As the saying goes, "From Muggle come, and to Muggle return."
That's Ian for example.
He originally lived in Muggle Orphanage and was a genuine Muggle in his previous life, so his understanding and acceptance of the Muggle world was frighteningly high.
You could even say that...
From the perspective of mindset.
Ian is a Muggle who can use magic.
so.
He certainly blended in very harmoniously.
He lingered for a moment at a stall selling old cassette tapes. The stall owner, a young man with messy hair and a leather jacket, was headbanging to punk music blaring from a portable tape recorder. Ian wasn't picky about music style, but he felt this raw energy had a vintage feel. "These are all antique treasures, hard to find in later generations." Feeling a bit thirsty, Ian, with his sharp eyes, spotted a cart selling hot Chocolate and hot cider.
So the boy went over and bought a large cup of hot Chocolate.
Holding the rich, sweet Chocolate drink in his hands dispelled the chill of the flea market. He sipped it slowly as he continued his leisurely stroll.
"I think I understand what it feels like for the main characters in those movies to find bargains at street stalls." In a corner of the market, a particularly simple, even somewhat shabby, stall caught Ian's attention.
It was just an old, faded blanket with worn edges, laid flat on the cold floor. On the blanket, neatly and carefully arranged were some handicrafts. They were made of simple, even somewhat rough, materials—small animals such as rabbits, bears, and dogs woven from colorful yarn. Their shapes were childlike but adorable.
There are also pictures made by pasting buttons taken from old clothes, discarded bottle caps, and colorful scraps of fabric onto cardboard, full of innocent and whimsical imagination.
"A work with a touch of artistic flair."
Ian also saw paper cranes, boats, and airplanes folded from old newspapers and colorful candy wrappers, with sharp edges and corners.
In addition, there were simple greeting cards decorated with sequins, colored paper, and glue, with words like "Happy Birthday" or "Thank You." The stall owner was a little boy who looked to be no more than ten years old.
He was wearing an old gray jacket that was obviously too big, with the cuffs rolled up several times, and his trousers were worn and faded around the knees. His shoes were also old.
The chilly autumn wind had reddened his nose and cheeks, but he seemed oblivious. His bright blue eyes sparkled as he intently knitted something with the few remaining yellow and black yarns he had, clumsily but earnestly making it look like a little duck. Beside him stood a cardboard sign with crooked but carefully written characters, "Handicrafts, 3 pence each."
Fundraising for St. Mary's Orphanage. Thank you!
On a cold afternoon, the children from the Orphanage were setting up a stall alone to raise a meager amount of money for the orphanage. Ian's heart was slightly touched. In this day and age, Orphanage like St. Mary's's mostly relied on charitable donations and meager government funding to survive, so their conditions were unimaginable. It was already difficult for the children to have enough to eat and wear; any extra "luxuries," such as picture books and crayons, probably had to be saved up little by little like this. "The stuff is pretty good." Ian had also come from Orphanage, so he felt a strong sense of empathy. He carried the hot Chocolate and squatted down in front of the stall, bringing his eye level with the little boy.
In some small details.
Orphans know best how to show respect to other orphans. Sensing someone approaching, the little boy immediately looked up. Seeing Ian, he paused for a moment, then quickly put down his yarn and needles. He Hard Work a warm but undeniably shy smile, his blue eyes shining with anticipation. "S-Sir, good afternoon!" His voice was clear and crisp, with a childlike purity and a hint of Hard Work as he tried to appear like a competent "businessman."
"Take a look and see what you like? They're all... I made them myself. They're very cheap, only 3 pence each! The money from selling them will go to the Orphanage to buy new picture books and crayons. Sister Martha said our crayons are almost gone, and our picture books are old and worn out..." He spoke a little quickly. Towards the end, he seemed to realize he had said too much, and pursed his lips a little embarrassedly, but his eyes were still full of expectation as he looked at Ian. "It's Martha? There's a story behind that name." Ian's gaze gently swept over each little item on the blanket. He could see the care and childlike innocence behind these handicrafts.
For a child in Orphanage to be able to make these things with limited materials is already quite remarkable. Ian picked up the little bear knitted from brown and white yarn. One of the bear's ears was slightly larger, and the buttons and eyes were sewn a little crooked, but it was still adorable and soft to hold. "This little bear is very cute," Ian said with a smile, his tone sincere.
The little boy's eyes brightened even more, like stars had fallen into them, and a blush of excitement rose on his face. "Th-thank you, sir! This little bear... it took me two nights to knit it! Mother Martha taught me, and at first I kept missing stitches..."
He felt like he had found a kindred spirit and couldn't help but say a few more words.
But she quickly stopped herself, and just looked at Ian expectantly.
"Very impressive."
Ian sincerely praised it, saying that it truly required patience.
He looked at the other things, including the sun pattern card made of sequins. Although the sequins weren't applied evenly, the colors were bright and vibrant.
The paper airplane was folded very neatly, with symmetrical wings, clearly the result of repeated practice.
"This teddy bear, this sun card, and this paper airplane," Ian pointed to the three items, "I'll take them all."
"Really? That's wonderful!" The little boy almost jumped up, but he restrained himself, his face turning even redder with excitement. He quickly calculated in his mind, "The bear is 3 pence, the card is 3 pence, the airplane is 3 pence... That's... That's 9 pence in total! Sir!" The boy was very nervous.
He was afraid that Ian was just teasing him.
Seeing this scene.
"Don't be nervous, I'm a good person. My mom in my dream was also named Martha— what's bothering you? Sometimes I fantasize about being Superman, is that wrong? You'll understand when you're a kid."
Ian pulled a half-crown silver coin from his pocket. In 1979, half a crown was equivalent to 30 pence, which was no small sum for an ordinary child.
He handed the silver coin to the little boy.
The little boy was stunned when he saw the shiny silver coin. His blue eyes widened as he looked at the coin, then at Ian, his mouth slightly agape, unable to speak for a moment. After a long pause, he stammered, his voice trembling, "S-Sir... this... this is too much."
"This silver coin is worth 30 pence... I... I can't accept that much... My things are only worth 9 pence..." He clutched the silver coin tightly in his hand.
It felt like holding a hot potato, both eager and uneasy.
Ian's heart softened. He remained crouched, looking directly at the boy, and said in an even gentler tone, "Take it. Your craftsmanship is worth the price. Besides, helping the Orphanage is a good thing. The extra money can buy more picture books and crayons, maybe even some paint? Or maybe some things for other children."
He picked up the three trinkets, weighed them in his hand, and said, "I really like them. My liking for them is worth the price. If others knew, they'd think I couldn't afford them."
Ian is just making jokes on his own again.
Unfortunately, no one can understand it.
The little boy was simply moved; his eyelashes trembled, and his eyes visibly reddened. He bit his lower lip tightly, as if trying to hold back something.
The boy's hand holding the silver coin trembled slightly.
He looked at Ian's sincere face, then looked down at the silver coins in his hand, which were undoubtedly a "huge sum" to him. Finally, all his emotions turned into a deep bow.
He almost touched his forehead to his knees.
"Thank you, sir! You are such a kind person! God bless you!" His voice was thick with nasal tone, and when he looked up, his eyes were glistening with tears, but his face blossomed into an incredibly bright smile that was a mixture of gratitude, joy, and relief.
That smile was pure and radiant, as if it could dispel all the chill of late autumn.
Ian smiled and gently patted the boy's thin shoulder. "Take good care of yourself, and please give my regards to Sister Martha and the other children."
"Perhaps you'll become an artist someday." He stood up, casually stuffing the knitted teddy bear into his coat pocket, while holding the sun card and paper airplane in his hand.
The little boy nodded vigorously, still clutching the silver coin tightly, as if he were holding onto all the beautiful hope of the world.
Ian turned to leave this corner, a place brimming with life yet tinged with bittersweet warmth. His brief interaction with this simple, resilient child had eased the tension in his heart caused by the Jorkins incident and the mysterious invitation, lifting his spirits considerably.
"I'm such a kind little Wizard." He looked down at the brightly colored card and neatly made paper airplane in his hand, a faint smile on his face.
However, just as he took a few steps, before he had completely left the area of the flea market stalls, that warm and peaceful moment was abruptly shattered by a sudden and extremely piercing bird cry!
"Gah!"
This sound was not the usual cawing of crows, but rather clearer, shorter, and with a metallic quality, instantly drowning out the noise and clamor of the market.
It Ian's ears clearly.
"What's going on? Another mess? Am I really going to become a superhero?" Ian paused, almost instinctively, a very subtle sense of alertness flashing through his mind.
He looked up and followed the sound.
On the jagged red brick roof of an old Victorian building next to the flea market, a dark shadow was swooping down in an almost straight trajectory that seemed disproportionate to its size!
It was a crow, but nearly twice the size of an ordinary crow, with a wide wingspan. Its feathers, under the dim afternoon sunlight, were not pure black, but rather had a deep, obsidian-like texture. The tips of its wings and the edges of its tail feathers faintly flowed with a mysterious, almost imperceptible, dark blue metallic sheen.
Its target was crystal clear—the very spot where Ian was standing!
Hehehehe~
The crow's flight posture possesses a precision and decisiveness rarely seen in birds, without the slightest hesitation or circling, like a black dart guided by an invisible thread.
It cuts through the air and shoots straight at you!
Nearby, several stall owners and customers haggling over prices were also drawn by the sudden sight, looking up and exclaiming in surprise, "What a huge crow!"
"It's charging down! Watch out!"
The crow, less than three feet above Ian's head, suddenly stopped, its wings beating powerfully downwards, creating a small gust of air that ruffled the stray hairs on Ian's forehead.
Then, it landed lightly and steadily on the slightly dirty stone slab less than two feet in front of Ian, its posture calm and even carrying a condescending sense of scrutiny.
"Interesting."
A profound look flashed in Ian's eyes.
This time it's truly profound.
The crow seemed to understand Ian's words. It tilted its head, and its small, black bean-like eyes showed none of the fear or wariness that ordinary birds would have when facing such a large creature.
Instead, the crow stared intently and unblinkingly at Ian's face. Its gaze... was unusually "calm," one could even say "focused."
As if confirming something.
Even more striking is that, on the slender yet powerful right shank of this extraordinary raven, a delicate Parchment scroll, only the thickness of a little finger, is firmly bound with dark red silk.
The silk, set against the backdrop of the raven's jet-black leg feathers, appeared eerily red.
At this moment, Ian was completely certain that this was no accident of nature. It was a magical creation, or rather, a product of Transfiguration, not a true life form.
Its precise positioning, extraordinary flying ability, unusual composure, and the scroll on its leg that was clearly a token all indicated that it was a messenger specially sent to find a specific target.
And the target, without a doubt, was Ian Prince.
What do you want with me?
Ian was actually a little surprised as well.
Who is it?
How could he be so well-informed? He only "dealt with" the Jorkins incident a few hours ago, and the location wasn't even in the core area of Wizarding World. Is it retaliation from the Death Eater?
The efficiency seems too high, and the style doesn't fit.
Was it Ministry of Magic surveillance? That possibility certainly existed, but he recognized the Ministry of Magic's Owl or Guardian Spirit, and they weren't like that either. Or... that unidentified " The Black Robed Woman " who left hints in Jorkins's consciousness?
"Moreover, the crow's choice was quite clever."
Various possibilities flashed through Ian's mind.
But his face remained calm and expressionless; only the tenderness that had just arisen in his eyes because of the little boy quickly subsided, returning to his usual depth and composure.
He even raised an eyebrow slightly, as if he felt a little... curious about this uninvited crow? The surrounding chatter grew louder, and more curious eyes turned to him.
"Hehehehe," the crow seemed oblivious to the crowd's stares, focusing intently on Ian, letting out a short, strange sound as if urging him on.
"That laughter isn't something guys these days can produce; it's my copyrighted laugh." Ian didn't hesitate any longer. He crouched down, his movements natural and fluid, as if he were simply interested in this particular bird and wanted to get a closer look. To Muggle, he might just be a quirky young man with a bold love for animals.
The crow did not dodge.
He even deliberately stretched the leg with the letter tube tied to it forward to make it easier for him to move.
then.
Ian touched the mysterious letter.