The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 516, Section 525: A Brand New History 9

Well, how should I put it?

This was definitely Ian's doing.

He wasn't helping a thief.

Rather, it is the soul of the Chinese nation.

Ian understood.

Anyone who steals food is driven by desperation. The fact that the boy didn't take the readily available money box but only wanted food shows that he was truly desperate.

"One good deed a day, done!"

Ian withdrew the almost imperceptible magical fluctuations that had manipulated the nearby moisture and dust to condense into a "slider" and moved the coin in mid-air.

He calmly finished the last bite of his chicken pie and tossed the paper bag into the nearby trash can. To him, it was just a small, silent, unnoticed intervention. The boy might have been wrong, but hunger was the more primal driving force. A coin and a well-timed "accident" might have given him a choice and prevented the potentially worse consequences of being caught in public.

of course.

This was just a minor episode in the long night.

Ian's attention was quickly drawn to a new aroma. He spotted a stall selling mulled wine and hot cider, steaming from a large copper pot, with cinnamon sticks and cloves floating in the dark liquid.

"The mulled wine we had earlier tasted quite good."

This was the perfect match for a cold night. Ian quickly bought a cup of hot cider, holding it in his hands. The slightly warm ceramic cup comforted his palms, and the sweet steam, carrying the aroma of cider and spices, filled his nostrils. He took a sip; the sweet and sour warmth soothed him from his throat all the way to his stomach, dispelling all the chill. Holding his hot drink, he stopped at a German-style stall selling grilled sausages. The thick sausages sizzled and crackled on the iron rack.

"As long as you avoid British food and things like stargazing, you're unlikely to make a mistake." Ian ordered a sausage, sandwiched it in a slice of long bread, and added sautéed onions and mustard. One bite revealed the sausage's juicy goodness; the bread absorbed the oil and sauce, and the sweetness of the onions and the pungent kick of the mustard blended perfectly. A simple, straightforward deliciousness, utterly satisfying.

There were definitely no bad experiences.

And so, Ian, like a true young traveler with a voracious appetite, wandered through the night market, sampling all sorts of snacks. He subtly concealed his astonishing appetite with magic; in reality, given his legendary wizarding metabolism and energy needs, digesting the food was effortless. He would do that.

This was to avoid being mistaken for a competitive eater and causing an uproar.

Even though no one can control Ian now, he has always kept a low profile and has never attracted any unnecessary attention. He has also been frantically seeking opportunities to accumulate merit.

He helped an elderly man pushing a heavy cart whose wheels were stuck in a crack in the roadside stones. With a gentle, invisible force, he lifted the cart and freed it. The old man muttered, "Why are these wheels suddenly working so well today?" and thanked him before shuffling away. He "inadvertently" kicked away a piece of broken brick lying in the middle of the road that could have tripped a pedestrian, preventing a possible embarrassment for a commuter reading a newspaper on their way to work.

He even used his subtle magic to adjust a string on a street performer's slightly out-of-tune old guitar, instantly making the next melody much more harmonious. The performer himself raised an eyebrow in surprise, and then sang and played with even more passion, attracting a few more coins as a tip.

These tiny, unnoticed interventions, like scattered starlight adorning his stroll through the night market, brought him a peculiar, peaceful pleasure.

This is different from the grand struggle against the old rulers and the seizure of power; it is a different form of "existence" and "influence," which is more subtle and closer to the mundane world.

However, it also genuinely touched upon certain principles of protection and order within him.

There was no trouble from the Ministry of Magic for Ian.

Not everyone is afraid of the Ministry of Magic.

They couldn't detect Ian's spellcasting. The night market was drawing to a close, and some vendors began packing up. Ian felt satisfied—not just in his stomach, but also in his spirit. This vibrant, bustling scene temporarily washed away the heavy burden he had brought back from R'lyeh. "Hmm, just a little bit more, then I'm done," Ian thought, finally stopping at a hot chocolate stall for a strong cup with marshmallows. Holding the sweet drink, he slowly strolled out of the gradually quieting night market area and back onto the relatively bright and quiet main street.

Next, it's time to find a place to rest.

Having enjoyed the vibrant night market atmosphere, with a full stomach and the warmth of the food and people around him, Ian began to consider where to stay.

Hogwarts might be the most familiar place, but it wasn't his place to study right now, and he didn't want to rush there without fully understanding the details of the current timeline.

The Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley that follow serve as a window into the wizarding world, but they are also too conspicuous and could potentially lead to encounters with acquaintances from that era, thus influencing history.

He tends to maintain a low profile as an observer until he has gathered enough information.

"Not everyone can be trusted like Dumbledore; there are fools among wizards." So, Ian turned his attention to the Muggle world. A comfortable, well-equipped hotel would allow him to rest well and also serve as a relatively secluded base.

and.

The scope of its impact is not very large.

"I'm so smart."

He found a rather grand-looking traditional hotel in a relatively bustling commercial area nearby. It had granite exterior walls, heavy revolving glass doors, and doormen in crisp uniforms.

The sign read "Royal Catherine Hotel" in elegant lettering. It's not one of London's most prestigious, historic hotels, but it looks clean and respectable, suggesting good management.

"I'll stay here!"

Ian straightened his clothes, making sure he looked like a young student from a wealthy family traveling alone, and then calmly pushed open the door. Thanks to his still youthful appearance and calm demeanor, this was not difficult.

The lobby was spacious and bright, carpeted with thick layers of fabric, and a crystal chandelier cast a soft glow. A faint scent of cologne and furniture polish filled the air. Behind the reception desk stood a middle-aged manager in a dark suit, his hair impeccably styled, and a young receptionist. Seeing Ian enter, the receptionist immediately flashed a professional, sweet smile: "Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Royal Catherine Hotel. Would you like to check in?"

"Yes, please give me a quiet single room, preferably with a good view," Ian said calmly as he approached the front desk. "Okay, sir. Please show me your passport or identification," the receptionist said politely.

Ian was prepared. He naturally didn't have legal Muggle identification in this era, but that wasn't a problem for a legendary wizard proficient in Confusion Charms, Memory Magic, and possessing some reality-distorting potential. He casually pulled a plain leather document holder from his inner pocket and opened it.

Inside was a well-made passport with complete information. The name was "Ian F. Stone," the nationality was British, and the age was listed as seventeen, matching his appearance.

The address is a county address that sounds plausible but has no way of being verified.

The instant it was handed over, an extremely subtle and powerful confusion spell, which caused almost no magical fluctuations, had already taken effect on the document itself and the receptionist's senses.

The receptionist took the identification, examined it carefully, then looked up at Ian's face. Ian's expression remained unchanged; he simply nodded perfunctorily. "Thank you, Mr. Stone. How many days are you planning to stay?"

"Let's book three days first," Ian replied.

"Okay. Single room, view room, three days. Breakfast included. Here is your room key, room 312. The elevator is on your right. Would you like luggage service?"

The receptionist processed the paperwork skillfully, handing Ian an old-fashioned room key with a brass key and his identification.

"No, thank you. I don't have any large luggage." Ian took the room key and "identification" with a slight smile.

"Please enjoy your stay, Mr. Stone. If you need anything, please press '0' on your room number to contact the front desk." The receptionist smiled again. "Thank you." Ian nodded and turned to walk towards the elevator. He could feel the middle-aged manager's gaze lingering briefly on his back, perhaps finding it unusual for a seventeen-year-old to be checking into a hotel alone, but Ian's composed demeanor and "flawless" identification clearly dispelled any doubts. The Confusion Charm was still in effect.

The elevator was an old-fashioned gate type, running smoothly but somewhat slowly. Reaching the third floor, the corridor was carpeted in dark red, the walls covered in simple wallpaper, and it was quiet and still. Finding room 312, I opened the door with the brass key.

The room was more spacious than I expected. It was decorated in a typical British style, with dark wood furniture, a four-poster bed covered in crisp white sheets and a thick down comforter, and heavy velvet curtains. There was a desk, an armchair, and a wardrobe. The bathroom was separate, with white tiles, a bathtub, and a shower. The window faced a relatively quiet courtyard at the back of the hotel; the view wasn't particularly impressive, but it was certainly peaceful.

Ian nodded in satisfaction. He put down the oil painting he was carrying under his arm, closed the door, and casually cast a few weak warning and soundproofing spells, not because he didn't trust the hotel's security.

It's just habitual caution.

"The renovation is nice."

Ian first took a nice, warm shower, washing away the smoky atmosphere of the night market and his slight fatigue. The warm water washed over his body, allowing him to completely relax.

He changed into the soft bathrobe provided by the hotel, walked to the window, pulled back the curtains a little, and looked down at the shrubs and stone paths in the courtyard illuminated by lights. "So beautiful."

The London night sky was starless, only bathed in the dark red glow of the city lights. His stomach was a little empty—the legendary wizard's metabolism and the nature of his earlier "snacks" meant they would digest quickly. He picked up the menu in the room, which offered simple room service options. Ian ordered a club sandwich and a cup of hot milk.

While waiting for his meal to be delivered, he sat in his armchair, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the armrests as he pondered his next steps. It was Halloween Eve, 1979… more than a year before Harry Potter's birth, but Voldemort's reign of terror had likely reached its peak. The Ministry of Magic was in chaos, and the Daily Prophet was probably filled with disappearances, attacks, and an atmosphere of terror.

Hogwarts is a relatively safe fortress, but tension is always ever-present. He needs to understand the specific situation as soon as possible, especially Dumbledore's movements and the activities of the Order of the Phoenix.

And... were there any unexpected changes caused by the timeline revision?

Just as I was pondering this, the doorbell rang.

The waiter pushed the food cart in; he was a smiling, well-mannered young man. He placed the food on the small round table and politely asked if there was anything else he needed.

"No, thank you," Ian said.

"Enjoy your meal." The waiter left.

Ian enjoyed a simple late-night snack; the sandwich was hearty, and the hot milk was comforting and soothing. After finishing, he pushed the food cart outside and closed the door. Just as he was about to gather his thoughts, perhaps using magic to check for any magical fluctuations in the vicinity of the hotel or even further away, the old-fashioned rotary telephone in the room suddenly rang.

Jingle Bell

The sound seemed somewhat jarring in the quiet room. Ian walked over and picked up the receiver.

"Good evening, Mr. Stone. This is the front desk." It was the same receptionist's voice, still sweet. "Excuse me for disturbing your rest. I just wanted to confirm if you were satisfied with the room. Also, would you like... any special evening services?"

Her tone paused and shifted slightly around the word "special," a subtle detail that adults could easily understand—something anyone who'd stayed in a hotel would recognize as a service.

I never expected it.

This is something that's popular these days.

"what?"

Ian instantly understood the subtext of the call. This wasn't uncommon in many hotels.

His expression was calm, and he replied in a clear and unwavering tone, "The room is fine, thank you. No special services are needed. Also, I prefer to go to bed early, so please don't disturb me unless it's urgent."

Although his voice was young, it carried an undeniable composure, causing the person on the other end of the phone to pause for a moment.

"Oh...of course, I'm so sorry to bother you, Mr. Stone. Good night." The receptionist's voice immediately returned to full professionalism, even with a hint of apology.

"Goodnight." Ian hung up the phone.

He shook his head slightly. Even with his age concealed, his overly youthful appearance would still attract some "extra" attention in certain situations. However, this little incident was harmless.

He walked to the window and took one last look at London in the night. The city was still breathing, its lights flickering. In the distance, perhaps in some corner beyond his sight, the undercurrents of the magical world were surging. But at this moment, in this quiet and comfortable hotel room, he was alone. And with a journey home that had just begun, full of unknowns.

"Ugh! What have I gotten myself into?"

It's time to rest.

Tomorrow, there are still many things to do and many things to learn.

Ian changed into comfortable pajamas and lay down on the soft, spacious four-poster bed. The down comforter was light and warm. He waved his hand, and the main light in the room went out, leaving only a dim wall lamp by the bedside.

This moment.

Ian did not fall asleep immediately, but lay peacefully, letting his mind go blank, feeling the vast and calm magic deep within his body and that unique authority of will.

There were no nightmares, no whispers, no disturbances from the other side of time or the depths of chaos.

The only sounds were the constant, weak warmth of the room and faint noises coming from a great distance outside the window.

The monotonous white noise that is part of the city's rhythm.