It was easy to see that Ian, despite being a legendary wizard, blended effortlessly among ordinary people. He casually tucked the painting under his arm while subtly moving his fingertips.
Without anyone noticing, he cast a minor Shrinking Charm followed by a Reinforcement Charm. The painting became as small as a postcard and as rigid as a thin wooden board, allowing him to slip it easily into his inner pocket.
Such effortless and precise control over magic came naturally to a wizard of the Legendary rank.
"Hot mulled wine! Anyone fancy some hot mulled wine?"
Ian passed a stall selling the drink. Its sweet, fragrant steam was especially tempting on the cold evening, so he bought a cup and carried it to the stone railing beside the river.
Warmth seeped into his hands as he slowly sipped the wine, tasting cinnamon, cloves, and orange. A sightseeing boat drifted along the river, its lights stretching into long, wavering streaks across the water.
A young couple walked past him. The girl excitedly pointed toward the lights on the opposite bank while the boy held her by the shoulders and whispered something in her ear. Simple happiness shone on both their faces.
"Ugh, showing off their love in public. How awful." Ian watched them pass with a gentle gaze, his heart perfectly calm. By the time he finished his drink, his entire body felt warmer.
He left the river and headed toward a large public square nearby. There was a fountain at its center, though it had been shut down for the winter, with benches and patches of grass surrounding it.
Despite the late autumn chill, some green remained on the lawns. Pigeons had gathered everywhere, their dull gray bodies utterly unafraid of people as they strutted around in search of crumbs dropped by visitors.
"They may not be magical creatures, but they're still rather cute. They'd probably taste wonderful in a stew." He was only joking.
Ian bought a small bag of cheap white bread from a bakery beside the square and sat on a relatively quiet bench. He tore the slices into pieces and casually scattered them for the gathering pigeons.
The birds immediately crowded around him, cooing and fighting over the food. Gray wings flapped as their little heads bobbed up and down, their movements both clumsy and impatient.
One particularly bold pigeon hopped onto the other end of the bench. It tilted its head and stared at Ian with round black eyes, as if urging him to hurry.
"A greedy little thing, aren't you?" Amused, Ian placed several larger crumbs on his open palm.
The pigeon hesitated before hopping closer and pecking rapidly at the food. The faint touch of its beak against his palm felt strangely interesting. The other pigeons continued cooing around his feet, but none dared follow it onto the bench.
"It likes you."
A gentle female voice came from beside him. Ian looked up and saw an elderly woman with graying hair. She wore a neat suit and carried a shopping bag as she sat at the opposite end of the bench, smiling as she watched him feed the pigeons.
"They don't seem particularly afraid of people," Ian replied. He scattered the remaining crumbs in his hand, and the bold pigeon flew down to join the scramble. Ian could tell from a single glance that the elderly woman wasn't a witch, merely an ordinary person.
"No, London's pigeons have all been thoroughly spoiled." She laughed and took a small packet from her bag, apparently filled with birdseed. "I feed them a little whenever I pass through here. It's become a habit. Watching them eat always puts me in a better mood."
"It is rather relaxing." Ian nodded and continued tearing up the bread.
They sat a short distance apart and fed the pigeons together. From time to time, they exchanged a few casual words about the weather or the birds' habits. The woman seemed like a friendly, talkative Londoner, and Ian was happy to interact with the world in such a simple, ordinary way.
Once the food was gone, the pigeons gradually wandered off in search of their next generous victim. The elderly woman packed away her things and nodded to Ian.
"Have a pleasant evening, young man."
"You too," Ian replied politely.
After she left, Ian remained on the bench for a while, watching people cross the square. Night had fully descended, and the city lights were coming on. London possessed a very different kind of charm after dark.
He felt strangely detached from the world yet part of it at the same time. He possessed immense power and carried a unique responsibility, but at this moment, he was doing exactly what countless ordinary people did, feeding pigeons, enjoying the scenery, and exchanging pleasantries with a stranger.
There was something precious and cleansing about such ordinary moments.
"I'm changing."
Most of the French meal he had eaten earlier had already been digested, and the night air was growing colder. Ian stood and decided to find somewhere to stay. At the same time, he needed to gather more concrete information about this era.
He had to confirm the exact year, learn about the current state of the wizarding world, especially Hogwarts, and determine how active Voldemort and his followers had become. Correcting the timeline might have altered certain details, but the Dark Lord's rise was probably still an unavoidable shadow hanging over this age.
"Looks like I need to find an alchemist, and Dumbledore. I'll have to get someone to examine my time machine."
Ian left the square and disappeared once more into the flow of London's evening crowds. This time, he had a clearer objective. He needed somewhere to settle down that would also give him access to the wizarding world's flow of information.
The Leaky Cauldron was one possibility, but it was crowded and watched by too many people. Going there could drag him directly into the conflicts of the wizarding world. He needed a safer and more discreet point of entry.
The fewer butterfly effects he caused, the less he would disrupt the development of wizarding history. Ian privately congratulated himself on being so cautious.
His gaze fell upon a newsstand, where the evening headlines were still visible. He approached and bought a copy of the *Evening Standard*. The front page covered internal disputes within the Labour Party and the state of the economy. More importantly, the date was printed clearly at the top: October 31, 1979. Halloween.
Ian's gaze lingered on the date. It was an ordinary Muggle holiday, but in the wizarding world, October thirty-first always seemed to be associated with unusual events. He quickly flipped through the remaining pages. International affairs, local news, sport, the Muggle world appeared largely peaceful, at least on the surface.
"What a chaotic time. And I don't even know where to find Dumbledore." Ian folded the newspaper, tossed it into a nearby bin, and drew a deep breath of London's cold, smoke-tinged night air.
It was 1979. Voldemort's power should have been expanding rapidly, with his reign of terror approaching its peak. The Ministry of Magic would be overwhelmed, while Hogwarts remained relatively safe beneath Dumbledore's protection. Even so, tension undoubtedly permeated the entire British wizarding world.
"It seems this peaceful time won't last much longer," Ian spoke quietly to himself.
First, he needed somewhere to stay. Then he would find a discreet way to enter the wizarding world of this era, to observe it and understand it. And, when necessary, to do what had to be done. But before that, perhaps he could find a truly delicious late-night snack. He had just spent a considerable amount of mental energy thinking, after all.
The faintest smile, the smile of "ordinary Ian", touched his lips as he gazed down the illuminated street, searching for signs of good food. He had fed the pigeons and settled his stomach. Soon, it would be time to face the hidden currents of this era. But there was no need to rush. For tonight, he could still enjoy being an ordinary traveler for a little longer.
London at night held countless stories. Now, it had quietly welcomed home one of its guardians.
The cold deepened on that Halloween night in 1979, but the city showed no sign of slowing down. Ian left the relatively quiet square and followed a warm current of mingled food aromas toward a livelier maze of streets.
"It's the wizarding world that's in chaos. The Muggle world hasn't become so dangerous that people are afraid to leave their homes at night." He didn't use magic to search. Relying only on his Niffler-like senses of smell and hearing, he let the scents guide him as if pulled by an invisible thread.
Soon, he arrived at an impromptu night market. It was nothing like the neatly planned, brightly illuminated food courts of later years. Instead, mobile vendors and small eateries had gathered throughout several connected backstreets and alleys.
Gas lamps and hastily strung light bulbs swayed in the cold wind, casting uneven, shifting shadows. Steam rose from open pots, while food sizzled on hot iron griddles. The aromas of spices, cooking fat, toasted bread, and simmering soup blended into a warm, vibrant current that drove away the chill of the autumn night.
Well, what could he say? Finding this much decent food in Britain's culinary wasteland was already an achievement.
The streets were crowded with workers looking for a cheap, quick dinner after their shifts, groups of young people, and a few apparent tourists like Ian who seemed to be wandering without any clear purpose.
"Come and try some, sir!"
"My food's better than his!"
"Nonsense! Mine is the best!"
Conversations, vendors' calls, clattering spatulas, and occasional bursts of laughter merged into a constant hum filled with the energy of everyday life.
"Now this is what I call atmosphere." Ian eagerly joined the crowd and began exploring the market.
His first stop was a cart selling roasted chestnuts. The elderly vendor, wrapped in a thick scarf, used a long-handled shovel to stir split chestnuts over a charcoal brazier. The scents of caramel and roasted nuts filled the air.
"One bag, please." Ian handed over a few coins and received a warm paper bag. The chestnuts were almost too hot to hold. He moved to a quieter corner and peeled one open. The flesh inside was golden, soft, and slightly sticky, with the smoky fragrance of charcoal and a natural sweetness. It was simple but deeply comforting. He ate slowly as he examined the surrounding stalls.
Beside him was a Turkish kebab stand. An enormous vertical stack of meat rotated over the heat, its outer layer browned and dripping with fat.
The vendor expertly shaved off thin slices with a long knife, stuffed them into soft flatbread, and added lettuce, tomatoes, and yogurt sauce. The smell was tempting, and quite a few people were waiting in line. Ian watched for a moment and decided to return later.
Farther ahead, an Indian vendor sold steaming samosas. Another stall offered golden, crispy Spanish churros with thick chocolate sauce. There were even Mexican-style tortilla chips served in paper cups and covered with generous amounts of chili powder and grated cheese.
The selection couldn't compare to what later generations would enjoy, but it was still enough to leave him spoiled for choice.
"That smells wonderful." A French crêpe stand caught Ian's attention.
The vendor was a skilled middle-aged Frenchwoman. She poured a ladleful of batter onto a smooth circular griddle, spread it into a paper-thin circle with a T-shaped wooden tool, then added eggs, ham, cheese, or mushrooms before folding each crêpe into a neat fan.
Ian ordered the classic version with butter, lemon, and sugar. The thin, flexible crêpe carried a faint toasted fragrance. Melted butter blended with sweetened lemon juice and powdered sugar, creating a simple, refreshing flavor that relieved the slight dryness left by the roasted chestnuts.
"They certainly didn't hold back on the sugar. Fortunately, a legendary wizard doesn't need to worry about diabetes."
Crêpe in hand, Ian continued exploring. At the window of a shop selling traditional British pies, he found steak and kidney pie alongside chicken and mushroom pie. After briefly considering how willing he was to eat kidneys, he chose the latter.
The pastry was crisp and fragrant, while the filling consisted of chicken simmered in a thick, creamy mushroom sauce. It was hot, filling, and pleasantly straightforward. Nothing extraordinary, but perfectly respectable food.
While Ian ate his chicken and mushroom pie, a small disturbance nearby caught his attention. A thinly dressed boy, no more than ten or eleven, was trying to steal a newspaper-wrapped parcel of food from behind a fish-and-chips cart. Judging by where it had been placed, someone had already ordered it.
Before the boy could touch it, the sharp-eyed vendor spotted him. He was a large, muscular man wearing a greasy apron.
"Hey, you thieving little bastard! Get your hands away from that!" The man roared and reached for the boy's arm.
The child flinched so violently that the half piece of stale bread in his hand fell to the ground. His face went white as he turned to flee, only to find his path accidentally blocked by the gathering onlookers.
The vendor's thick fingers were about to close around the boy's worn collar. Some people gasped, others frowned, while a few continued eating as though none of it concerned them.
"What's going on here?" Ian calmly studied the scene.
The boy's eyes were filled with fear and desperation. The vendor's face showed only anger and contempt.
Without a word, Ian subtly moved the fingers holding the paper bag around his pie. Just as the man's hand was about to seize the boy, his foot suddenly slipped. Perhaps someone had dropped a small patch of melting ice cream, or maybe there was an unnoticed puddle of greasy water on the ground.
Whatever the cause, he lost his balance and stumbled sideways. To keep himself from falling, he had to abandon his attempt to grab the boy and catch hold of his cart instead, knocking several packets of chips onto the ground in the process.
"Damn it!" The vendor steadied himself and looked miserably at the fallen food.
The boy seized the sudden opportunity. Like a startled fish, he darted through a gap in the crowd and vanished into a dark alley.
"He got away! You filthy little mongrel!" The furious vendor cursed after him, but it was already too late to give chase. He could only squat down and begin cleaning up the mess.
With the spectacle over, the crowd gradually dispersed. After making a few comments about "children these days" or the vendor's rotten luck, everyone returned to their own business.
No one noticed that a heavy one-pound coin had somehow appeared inside one of the oversized pockets of the fleeing boy's worn coat, more than enough to buy several portions of fish and chips.
"What's this? Money? How did this get here? Who gave it to me?" The boy noticed the unexpected weight as he ran. He hesitantly reached into his pocket and froze when he found the coin.
Looking back toward the night market lights, now hidden from view, he wore an expression of confusion on his dirty face. Then he clutched the coin tightly in his palm, quickened his pace, and disappeared completely into the darkness.
(End Of This Chapter)
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