Hogwarts Raven (Harry Potter)

The sunlight in the alley was pleasantly warm. Ian stood there for a long time, turning the possibilities over in his mind.

“Who could it be?”

A well-known Seer active in this era? Professor Trelawney, perhaps? No. Her prophecies were usually vague and beyond her control. This didn’t feel like her work.

Grindelwald was a more plausible candidate. But knowing that professor’s way of doing things, he wouldn’t be sneaking around like this.

“Rule him out too.”

Could it be a reclusive heir to some ancient wizarding family? Or perhaps an intelligent nonhuman being, like a centaur? Ian did have some history with them.

But centaurs cared more about the stars and the course of nature. They rarely interfered so directly in an individual’s affairs. Besides, they wouldn’t visit Diagon Alley. Their way of life was far more primitive.

Or was it some even more secretive group, operating outside the magical systems he knew?

‘Looks like I’ll have to get involved with this era’s wizarding world sooner than I planned.’

Rather than wait for clues to come to him, he could go looking in places where information gathered. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, even the area around the Ministry of Magic… There had to be traces somewhere.

Someone’s plans already involved him, which made him reconsider his earlier decision to keep his interference in history to a minimum. He was part of it now, whether he liked it or not.

There was no avoiding it, so he might as well stop trying.

“Face the problem. Solve the problem.”

With that, Ian made up his mind. He knew what he needed to do.

But first…

He rubbed his stomach. Lunch had been substantial, but his body had undergone a fundamental change in its energy and now burned through food far faster than an ordinary person’s. The meal had already been digested.

His brief but intensive use of magic, altering memories, restraining a Death Eater, and unleashing a Psychic Blast, had also consumed plenty of energy. He was ninety percent sure he wasn’t just making excuses.

Either way, that familiar craving for good food and more energy was back.

Most people would probably call it wanting a snack.

Ian preferred “the nutritional requirements of a growing young wizard.”

“I’m still growing, you know.”

He pursed his lips helplessly, his eyes deep and melancholy. Even a legendary wizard’s stomach was a bottomless pit.

Well, gathering information could wait a little. He would fill his stomach first and take another look around the streets of London in 1979. Perhaps he would stumble across something else.

“Time to eat!”

He left the quiet alley and rejoined the afternoon crowds. London had grown a little languid at this hour, but its streets were still busy. The sunshine took some of the chill out of the late-autumn air.

Ian’s search for food began again.

This time, he wandered with no particular route in mind, drawn to places that felt lived-in and smelled strongly of food. To be fair, good weather wasn’t exactly common in Britain, but today was rather nice.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through thin clouds, casting a pale golden sheen over London’s dull brick and stone buildings. It lent the cool air a hint of warmth that was more appearance than substance.

“I came, I saw, I experienced.”

Ian slipped quietly into the maze of streets and alleys near Charing Cross. They weren’t as busy as the main roads, but they had more of old London’s charm.

His first stop was a cart on a street corner, where wisps of white smoke rose from roasting chestnuts and sweet potatoes. The elderly Irish vendor wore a thick scarf wrapped around his head. His face was flushed and darkened by the charcoal fire, and he was turning the chestnuts in a round iron stove with a long-handled shovel.

“Crackle, crackle… Lovely chestnuts.”

The rustling shells released a sweet aroma.

Many people probably didn’t realize that roasted chestnuts weren’t unique to China. Different versions could be found all over the world. They were rich in energy, after all, and popular with plenty of different peoples.

America, with its vast land and abundant resources, had developed more of a habit of eating only the choicest foods, and wasting plenty of them along the way.

“One of each, please.”

Ian handed over a few coins.

“Here you are, lad! Fresh out of the stove. Can’t beat them!”

The old man’s voice was loud and cheerful. With practiced hands, he wrapped a piping-hot sweet potato and a small bag of split chestnuts in old newspaper and handed them over.

“Those look good,” Ian said.

The sweet potato was heavy, its skin roasted hard and dark. When he broke it open, steam poured from the glossy golden flesh. Its natural sweetness mingled with the scent of charcoal.

The chestnut shells were crisp, the kernels soft, floury, and sweet.

Munch, munch, munch.

Ian carefully peeled the chestnuts as he wandered along, looking like a tourist with nothing to do but enjoy himself. The simple food left him warm and content.

After a while, he leaned against a rusty cast-iron lamppost to finish eating, then dropped the newspaper and shells into a nearby bin.

An elderly woman walking an old dog passed him and smiled with a nod. He smiled politely back. Everything felt peaceful. Britain still sheltered in the fading glow of its empire, and despite the poor economy, plenty of people were getting by comfortably enough.

“The hunt for food resumes!”

He carried on until an inviting smell drifted through the air: the rich sweetness of fat and sugar.

At that moment, Ian’s nose could have rivaled a cat’s.

Following the scent, he found a narrow-fronted bakery with a gleaming shop window. Behind the glass sat golden fried doughnuts. The freshly cooked ones were still quivering on a draining rack, coated in sparkling icing. Some were drizzled with chocolate and scattered with colorful sprinkles.

It was three in the afternoon. Sunlight slanted across the window of Sugar Cloud Bakery, making the doughnuts look as though they had been dipped in liquid gold.

Well, baked goods practically were liquid gold.

The shop certainly knew how to make its food look appealing. Fresh pastries trembled on the rack, their icing sparkling like new snow. Chocolate had been drizzled over them in artful splashes, and the sprinkles looked like tiny scattered rainbows.

“This one’s so pretty!”

“It really is!”

“Shall we get some?”

A few housewives were choosing treats for their afternoon snack.

In other words, enjoying pretty food with their girlfriends.

“Oh my God! This cherry-blossom-pink matcha mille crêpe is amazing!”

A girl held her camera almost against the glass, carefully framing the soft pink and green dessert.

“Quick, take my picture! This pose is called ‘Runaway Dessert Princess,’ got it?”

At her friend’s prompting, she switched to the front-facing camera, puckered her lips, and winked in one smooth motion, as though performing some social ritual.

Three girls crowded around a small table by the window. Desserts covered the tabletop: salted caramel tarts, Earl Grey macarons, and a plate of miniature scones sprinkled with gold leaf.

They called this afternoon tea “living like a lady of leisure.”

Well, what could he say?

Really, it was just middle-class families playing at being rich.

“Early socialite wannabes,” Ian remarked from outside.

Through the window, he watched the women leisurely stirring their tea.

“Ladies, shall we go to Hyde Park after this and look at the flowers?”

That brought out the gossip.

“Speaking of parks, have you heard about Mark from the next street? The handsome one who’s always wearing tight cycling shorts? Someone caught him last week with the new instructor from the yoga studio…”

She gave them a knowing look, tapping her fingertips against the table as though sending a coded message meant only for her closest friends.

“Seriously? No way!” Claire nearly knocked over the raspberry jam. “Didn’t his wife just show everyone those photos of their tenth-anniversary candlelit dinner?”

“Hahaha, who knows?”

Put a few women together, and the conversation always seemed to find its way to things like this.

The three exchanged subtle, knowing looks, sharing a private joke about how easily the bubble of a “perfect life” could burst.

Outside, pedestrians hurried past. Inside, the shop was a sweet little world of its own. Icing glittered in the sunlight, much like the women’s smiles now that they had dropped their social masks, genuine, a little sly, and a little tired.

Ian had seen it all before. A few “socialites” weren’t going to get in the way of his food.

“Two doughnuts, please. One with plain icing and one with chocolate.”

He pushed open the door, setting the brass bell above it tinkling. A nice touch.

The plump woman behind the counter wore a white apron and had flour on the tip of her nose. She deftly picked up the doughnuts and wrapped them in greaseproof paper.

“They’re lovely with a cup of hot tea, young man. Just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Next time. I’ll definitely try it next time.”

Ian smiled, paid, and took his doughnuts outside. He found a bench on a quieter stretch of pavement and sat down, enjoying the warmth of the slanting sunlight.

Munch, munch.

He bit into the plain doughnut. The soft dough melted in his mouth, and the icing had just the right sweetness and grainy texture. The chocolate one was richer, its slight bitterness balancing the sugar.

“Sweets really are the quickest route to happiness.”

Another verdict from Ian the food critic.

Across the street, a few workers in overalls and flat caps were laughing as they entered an old pub called the Red Lion. Each time the door opened, a little noise and the smell of beer drifted out.

That held much less appeal for him.

“Doughnuts are delicious. Hehehe. Wang Weiheng really knew what he was talking about.”

Even after finishing them, he stayed on the bench for a while, watching the street.

A newsboy ran past waving an evening paper and shouting a headline Ian couldn’t quite make out. A bright red double-decker bus rolled slowly by, trailing exhaust. An ominous-looking poster for ‘Alien’ covered its side.

Yes, the film really was that old.

Fashion had taken off earlier than most people imagined, too. A group of young people in flared trousers, their hair hanging to their shoulders, walked past carrying an enormous portable cassette player. Its pounding disco music drew disapproving looks from some of the more conservative passersby.

“Yep. Give them a few decades, and they’ll be dancing in public squares.”

Ian couldn’t resist judging them through a Chinese lens.

This was London in 1979: tradition and change rubbing shoulders, the shadow of an economic slump hanging over the first stirrings of new street culture.

He brushed the sugar crumbs from his hands, stood, and resumed his aimless wandering.

As he crossed a small street, a rich blend of spices caught his attention. The smell came from an Indian food stall beneath a simple awning. Its owner was a dark-skinned Sikh man with a bright turban and a broad smile, deftly turning golden triangles in a pan of hot oil.

“Samosas and pakoras! Freshly fried, sir!”

Seeing Ian stop, the man greeted him enthusiastically in heavily accented English. He pointed to the sauces on a small table beside him.

“Mint chutney, tamarind sauce. Help yourself!”

“A bit of each, please. I’d like to try them.”

Ian was interested in food like this, with its unfamiliar flavors. After taking a closer look at the vendor, however, he discovered that the man was actually of mixed heritage and had never even been to India.

False advertising.

Still, Ian counted that as a point in his favor. At least the food was much cleaner and more hygienic.

The man quickly picked out a few samosas and vegetable fritters, placed them on a stiff paper plate, and handed it over.

“Careful, they’re hot!”

“Thank you.”

Ian moved to an empty spot nearby. The samosa’s pastry was so crisp that it shed flakes with every bite. Inside was a steaming, richly seasoned filling of potatoes and peas, flavored with cumin, chili powder, and other spices. It was hearty, mildly hot, and appetizing.

The pakoras were made from cauliflower, spinach, and onion coated in chickpea-flour batter and fried until crisp outside and tender within. Dipped in green mint chutney, their warm crunch met a cool, tangy heat.

Ian ate with relish. These lively flavors were a world away from the simple British food he’d eaten earlier.

“Authentic, isn’t it? My mother’s recipe!” the vendor said proudly, noticing his enjoyment.

“It’s excellent.”

Ian meant it. He bought another portion to take with him.

While paying, he noticed a handwritten sign beside the stall. It seemed to be collecting donations for a community event. He dropped a few extra coins into the tin.

The vendor paused, then smiled even more broadly. Pressing his palms together, he said something that sounded like a blessing.

Ian left the stall with his stomach comfortably filled and his curiosity stronger than ever. He turned into a narrower street that was unusually busy.

It appeared to be an informal secondhand market. Stalls crowded both sides of the road; some sellers had simply spread cloths on the ground and laid out their wares.

There was a little of everything: heaps of old clothes and shoes, chipped crockery, rusty tools and hardware, yellowed books and magazines, faded postcards and old photographs. A few small “antiques” were scattered among them, though whether they were genuine was anyone’s guess.

Most of the shoppers seemed to be local residents, plainly dressed and careful with their money. The air held a complicated mix of dust, old wood, cheap cologne, fried food, and sweat. Conversations and bargaining blended with muffled music from an old radio into a steady background hum.

“When the economy slumps, street stalls spring up. Just like those roadside skewer and hotpot places back before I crossed over.”

Ian browsed with interest, stopping to leaf through the stock at a used-book stall.

Most of it was dated popular reading, old magazines, travel guides, and household repair manuals. There were even a few issues of ‘Playboy’ from the sixties and seventies, their cover models styled unmistakably for their era.

“Looking to buy?”

The seller was an old man with thick glasses and a pipe between his teeth.

“Have a browse,” he mumbled. “Three for a shilling.”

“All right. I’ll take a couple.”

Ian chose a London travel guide from the sixties and an Agatha Christie mystery with a damaged cover, then paid.

The old man glanced at him.

“Young fellow like you, reading these old things,” he muttered.

“History’s always interesting.”

Ian smiled and put the books away.

For a moment, he felt as though he truly belonged among the Muggles.

—

(End Of This Chapter)