The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 514, Section 523: A Brand New History 7

After temporarily and deliberately setting aside the scorching African sun, the dim light of the bronze gate, the echoes of the Great Old Ones, and the heavy responsibility of being a guardian in a sealed corner of his heart, Ian Prince only wanted to do one thing at this moment—to satisfy the most basic needs of a body that had just experienced time travel and had its energy severely depleted.

hunger.

The rain had stopped sometime earlier, leaving a weary gray-white sky over London, with a few stingy rays of light, hardly warm, filtering through the gaps in the clouds. The wet streets reflected the sunlight, the air crisp and clean after the rain. Ian dispelled the small spells he used to reduce his presence and cognitive interference.

Since the decision has been made to travel briefly as an "ordinary person," excessive concealment would only arouse suspicion.

He simply dressed in a way that was somewhat respectable but not flashy, which suited the street style of the time. The dark robe looked more like a retro trench coat to Muggles.

"Wow! I could probably eat three cows!"

A wave of hunger washed over him, reminding him of the strain his body had endured during the battle of R'lyeh, the devouring of authority, and the interdimensional return. It wasn't the kind of hunger that comes from weakness or exhaustion, but rather a powerful craving for high-quality energy and "real" food.

Wizards are human too.

Even legendary wizards need to eat.

Or.

Ian chose to be human.

He strolled along the gradually bustling streets, his gaze sweeping over the shops lining the way. The dining options in London at that time were far less diverse than in later generations.

Everywhere you look, there are small shops selling fish and chips, their greasy aroma mingling with the smell of vinegar; steaming pie shops on street corners, their windows displaying suspiciously colored meat pies and mashed potatoes; and those bars that look quite old, with brass plaques hanging at the entrance, from which you can vaguely hear noise and smell the malt of beer.

"The last glory of the British Empire." Ian paused for a moment in front of a fish and chips shop that looked quite popular and had a local flair.

Golden, crispy fish and chips lay temptingly on glistening paper. He went inside; the shop was cramped, filled with an even stronger aroma of fried food and old wood. The apron-wearing, ruddy-faced proprietress greeted him in heavily accented English. "One fish and chips, please. Eat here," Ian said in perfect British accent, handing over a few pounds sterlings—thanks to the "tricks" he'd accumulated traveling through different times during his "Raven" career, he always had some currency that fit the local era.

"Alright! Do you want sauce? Salt and vinegar?" The proprietress worked quickly.

"A little of everything."

Ian nodded, found an empty seat by the window, and watched the increasing flow of people on the street outside.

The wait wasn't long.

The food was served quickly, piping hot and plentiful, in a cardboard box printed with newspaper images.

"It looks pretty good."

Ian took a bite of the fried fish with some anticipation—the outer skin was indeed crispy, but the fish inside was a bit loose and had a faint, not completely masked, fishy smell.

The seasoning mainly relies on the outer layer of salt and side dishes, such as strong-flavored malt vinegar. The fries are thick and crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, but like the others, they lack more complex flavors beyond the potato itself and the salt and vinegar.

It's not that it's bad; it's a simple, straightforward, high-calorie, and down-to-earth dish, full of local flavor. But for a legendary wizard who has just returned from a fierce battle across dimensions, whose taste buds and soul crave a bit of "comfort" and "refinement," it seems a little too rough and monotonous.

"We can't have high expectations; the whole world knows this is a food wasteland."

Ian calmly finished his meal, feeling the food transform into energy to replenish his body's energy expenditure, but in his mind, he had already crossed "typical British fast food" off his list of "enjoying delicious food".

As Ian paid and left, the proprietress warmly said, "Have a nice day," to which he politely replied. Stepping outside, the crisp, cool air washed away the greasy feeling in his nose.

He needs something different.

"Chinese food is always a safe bet."

Continuing his stroll along the street, Ian noticed some restaurants with signs that read "Chinese Food" or decorated with pagodas and dragons. At that time, Chinese food in Britain was far from being as widespread and diverse as it would become later. Instead, it was more of a "Westernized Chinese food" adapted to local tastes, mainly consisting of a few dishes such as fried noodles, fried rice, and sweet and sour sauces.

"Actually, it's pretty good, at least much better than local food." Ian pushed open the glass door of a small Chinese restaurant with predominantly red decorations.

"Ding ding ding~"

The bell hanging on the door rang crisply.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with several square tables covered with red tablecloths, and Chinese landscape paintings and the character "福" (fortune) pasted on the walls. It wasn't peak dining time yet.

There were only a few tables of guests.

A Chinese waitress in a cheongsam, with a somewhat formulaic smile, approached. "Sir, how many are in your party? Would you like to dine?"

"One person. Please give me the menu," Ian said with a smile.

The menu selection was indeed limited, mostly consisting of sweet and sour pork, lemon chicken, fried spring rolls, fried noodles, and fried rice. Ian ordered Kung Pao chicken and a bowl of rice. While waiting, he observed the restaurant's decor, sensing the attempt to create an exotic atmosphere that inevitably felt somewhat alienating. The food arrived quickly. The Kung Pao chicken had a bright red sauce, with diced chicken and peanuts mixed in. Ian took a bite—the chicken was fairly tender, but the sauce was overly sweet, the spiciness and numbing sensation were almost negligible, and the peanuts weren't crunchy enough; the overall texture was rather soft.

It was far removed from the Kung Pao Chicken he remembered, whether in his previous life or after time travel, that he had tasted in some ancient Eastern magical markets, with its balanced sweet, sour, salty, spicy, and savory flavors and the "wok hei" (wok aroma).

The rice was also a bit too soft and mushy.

"At least it's much better than the pre-made takeout meals of later generations, isn't it?" Ian comforted himself. This was clearly an improvement made to cater to the sweet and sour taste of "Chinese food" that most British people at the time had in mind.

Again.

Ian continued eating calmly.

His energy was replenished, but his culinary expectations were dashed once again. As he paid the bill, the waiter said in slightly accented English, "Thank you, and welcome back next time."

We left the Chinese restaurant.

The afternoon sun was a little brighter, but Ian's enthusiasm for exploring London's street food had cooled. He began to realize that in this day and age, finding food that could truly soothe his taste buds and soul might require a change of heart, seeking out cuisines more renowned for their "food" itself and with longer culinary traditions.

therefore.

He was reminded of French cuisine.

French cuisine has always been renowned for its refinement and deliciousness, regardless of the era. While London's French restaurants may not be able to rival those in Paris, they should certainly be closer to his standards than fish and chips or modified Chinese dishes.

"Hmm, let's have some more French food."

With this in mind, Ian no longer needed to worry about gaining weight.

He is still very hungry.

He began to search purposefully.

After walking through several streets, in a relatively more bustling area with more refined shops, he indeed found a French restaurant with an understated yet elegant facade. The dark wooden signboard bore the name "Le Petit Bistro" in elegant cursive script, and the window displayed tempting dessert models and a bottle of red wine.

As I pushed open the door, the brass bell on it rang even deeper.

"Ding ding ding~"

The interior was decorated in a typical French bistro style, with dark wood furniture, warm lighting, and oil paintings depicting Parisian street scenes hanging on the walls. The air was filled with the aroma of butter, toast, and stew. A waiter in a black vest and bow tie politely approached. "Good afternoon, sir. Just one?" the waiter asked in clear but not overly French English.

"Yes, one. Could you please give me a quiet spot?" Ian said.

"Of course, please come this way." The waiter led him to a small round table covered with a clean white tablecloth on the inside. On the table were simple silver cutlery and a glass of water.

Ian sat down and took the heavy leather menu.

The menu was bilingual in French and English, and the dishes were much more abundant and refined than the previous two restaurants, including appetizers, soups, main courses, desserts, and a wine list. The prices were naturally much higher, but for Ian, the prices of this era, especially the currency obtained "reasonably" through magical means, were not a problem at all.

He browsed the menu carefully and finally ordered French onion soup as an appetizer, beef stew with mashed potatoes as the main course, crème brûlée for dessert, and a glass of house red wine to accompany the meal.

The little wizard in this era.

There is no such thing as prohibiting alcohol.

While waiting for the food to be served, Ian relaxed and began to truly observe the restaurant and the street view outside the window.

"This era certainly has its own unique charm."

The restaurant wasn't crowded; a few couples or friends were talking quietly, their cutlery clinking softly against the plates. Waiters moved about briskly.

Outside the window, pedestrians and vehicles on the streets of London formed a flowing backdrop. This tranquil, orderly atmosphere, focused on the food itself, further eased his tense nerves.

"Sir, your order is ready."

The French onion soup is served first in a special earthenware bowl with a handle, topped with a layer of golden-brown, crispy cheese that stretches into long strands.

Ian gently broke it open with a spoon, and the rich, sweet aroma of onions mixed with the mellow scent of beef broth wafted out.

The broth was clear yet flavorful, with tender, translucent onions adding a rich texture, while the baked cheese added a savory and crispy layer. "This tastes alright." A sip of hot soup instantly warmed me from my stomach to my limbs, as if dispelling the last trace of chill that lingered after traveling through time.

Ian squinted his eyes slightly in satisfaction.

Next up was the main course, beef stew in red wine.

The deep brown sauce is thick and glossy, and the large chunks of beef are stewed until tender and flavorful. They can be easily separated with a fork and melt in your mouth. The fruity aroma of red wine and the rich fragrance of spices are perfectly infused into every fiber of the meat.

The accompanying mashed potatoes are smooth and creamy, perfectly balancing the richness of the stewed meat. Every bite is a delight for the taste buds, and the satisfying and delicious flavor greatly satisfies the body's need for high-quality protein and energy.

The final crème brûlée had a crisp, amber-colored caramel crust on top, beneath which lay a cool, silky smooth pudding with a rich, creamy flavor. The contrast of hot and cold, crisp and smooth, created a sweet and perfect ending to this belated lunch.

"As expected, French cuisine is always a safe bet; it doesn't demand as much from the chef as Chinese cuisine." The red wine served with the meal wasn't top-tier, but it was fruity and had soft tannins, which complemented the flavors of the food perfectly.

As Ian put down the last dessert spoon and took a sip of water, he felt a long-lost sense of satisfaction and peace from within. He was a gourmet.

We know that the power of food lies not only in satisfying hunger, but also in comforting the soul.

This French meal, while perhaps not up to the standards of top Parisian restaurants, was a rare comfort on the streets of London in this day and age. "I'm done eating."

Ian waved to the waiter to settle the bill.

The figures on the bill seemed perfectly reasonable to him.

He paid the bill and left a generous tip. The waiter's smile became even more genuine: "Thank you for your patronage, sir. We hope you enjoyed your meal."

"Very pleasant, thank you." Ian stood up, straightened his clothes (which were actually not messy), and calmly walked out of the restaurant. Outside, the London evening sky was beginning to turn blue, and the streetlights lit up one by one, spreading out warm yellow halos. After his meal, Ian felt much more relaxed. He put his hands in his pockets, his robe cleverly transforming into pockets, and decided to engage in his next activity of returning to the ordinary world—a walk to enjoy the scenery.

Well, how should I put it?

Repairing the time machine is certainly important.

However, there's no rush.

Having just gone through a major battle, Ian really needed a good rest. The feeling of fullness brought a lazy satisfaction, and the cool evening breeze on his face was refreshing.

Ian walked slowly along the pedestrian walkway by the Thames.

The river was wide and the current was gentle, reflecting the lights that were gradually lighting up on both banks and the blurred outlines of buildings on the opposite bank. In the distance, Tower Bridge appeared as a silhouette in the twilight.

It adds a sense of historical weight.

There were many pedestrians: office workers rushing home after get off work, couples strolling arm in arm, and tourists or locals like him wandering alone, enjoying the scenery. Ian suppressed all magical fluctuations, making himself completely like an ordinary, perhaps overly quiet and observant, walker.

"It really was Voldemort's time." He walked across the south bank and saw that the famous London Eye was still under construction, which further confirmed the era. However, some street performers were already playing along the riverbank—accordion players, portrait painters—attracting a few scattered spectators and coin-operated tickets. "La la la la~"

An elderly man with a beret and a wrinkled face sat on a small stool, several boldly colored oil paintings of river scenes laid out before him. Ian paused for a moment, his gaze falling on a painting depicting Tower Bridge on a rainy night; the dim lighting and wet reflections truly created a beautiful atmosphere. "Do you like it, young man?" the old man asked, looking up, his eyes shining in the twilight. "Thirty pounds, and it can go home with you and light up your walls."

Ian did think the painting was good; it captured a certain moist, hazy, and slightly melancholic beauty of London.

"A wonderful painting," he said sincerely, then took thirty pounds in cash from his pocket. "I'll take it."

The old man was somewhat surprised, clearly not expecting this young guest, who didn't look like an art collector, to be so agreeable. He carefully wrapped the painting in old newspapers, handed it to Ian, and grinned, revealing a gap in his missing tooth: "Good luck, sir. It will bring the soul of the Thames to your room."

"Thanks."

Ian took the painting and continued on his way.

All that was left for the old man was a mysterious and lavish silhouette.

No one could have predicted it.

He is a wizard.