The sunlight in the alley was quite warm.
In this place.
Ian stood there for a long time, lost in thought.
Who could it be?
Who were the most active and well-known prophets of this era? Like Professor Trelawney? No, her Prophecy were often vague and uncontrollable, and her style was unlike any other.
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 Magic families? Or... non-human intelligent beings? Like Centaur? Ian does have some grudges against this race.
However, they are more concerned with celestial phenomena and natural Destiny, and rarely interfere so specifically with individuals. Moreover, Centaur 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 get in touch with the Wizarding World of this era," Ian thought to himself. Instead of passively waiting for clues to come to him, he should take the initiative and go to places where information converges to gather intelligence. Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, even the area around 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 also changed somewhat. After all, now that he's involved, he has become a part of history.
There was no escape.
Then there's no need to run 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 meal, but it was digested quickly for his body, which had undergone an energy transformation and had a metabolism far exceeding that of ordinary people.
A brief but intense use of Magic Power —altering memories, imprisoning Death Eater, and Legilimency —had consumed a considerable amount of energy. He was 90% certain that this wasn't an excuse.
Anyway.
At this moment, a familiar craving for high-quality food and energy resurfaces.
It's commonly known as being greedy or having a sweet tooth.
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 pursed his lips helplessly, his eyes deep and melancholy. Even the Legendary Wizard's stomach was a bottomless pit. Oh well, there was no rush to gather information. He'd fill his stomach first, and then take a closer look at the London street scene in 1979; perhaps he'd make some other discoveries.
"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 begun his "foraging" journey once again.
This time, he wandered more casually, his gaze lingering more on places that seemed more lived-in, with stronger 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 came, I saw, I experienced."
Ian blended silently into the crisscrossing streets near Charing Cross Road, a place less bustling than the main Water Horse but more reminiscent of old London.
He first stopped in front of a small cart selling roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes, which was parked on a street corner and emitting wisps of white smoke.
The owner of the cart was an elderly Ireland 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."
A rustling sound accompanied by a sweet fragrance.
Many people may not know this.
This snack isn't just found in Dragon Country; roasted chestnuts are a common food all over the world, as it's a high-energy food enjoyed by many ethnic groups.
America 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, these are fresh out of the oven, the best smelling!" The old man's Sonorus 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 offered a compliment.
The sweet potatoes were heavy, with a hard, charred skin. The moment they were broken open, the golden, glistening flesh steamed with heat, and the pure, natural sweetness mixed with the aroma of charcoal filled the air.
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 idle traveler, enjoying the warm satisfaction brought by this simple food.
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 mixed with oil 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 were 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 " Frosting Cloud " bakery, making the golden donuts inside appear as if they were coated in liquid gold.
All right.
Bread is essentially liquid gold.
The food looks really appealing.
The freshly baked desserts piled on the oil strainer, trembling slightly, their frosting as crystalline as the first snowflakes, their Chocolate sauce drizzled like artistic splashes of ink, and their colorful sugar sprinkles resembling 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.
"Oh 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 on the part of 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 eat, 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 tight cycling shorts, was photographed last week with the new yoga instructor... tsk tsk." She made a "you know" expression, tapping her fingertip on the table as if sending a encrypted message visible only to her best friend. "Really? No way!" Claire was so shocked she almost spilled her raspberry jam. "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 used to this.
Being a "socialite" doesn't affect his pursuit of fine food.
"Please give me two donuts, one plain with frosting and one with Chocolate sauce." Ian pushed open the door, the soft ringing of the brass bell on the door adding to the ambiance.
The plump proprietress, wearing a white apron and with flour stuck to 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 icing's texture and sweetness just right. The Chocolate one, on the other hand, was much richer.
The slightly bitter Chocolate balanced the sweetness.
"Sweets do indeed bring the most direct pleasure."
Ian once again offered his scathing critique as a food critic. He watched as a few 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 drifted 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 wasn't 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 film 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 offered a sharp commentary using a Chinese perspective, which perfectly captured London in 1979. Conservatism and change were intertwined, and the shadow of economic downturn coexisted with the budding of street culture. Brushing the sugar crumbs off his hands, Ian got up and continued his aimless wandering.
As he walked through a side street, a rich and complex aroma of spices caught his attention. It was an India 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.
"Samosa 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 Half-blood.
I've never been to India.
This constitutes fraudulent sales.
However, it can be considered a plus.
At least it's 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's outer crust was so crispy 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 contrasted wonderfully 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 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; Scabbers tools and hardware; yellowed books and magazines; faded postcards and old photographs.
There are also some "antique" trinkets that are hard to distinguish from genuine ones. Most of the people who come here to hunt for bargains are residents of the nearby community, dressed simply and shrewdly. The air is filled with a complex mix of dust, old wood, cheap Gu Long, fried food, and the sweat of the crowd, with noisy voices, haggling, and the faint music from an old radio creating a buzzing background noise.
"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 strolled around with great interest. He stopped at a used bookstore to browse through the books.
Most of them are outdated fashion magazines, travel guides, home repair manuals, and even a few Playboy cover girls from the 1960s and 70s with distinct characteristics of that era.
"Want to buy some?" The stall owner, an old man with thick glasses and a pipe, mumbled as he looked through the books, "Take your time, three books for one shilling."
"Then let's buy some." Ian picked out a 1960s London travel guide and a damaged Agatha Christie mystery novel.
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 Muggle.