The Old Ones of Hogwarts

Chapter 527, Section 536: Believers in Deep Space 1

Someone used a crow to find Ian.

This cannot possibly be a coincidence.

"Let me see who's got their eyes on me." Ian's fingers moved nimbly and steadily, gently untying the dark red silk bow. The silk was delicate and cool to the touch, carrying a very faint and indescribable fragrance—somewhat like aged parchment mixed with the scent of cold pine needles and some kind of food.

"Did they write me this letter while I was eating?"

Ian made a guess.

He took down the small parchment scroll, and the crow withdrew its legs, remaining standing in place, quietly watching him, as if waiting for a reply or further instructions.

Unroll the scroll. The parchment is exceptionally supple and delicate, clearly not ordinary. There is no signature, only a line of elegant English script written in a special, subtly fluorescent dark green ink. The handwriting is graceful and fluid, with an ancient charm in its turns, as if a subtle magic flows between the strokes.

As night falls, the bridge's shadow sways. To unravel the mystery, wait patiently for the ravens to appear.

The information is concise.

Below, there is an extremely simple symbol, yet it exudes an indescribable ancient aura: a slightly concave arc, like the outline of a dome or an arched bridge, with three tiny, star-like dots above the arc; below the arc is a simple rectangle, like a doorway or a foundation stone.

The entire symbol exudes a sense of mystery, tranquility, and an implicit invitation.

"Tsk tsk, still the Riddler's stuff. Well, that makes sense, the main theme of the Hogwarts world is the Riddler." Ian's gaze lingered on the poetic sentence and the peculiar symbol for a few seconds.

The information is very clear.

and.

The other party knows about "Raven".

They even called Ian a raven.

This is definitely not an ordinary situation. You must know that the Raven is an ancient entity hidden in history, and there are definitely no more than a few dozen people in the magical world who know of its existence.

And among these people...

It also connects Ian with the code name that has formed a bond with him across time and different dimensions.

They are even fewer than a handful.

and so.

This is no coincidence.

"However, this is not Voldemort's style."

Ian made a judgment.

The way the invitation was made carried a strong classical mysticism, elegant yet mysterious, which was very different from the Death Eaters' brutality and directness and the Ministry of Magic's rigid official document style.

It does bear a slight resemblance to the style of the "man in black robes" who can subtly and far-reachingly plant subtle hints in the consciousness of others, but it also seems to be... different?

"It's not that man in black robes, it's another mysterious person." Ian slowly rolled up the parchment and tied it back with the dark red silk, which automatically tightened and restored itself.

It looks like it's made of magic.

He raised his head.

I looked again at the magical raven that seemed to be carved from obsidian.

"I will go."

Ian responded.

"Hehehehe~"

Seeing that he seemed to have read the message and completed his mission, the crow did not linger. It let out a cry that was clearer than before and then took flight.

The airflow generated by the flapping of its wings is much stronger than that of ordinary birds.

"Hehehehe," it circled halfway above Ian's head, its beady black eyes giving him one last look before turning without hesitation and swiftly flying off in the general direction of the Thames, quickly becoming a tiny black dot and disappearing behind London's jagged skyline. The gazes that had briefly gathered in the flea market because of this little incident gradually dispersed as the crow flew away.

People made a few comments about "strange bird," "well-trained," and "maybe it's some rich person's pet," before returning to their own haggling and daily routines.

Only the little boy selling handicrafts remained standing behind his stall, clutching a silver coin tightly in one hand and covering his mouth with the other, his large blue eyes looking at Ian with a mixture of surprise and worry.

"Don't worry, it's alright. My friend sent a message by carrier pigeon, no, by raven." Ian slowly stood up and naturally tucked the small parchment scroll into his sleeve. His expression remained calm, and even the corners of his mouth still held the gentle smile he had when facing the little boy.

But if someone could look into his eyes, they would find a deep, still pool there, where all emotions and thoughts were perfectly contained and settled.

"As night falls..." he repeated the evocative sentence in a low voice, his gaze involuntarily turning southeast, the direction through which the Thames meanders.

London has many bridges.

But there aren't many bridges that truly evoke a sense of "swaying shadows" under the night sky, and are associated with magic, secrets, or some other special atmosphere... Tower Bridge, for example.

Too iconic.

The Black Monk's Bridge? Waterloo Bridge? Or something more remote, more legendary... like a small bridge associated with Merlin or ancient magic?

"This is truly an era that makes my brain cells suffer."

Ian has only been in this era for a short time.

He encountered one mystery upon another. He had just decided to take the initiative to engage with the undercurrents of the magical world in this era, and hadn't even truly taken the first step when the other party not only seemed to have foreseen his movements, but also sent him an invitation in a way that was so fitting for his identity and imbued with a strong sense of mystery.

Passive observation.

It's definitely not as "efficient" as taking the initiative to "show up".

"Interesting." The gentle curve of Ian's lips gradually transformed into a sharper smile, tinged with inquiry and a hint of cold interest. It seemed that tonight's plans had to be changed at the last minute. He glanced one last time at the little boy who was still watching him, gave him a reassuring smile, nodded, and then turned and walked towards the exit of the flea market with the same steady and unhurried steps as when he was strolling around earlier.

In Ian's hands, he still held the brightly colored sun card and the neatly folded paper airplane, forming a stark and peculiar contrast with the invitation from an unknown and mysterious entity in his sleeve.

The afternoon sun struggled to pierce the increasingly thick clouds, casting his shadow, sometimes long, sometimes short, across the historically marked cobblestones. London has many bridges, but several locations that fit the image of "a bridge casting swaying shadows," and might be associated with magic or a hidden world... had already surfaced in his mind.

"Who is the one?"

Ian's mind raced.

Dinner might have to wait until after the "meeting and solving of the mystery." But before that, he could perhaps stop by and try the steak pie he'd heard was good on another street.

It's still early.

There was no need to overthink it. The invitation from the crow was like a pebble thrown into a still lake, creating ripples, but it didn't disrupt Ian's pace. "No one can disturb my peaceful afternoon." He maintained his leisurely state of mind, as if the mysterious letter was just an interesting little interlude in the afternoon.

Store the parchment rolls properly.

"Let's rest for an afternoon before facing the bizarre magical world." Ian weighed the brightly colored sun card and the meticulously folded paper airplane in his hand.

A faint smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

As adults with a soul, we certainly need to face crises and mysteries, but the pulse of life and the everyday warmth of this ancient city are equally worth savoring.

Of course, he didn't immediately head towards the Thames or any possible "bridge," but instead continued to linger in the old neighborhood where the flea market was located.

"Selling nuts!"

"Selling matches!"

"Does anyone need a newspaper?"

The noise of the market gradually faded away.

Ian turned into a quieter alley, flanked by brick walls covered in withered vines and tall Victorian terraced houses, with a few hardy green plants occasionally sitting on the windowsills. A mingled aroma of toasted bread and coffee wafted through the air, emanating from a small, old-fashioned café at the end of the alley. The wooden signboard swayed slightly in the wind, reading "Old Oak Café."

"It smells pretty good."

I pushed open the door and the doorbell rang.

The shop was warm and dimly lit, the dark wooden furniture worn smooth by time. Although the fireplace wasn't lit, the warmth from the radiators was comfortable. The air was filled with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee and the sweet scent of buttery pastries. A few customers sat scattered around, some reading, others conversing quietly, creating a tranquil atmosphere. "Auntie, a cappuccino, please."

Unfortunately, no one understood the joke, and there was no cappuccino available. Ian sat down by the window and ordered a signature dark roast coffee and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry sauce. The coffee arrived, its aroma enticing, its rich, slightly bitter taste perfectly balancing the sweetness of the scone. He slowly savored it, gazing at the occasional passersby outside the window and the weathered walls of the buildings across the street, listening to the soothing jazz music playing from the old-fashioned gramophone in the shop.

Time seems to slow down here.

An elderly gentleman with gray hair and glasses sat at another table, a thick ancient book open in front of him, occasionally sipping red tea, immersed in another world.

Ian glanced at him a few times, sensing no magical fluctuations; he was just an ordinary, learned old man. This quiet corner made him feel relaxed. "I've become a bohemian now, huh?"

He made that self-proclaimed statement. Leaving the café, the afternoon sun was already beginning to set. Ian decided to stroll around several famous landmarks, not for sightseeing, but more like to "pass through" and soak in the atmosphere of these places in this era. He headed towards Trafalgar Square.

There were slightly more tourists in the square than I had imagined, but far fewer than the crowds that would follow. Nelson's Column soared into the sky, with stone lions crouching majestically around its base.

"Splash, splash!" Some people were resting by the fountain, and flocks of pigeons strolled around foraging without fear of people. Occasionally, a few would flutter up and take flight. A few tourists who looked like they were from America or Europe were taking pictures of each other with their then-bulky cameras.

"Indeed, the British Empire's architectural aesthetics are quite good." Ian stood at the edge of the square, looking at the central memorial column and stone lions, feeling the history and national memory that this place carries.

Just then, a middle-aged man with a distinct American accent approached, somewhat embarrassed, with a camera in hand: "Excuse me, sir? Could you please take a picture of my wife and me standing in front of the lion?"

He pointed to a middle-aged woman not far away who was smiling and waving in their direction.

"Of course." Ian took the rather heavy camera, probably some Kodak model. He wasn't very familiar with cameras from this era.

of course.

I still know how to use it.

Ian glanced through the viewfinder and skillfully adjusted the angle—a task that was effortless for him, even though the cameras of this era were different from those he was familiar with.

But the basic principles are the same.

"I'm ready."

He gestured for the couple to stand still and pressed the shutter.

"Thank you so much! You took great photos!" The American man retrieved his camera, looked at it, and thanked him warmly. "Are you traveling to London alone?" "Sort of, just wandering around," Ian replied with a smile.

"London is such a beautiful city, so full of history! It's just that the weather is a bit..." The American man made a helpless expression, and the two said goodbye with smiles.

After lingering in the square for a moment, watching the children chase pigeons and listening to snippets of conversation in different languages, Ian turned and walked toward the National Gallery.

Although he wasn't entirely uninterested in art, he had no intention of going inside; he simply strolled along the outer colonnades and plaza. The museum's solemn neoclassical facade cast long shadows in the afternoon sun, and some young people sat resting on the steps at the entrance. Just as he walked along a path on the side of the museum, a cheerful voice called out to him, "Hi!"

Ian turned his head and saw two young girls standing not far away, who looked to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, wearing plaid skirts, thick sweaters and ankle boots that were popular at the time.

The other person had a bright smile on her face, clearly a local girl.

One of the girls, with brown curly hair and a sweet face, boldly stepped forward, her eyes sparkling as she looked at Ian: "Good afternoon! We noticed you earlier. Are you visiting the art museum alone? Want to come along? We know this place well and can be your guide!"

The girl's tone was lively, with a touch of playful probing.

Her companion, a girl with short blonde hair, also smiled and nodded, her gaze sweeping over Ian's face. She was clearly also quite fond of his outstanding looks and calm demeanor.

Ian paused slightly, then smiled politely and declined, saying, "Thank you for your kind offer. However, I don't plan to go inside for a visit right now; I'm just looking around. Besides, I have an appointment."

He told a small lie, in a gentle but clear tone.

"Oh, I see..."

A flicker of disappointment crossed the brown-haired girl's face, but she quickly regained her composure, blinking. "That's a shame. You...you're not from London, are you? Your accent doesn't sound like it. Are you here to study or to work?"

So enthusiastic.

It's obvious she was attracted to Ian's good looks.

Lustful thoughts arise upon seeing beauty.

Ian maintained a polite distance and a smile: "It's just a short stay. Have a pleasant visit."

He nodded and prepared to leave.

Just then, he habitually extended his senses, as if the gentlest breeze were caressing the two girls. This wasn't deliberate spying, but rather a passive reception of information from his environment.

However, in that split second, he "saw" something—not with his eyes, but based on life energy, magic, and some more mystical insight into "states of being." Although they were Muggles, life forms possess unique energy fields. "Hmm?"

Ian was somewhat surprised.

His expression gradually became strange.

There is no other reason.

He discovered some rather absurd things.