The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 525, Section 534: The Eternal Gamble

The sunlight in the alley was quite warm.

In this place.

Ian stood there for a long time, and thought a lot.

"Who is the one?"

Who are some of the more active and well-known prophets of this era? Like Professor Trelawney? No, her prophecies are often vague and uncontrollable, and her style is not like that.

It's more likely that he'd be Grindelwald.

But if it were Grindelwald...

That professor wouldn't act so furtively, given his usual style.

"Also ruled out!"

Some reclusive inheritors of ancient magical families? Or... non-human intelligent beings? Like centaurs? Ian does have some grudges against this race.

But they are more concerned with celestial phenomena and natural destiny, and rarely interfere so specifically with individuals. Moreover, centaurs don't go to Diagon Alley; their way of life is much more primitive.

Or... other, more secretive forces, existing outside the known magical systems?

"It seems I need to speed up my efforts to engage with the magical world of this era," Ian thought to himself. Instead of passively waiting for clues to come to him, he should take the initiative and gather intelligence in places where information converges. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, even the area surrounding the Ministry of Magic… there should be some clues. Because someone's scheme involves him.

Ian's previous idea of ​​not getting too involved in history has changed somewhat. After all, now that he's involved, he has become a part of history.

There is no escape.

Then there's no need to run away anymore.

"Face the problem, solve the problem."

Ian made up his mind.

I know what I need to do.

However, before that...

Ian touched his stomach. The lunch he had just eaten was quite a large portion, but it was digested quickly for his body, which had undergone an energy transformation and had a metabolism far exceeding that of ordinary people.

The brief but intense use of magic—altering memories, imprisoning Death Eaters, and legatomic manipulation—had consumed a considerable amount of energy. He was ninety percent certain that this wasn't an excuse.

Anyway.

At this moment, a familiar craving for high-quality food and energy resurfaces.

It might be colloquially known as being greedy.

But Ian wouldn't call it that.

Instead, it's called the nutritional needs for a little wizard's growth.

"I'm still growing," he said with a slightly helpless pursed lips, his eyes deep and melancholic. Even a legendary wizard's stomach is a bottomless pit. Oh well, there's no rush to gather information. Let's fill our stomachs first, and then take a closer look at this 1979 London street scene; perhaps we'll discover something else.

"Let's eat!"

He turned and walked out of the quiet alley, rejoining the somewhat languid yet still bustling crowds of London in the afternoon. The sunlight was just right, dispelling some of the chill of late autumn.

Ian has resumed his "foraging" journey.

This time, he wandered more casually, his gaze lingering more on places that seemed more lived-in, with richer aromas of food. To be fair...

Good weather is a rare sight in Great Britain.

The weather is quite nice today.

The afternoon sun shone through the thin clouds, casting a pale gold hue over London's gray brick buildings and bringing a false warmth to the slightly chilly air.

"I come, I see, I experience."

Ian blends silently into the crisscrossing streets near Charing Cross, a place less bustling than the main thoroughfares but with a more authentic old London charm.

He first stopped in front of a small cart selling roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes, which was parked on a street corner and was emitting wisps of white smoke.

The owner of the cart was an elderly Irish man with a thick headscarf and a face blackened by the charcoal fire. He was using a long-handled iron shovel to stir-fry chestnuts in a round iron stove.

"Crackling sound~ Delicious chestnuts."

The rustling sound was accompanied by a sweet fragrance.

Many people may not know this.

This snack isn't just found in China; roasted chestnuts are a common food all over the world, as they are a high-energy food enjoyed by many ethnic groups.

America is truly a land of plenty, which has fostered a habit of only eating the best ingredients.

They also wasted a lot of food.

"One of each, please, thank you." Ian handed over a few coins.

"Alright, young man, fresh out of the oven, the best smells!" The old man's voice was loud and clear as he skillfully wrapped a piping hot roasted sweet potato and a small bag of cracked chestnuts in old newspaper and handed them to the boy.

"Looks good."

Ian gave a compliment.

The sweet potatoes were heavy, with a hard, charred skin. The moment you broke them open, the golden, glistening flesh steamed with heat, and the pure, natural sweetness mixed with the aroma of charcoal filled your nostrils.

The chestnuts have a crispy outer shell and a sweet, powdery kernel.

"Smack, smack, smack~"

Ian carefully peeled chestnuts as he strolled along, like a truly carefree tourist, enjoying the warm and satisfying feeling that this simple food brought him.

We walked for a while.

He leaned against a rusty cast-iron lamppost by the roadside and slowly finished his meal.

He then threw the newspaper and chestnut shells into the nearby trash can.

Just then, an elderly woman walking by with her old dog nodded and smiled at him, and he politely returned the smile. Everything seemed exceptionally peaceful and serene. Under the lingering shadow of Great Britain's last imperial glory, despite the current economic downturn, many people were still doing alright. "The foraging begins again!"

move on.

An enticing aroma wafted through the air.

It was a sweet aroma that blended oils and sugar.

Ian's nose looked like a cat's at that moment.

Following the aroma, he spotted a small bakery with a gleaming window. Behind the glass displayed golden, glistening donuts, fresh from the fryer and still trembling slightly on the draining rack, coated in glistening icing, some drizzled with chocolate sauce and sprinkled with colorful sprinkles. At three in the London afternoon, the sunlight slanted through the glass window of the "Icing Clouds" bakery, making the golden donuts inside appear as if they were coated in liquid gold.

Ok.

Bread is essentially liquid gold.

The food looks really appealing.

Freshly baked desserts piled on the oil strainer, trembling slightly, with frosting as glistening as the first snowflakes, chocolate sauce drizzled like artistic splashes of ink, and colorful sugar sprinkles like scattered miniature rainbows.

"This is so beautiful!"

"really!"

"How about this?"

During the afternoon snack time, several housewives were selecting snacks in the shop.

Common name.

Having a nice meal with my girlfriends.

"My God! This cherry blossom pink matcha mille-feuille is absolutely amazing!" A girl held up her camera almost to the glass, the lens precisely framing that gentle pink and green hue.

"Take a picture of me! This pose is called 'The Dessert Runaway Princess,' you know?"

The girl's sisters reminded her, and she quickly switched to the front-facing camera, pouting and blinking in one go, as if performing some kind of social ritual. The three of them squeezed around a small round table by the window, on which were a dazzling array of desserts: caramel sea salt tarts, Earl Grey macarons, and a plate of mini scones sprinkled with gold leaf—this afternoon tea, they called it, a luxury for ladies.

Well, how should I put it?

It's really just wishful thinking from middle-class families.

"Early socialites".

Ian made a sharp commentary from outside.

He saw several housewives inside slowly stirring their black tea.

One of the openings.

"Sisters, after we finish eating, let's go to Hyde Park to see the flowers and plants."

These words were spoken.

Someone came to gossip.

"Speaking of the park, I heard Mark from the next street, the handsome guy who always wears those tight cycling shorts, was photographed last week with the new yoga instructor...tsk tsk." She made a knowing look, tapping her finger on the table as if sending a encrypted message visible only to her best friend. "Really? No way!" Claire nearly spilled her raspberry jam in shock. "Didn't his wife just post photos of their tenth anniversary candlelight dinner to our circle?"

"Haha, who knows?"

Women love to talk about these things when they get together.

The three of them immediately understood each other, exchanging subtle glances that only they could comprehend, as if sharing a dark humor about the bubble of a "perfect life".

Outside the window, pedestrians hurried by, but inside the shop window, a sweet haven existed. The icing glistened in the sunlight, like the genuine, slightly mischievous, and weary smiles of the women after they had removed their social masks.

Ian was not surprised by this.

Being a "socialite" doesn't affect his pursuit of gourmet food.

"Please give me two donuts, one plain with frosting and one with chocolate sauce." Ian pushed open the door, and the soft ringing of the copper bell on the door created a wonderful atmosphere.

The plump proprietress, wearing a white apron and with flour stuck to the tip of her nose, deftly picked up a donut and wrapped it in parchment paper. "Young man, a cup of hot tea would be best with this; it's freshly brewed."

She enthusiastically recommended it.

"I'll definitely try it next time, definitely next time." Ian smiled, took the money, and paid. After leaving the store, he found a relatively quiet bench on the street to sit down.

The sunlight slanted down on me, feeling warm and cozy.

"Smack~ Smack~"

Ian took a bite of the plain donut; the soft dough melted in his mouth, the granular sugar and sweetness just right. The chocolate one, on the other hand, was much richer.

The slightly bitter chocolate balances the sweetness.

"Sweets can indeed bring the most direct pleasure."

Ian once again delivered a scathing critique as a food critic. He watched as a group of workers in overalls and baseball caps chatted and laughed as they walked into an old-fashioned bar called "Red Lion" across the street.

A faint murmur and the smell of beer wafted out as the door opened and closed.

This thing.

Ian wasn't particularly interested.

"The donuts are so delicious, hehehehe, Wang Weiheng's famous saying is spot on." After finishing the donuts, he was not in a hurry to leave, but continued to sit and observe the street scene.

A newsboy ran by, waving an evening paper and shouting out the unclear headline.

A bright red double-decker bus slowly drove by, puffing out exhaust fumes. Posters from the movie *Alien* were plastered on its side, making it look somewhat eerie. Yes.

This movie really is one of the earliest works.

The rise of fashion came sooner than most people thought.

For example, a group of young people wearing bell-bottoms and with long hair walked by carrying a huge tape recorder, which played loud disco music, attracting the attention of some conservative passersby.

"Yeah, it'll still be the same group of people doing square dancing in the future," Ian commented sharply, using a Chinese perspective. This was London in 1979. Conservatism and change were intertwined, and the shadow of economic downturn coexisted with the budding of street culture. Ian brushed the sugar crumbs off his hands and got up to continue his aimless wandering.

As he walked through a narrow street, a rich and complex aroma of spices piqued his interest. It was an Indian food stall set up on the side of the street, with a simple sunshade. The stall owner was a dark-skinned, smiling Sikh man, wrapped in a brightly colored turban, skillfully flipping the golden-brown triangular food in the oil.

"Samosas and Pakora, freshly fried, sir!"

Seeing Ian stop, the uncle greeted him warmly in heavily accented English, pointing to several sauces on the small table next to him, "Mint chutney, tamarind sauce, help yourself!"

"A little of everything, just to try," Ian said. He was intrigued by the exotic street food, so he checked and found out the man was mixed race.

I've never been to India.

This constitutes fraudulent sales.

However, it can be considered a plus.

At least it was much cleaner and more hygienic. The uncle deftly picked up a few curry puffs and vegetable pies, placed them on a cardboard plate, and handed them to him. "Careful, it's hot!"

The older man also offered a reminder.

"Thank you." Ian took it and walked to an empty space. The curry puff was so crispy that it crumbled, and inside was a hot, flavorful potato and pea filling.

Mixed with spices such as fennel and chili powder, it has a firm texture and a slightly spicy, appetizing flavor.

The vegetable pie was made by coating cauliflower, spinach, onions, and other vegetables in a batter made from chickpea flour and deep-frying them. It was crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, and served with a green mint chutney. The cool, spicy and sour flavors created a wonderful contrast with the crispy fried texture. He ate it with great relish; this vibrant taste was completely different from the simple style of the English food he had been used to.

"It tastes authentic, doesn't it? It's my mom's recipe!" the uncle said proudly, seeing that he liked it.

"Fantastic!" Ian genuinely praised, buying another serving to take away. While paying, he noticed a handwritten note next to the vendor's stall, seemingly a fundraising appeal for a community event. He added a few extra coins to the money box; the vendor paused for a moment, then broke into an even brighter smile. He clasped his hands together and said something, probably a blessing. Saying goodbye to the food stall, Ian felt his stomach was empty, but his curiosity only grew stronger. He turned into a relatively narrow but unusually bustling street.

This place seems to be a spontaneous flea market, with stalls densely packed on both sides of the street, some even just laid out on a cloth on the ground to set up shop. The goods on the stalls are incredibly diverse.

Piles of old clothes and shoes; chipped ceramic tableware; rusty tools and hardware; yellowed books and magazines; faded postcards and old photographs.

There are also some trinkets of dubious authenticity. Most of the bargain hunters here are residents from the nearby community, dressed simply and shrewdly. The air is thick with the complex odors of dust, old wood, cheap cologne, fried food, and the sweat of the crowd, along with the cacophony of voices, haggling, and the muffled music from an old radio, all blending together into a buzzing background sound.

"When the economy is in a slump, there's a street vendor culture, like the street vendor skewers and hot pot stalls before I time-traveled," Ian said, browsing with great interest. He stopped at a used bookstore to look through the pages.

Most of them are outdated fashion magazines, travel guides, home repair manuals, and even a few Playboy magazine covers from the 1960s and 70s with cover girls whose looks have a distinct era.

"Want to buy some?" The stall owner, an old man with thick glasses and a pipe, mumbled as he looked through the books, "Just browse, three books for one shilling."

"Then let's buy some." Ian picked out a London travel guide from the 1960s and a detective novel by Agatha Christie with a tattered cover.

He paid.

The old man glanced at him and muttered, "Young people still look at these old relics."

History is always interesting.

Ian smiled and put the book away.

now.

He seemed to have truly integrated into the lives of the Muggles.