded it into a fan shape, filling the air with a wonderful aroma. Ian ordered the most classic butter-lemon candy flavor.

The thin, chewy crust has a slightly caramelized aroma. The melted butter and sweet lemon juice powdered sugar blend together, creating a simple and refreshing flavor that perfectly quenches the slight thirst from the roasted chestnuts.

"Tsk tsk, they've really added a lot of sugar. Luckily, as a legendary wizard, I don't need to worry about diabetes." He continued browsing, cradling his crepe. At the window of a small shop selling traditional English pies, he saw beef kidney pie and chicken mushroom pie. After hesitating for a moment about his tolerance for "kidney," he chose the latter. The crust was crispy and fragrant, and the filling was chicken chunks stewed in a thick, creamy mushroom sauce. It was steaming hot, with a simple yet satisfying flavor. While not exactly amazing, it was still decent enough.

As he savored his chicken and mushroom pie, his attention was drawn to a small commotion nearby. A lightly dressed boy, who looked no more than ten years old, was trying to sneak a package of food wrapped in newspaper—clearly pre-ordered—from behind a fish and chips stall. Before his hand could even touch it, he was spotted by the sharp-eyed stall owner, a burly man wearing a greasy scarf.

"Hey! You damned little thief! Take your hand off me!" the burly man roared, reaching out to grab the boy's arm. The boy shuddered, dropping the half-eaten bread he was holding. His face turned pale, and he turned to run, but was unintentionally blocked by onlookers. Just as the burly man's thick arm was about to seize the boy's tattered collar, some gasped, some frowned, while others continued eating indifferently.

"What's going on?"

Ian's gaze swept calmly over them. The boy's eyes were filled with fear and despair, while the stall owner's face showed anger and contempt. He silently moved the fingers holding the paper bag of chicken pie.

Just as the burly man's fingers were about to touch the boy's collar, his foot somehow slipped—there was a small piece of melted ice cream that someone had dropped on the ground, or perhaps an unnoticed greasy stain; in any case, he lost his balance and staggered to the side. To regain his balance, he had to release his grip on the boy, steady his food cart, knocking several bags of fries stacked on it to the ground.

"Damn it!" the burly man cursed as he steadied himself, looking at the spilled food with a pained expression.

Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, the boy, like a startled little fish, darted through the gaps in the crowd and disappeared into the dim alleyway in the blink of an eye.

"He got away! That damned little bastard!" The burly man was furious, but it was too late to catch up. He could only curse in the direction the boy had disappeared before squatting down to clean up the mess. Seeing that there was no more excitement to watch, the surrounding crowd gradually dispersed, exchanging a few words about "kids these days" or "the stall owner is really unlucky," before going about their own business.

No one noticed that the boy who ran away had somehow acquired a heavy one-pound coin—enough to buy several servings of fish and chips—in the obviously oversized pocket of his tattered coat.

"What is this! Good heavens! How did I get money? Who gave me this money?" The boy felt something strange in his pocket as he ran. He hesitated, reached in, and then paused, glancing back at the now-vanished lights of the night market. Confusion crossed his dirty little face, and he clutched the coins tightly in his hand. He quickened his pace, his figure disappearing completely into the darkness.