For the moment, Ian Prince deliberately locked away everything that had happened: the blazing African sun, the faint glow of the bronze door, the lingering echoes of the Old Ones' Dominator, and the heavy responsibility he now carried as a guardian.
Right now, he wanted only one thing: to satisfy the most basic need of a body that had just endured traveling through space-time and an enormous drain of energy. Hunger.
The rain had stopped at some point, leaving London beneath a weary gray-white sky. A few weak rays of sunlight slipped through gaps in the clouds, though they offered little warmth. The wet streets reflected the pale sky, and the cool air carried the clean freshness that followed a downpour.
Ian removed the minor spells that dulled his presence and interfered with people's perception of him. Since he had decided to walk around as an ordinary person for a while, hiding himself too thoroughly would only attract suspicion.
He merely adjusted his clothes to match the respectable but unremarkable fashion of the time. To Muggle eyes, his dark robes now resembled an old-fashioned overcoat.
"Honestly, I could probably eat three whole cows!"
Hunger surged through him like a tide, reminding him of everything his body had endured, the final battle in R'lyeh, devouring an Authority, returning across dimensions, and much more besides.
It wasn't the weak, hollow hunger that came from ordinary exhaustion; his body craved dense energy and real, substantial food.
Wizards were still human. Even a legendary wizard needed to eat, or rather, Ian still chose to be human.
He wandered along the streets as they gradually grew busier, studying the shops on either side. London's food scene in this era was nowhere near as varied as it would become in later generations.
Fish-and-chip shops were everywhere, filling the air with the greasy scent of fried food mixed with vinegar. Steam rose from pie shops on street corners, their windows displaying suspiciously colored meat pies and mashed potatoes.
Then there were the old pubs with brass signs hanging over their doors, the sounds of rowdy conversation and the smell of malted beer drifting from within.
"The last glorious days of the empire on which the sun never sets."
Ian stopped outside a busy fish-and-chip shop that seemed popular with the locals. Golden pieces of battered fish and thick-cut chips rested on grease-stained paper, looking genuinely tempting.
He stepped inside the cramped shop, where the smells of hot oil and old wood were even stronger indoors. A rosy-cheeked woman in an apron greeted him in heavily accented English.
"One serving of fish and chips, please. I'll eat here."
Ian spoke with a standard British accent and handed over several banknotes from the period. Thanks to the little tricks he had picked up during his years as the Raven, traveling through different eras and dimensions, he always kept some locally appropriate currency on hand.
"Right away! Want sauce? Salt and vinegar?"
"A little of everything."
Ian nodded and found an empty seat beside the window, watching the growing stream of people outside. He didn't have to wait long before his food arrived in a paper carton printed with a newspaper pattern, piping hot and generously portioned.
"Looks decent enough."
Ian took a bite of the fish with some anticipation. The batter was certainly crisp, but the flesh inside was a little loose and carried a faint fishy taste that hadn't been fully masked.
Most of the flavor came from the salt on the batter and the condiments served with it, particularly the sharp malt vinegar. The chips were thick, crisp on the outside and soft within, but they offered little beyond the taste of potato, salt, and vinegar.
It wasn't bad. It was simple, straightforward working-class food that delivered plenty of calories and carried the unmistakable character of the local streets.
But for a legendary wizard who had just returned from a fierce battle across dimensions, and whose body and soul both longed for something comforting and refined, it was far too plain and heavy.
"I suppose I shouldn't expect too much. The whole world knows this country is a culinary wasteland."
Ian calmly finished the meal, feeling it turn into energy and replenish his depleted body. Even so, he mentally crossed "traditional British fast food" off his list of enjoyable dining experiences.
When he paid and left, the owner warmly wished him a pleasant day. Ian responded politely before stepping outside, where the cool air finally cleared the greasy smell from his nose.
He needed something different. "You can't go wrong with Chinese food."
Continuing down the street, Ian noticed several restaurants with signs reading "Chinese Food," often decorated with pagodas or dragons.
Chinese cuisine was nowhere near as widespread or varied in Britain during this era as it would be in the future. Most restaurants served heavily Westernized dishes adapted to local tastes, chow mein, fried rice, sweet-and-sour dishes, and little else.
"It should still be good. At least it'll be much better than the local food."
Ian pushed open the glass door of a small Chinese restaurant decorated mainly in red. The bell above the door rang brightly.
The restaurant was dimly lit, with several square tables covered in red cloth. Chinese landscape paintings and paper signs bearing the character for "fortune" decorated the walls. It wasn't a busy dining hour, so only a few tables were occupied.
A Chinese waitress in a qipao approached him with a practiced smile. "Dining in, sir? How many people?"
"Just one. May I see the menu, please?"
As expected, the selection was limited. Most of the dishes were sweet-and-sour pork, lemon chicken, fried spring rolls, chow mein, and fried rice. Ian ordered kung pao chicken with a bowl of rice.
While waiting, he studied the restaurant's decorations. Everything was meant to evoke an exotic atmosphere, but it still carried an unavoidable sense of distance from the culture it was trying to represent.
The food arrived quickly, diced chicken and peanuts coated in a bright red sauce. Ian took a bite. The chicken was reasonably tender, but the sauce was far too sweet and cloying. There was barely any heat or numbing spice, the peanuts weren't crisp enough, and the entire dish felt overly soft.
It was nothing like the kung pao chicken he remembered, whether from his previous life or from the ancient Eastern magical markets he had visited after crossing worlds.
Those versions balanced sourness, sweetness, salt, spice, and savoriness, all brought together by the smoky breath of the wok. Even the rice was too soft and mushy.
"At least it's better than the reheated takeaway meals of the future, right?" Ian consoled himself. The dish had clearly been altered to match the average Briton's idea of Chinese food, which mostly involved sweet-and-sour flavors.
Once again, Ian ate without complaint. His energy was being restored, but his taste buds were disappointed for the second time.
When he paid, the waitress thanked him in lightly accented English and invited him to come again.
Ian stepped out of the restaurant. The afternoon sunlight had grown slightly brighter, but his enthusiasm for exploring London's "cuisine" had already faded.
He was beginning to realize that if he wanted food capable of truly comforting both his palate and his spirit in this era, he needed a different approach. He should look for a cuisine famous for the food itself, one with a longer and more refined culinary tradition.
That brought French cuisine to mind.
No matter the era, French food was known for being refined and delicious. A French restaurant in London might not compare with one in Paris, but surely it would come closer to satisfying him than fish and chips or heavily Westernized Chinese food.
"Mm. I'll have some French food too."
With that decided, Ian had no need to worry about gaining weight. He was still starving.
He began searching with a clear destination in mind. After crossing several streets and entering a busier, more elegant district, he found exactly what he was looking for: an understated but refined French restaurant.
Le Petit Bistro was written in graceful script across its dark wooden sign. Models of tempting desserts and a bottle of red wine stood in the display window. Ian pushed open the door, and the brass bell above it gave a low chime.
The interior had the classic atmosphere of a French bistro: dark wooden furniture, warm lighting, and oil paintings of Parisian streets hanging on the walls. The rich aromas of butter, freshly baked bread, and stewed meat filled the air.
A waiter wearing a black waistcoat and bow tie approached him politely. "Good afternoon, sir. A table for one?" His English carried a clear but mild French accent.
"Yes. Somewhere quiet, please."
"Of course. This way."
The waiter led Ian to a small round table in a quiet corner covered in a spotless white tablecloth, with simple silverware and a glass of water arranged on top. Ian sat down and accepted the thick, leather-bound menu.
It was written in both French and English, with a selection far more varied and refined than anything offered by the previous two restaurants.
There were appetizers, soups, main courses, desserts, and an extensive wine list. Naturally, the prices were also much higher. But to Ian, money from this era, especially currency he could "reasonably acquire" through magic, was hardly a concern.
After carefully studying the menu, he ordered French onion soup as a starter, beef bourguignon with mashed potatoes for the main course, crème brûlée for dessert, and a glass of the house red to accompany the meal. There were no laws in this era forbidding an underage wizard from drinking.
As he waited for his food, Ian relaxed and began properly observing the restaurant and the street outside.
"This era really does have a charm of its own."
There weren't many customers inside. A few couples and groups of friends spoke quietly among themselves while cutlery chimed pleasantly against porcelain plates, the waiters moving briskly between the tables.
Beyond the window, pedestrians and vehicles flowed through the London streets like a moving backdrop. The restaurant's quiet, orderly atmosphere allowed Ian's tightly wound nerves to relax even further.
"Your order, sir."
The French onion soup arrived first, served in a handled ceramic bowl. A golden, crisp layer of melted cheese covered its surface, stretching into long strands when Ian broke through it with his spoon. The sweet fragrance of caramelized onions rose to meet him, mingling with the deep aroma of beef stock.
The broth was clear yet full of flavor. The onions had been cooked until soft and translucent, giving the soup a rich texture, while the toasted cheese added a salty, crisp layer.
"Now this is more like it."
The first spoonful sent warmth spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body, driving away the last trace of chill left behind by his journey across space and time. Ian narrowed his eyes in satisfaction.
The beef bourguignon came next. Its dark brown sauce was thick and glossy, the large pieces of beef braised until perfectly tender, falling apart at the slightest touch of his fork and practically melting in his mouth. The fruitiness of the wine and the rich fragrance of spices had soaked deep into every strand of meat.
The mashed potatoes were smooth and creamy, their buttery flavor perfectly balancing the richness of the stew. Every bite was a pleasure, substantial and delicious, giving his body the protein and energy it desperately needed.
Finally came the crème brûlée. Its surface was covered by a thin amber shell of caramel that cracked crisply beneath his spoon. Underneath lay a cool, silky custard rich with the flavor of eggs and cream. Cool and warm, crisp and smooth, the sweetness brought his late lunch to a perfect close.
"As expected, French food rarely disappoints. And it doesn't demand quite as much from the chef as Chinese cuisine."
The house red was nothing exceptional, but it was rich in fruit with soft tannins that complemented the meal nicely. When Ian finally set down his dessert spoon and took a sip of water, he felt a sense of contentment and peace that he hadn't experienced in a long time.
Ian was a gourmet. He understood that food did more than fill the stomach, it could also comfort the soul. This meal might not have matched the standards of Paris's finest restaurants, but on the streets of London in this era, it was a rare comfort.
"I'm finished."
Ian signaled the waiter and asked for the bill. The amount seemed perfectly reasonable to him, so he paid and left a generous tip.
The waiter's smile immediately became more sincere. "Thank you for visiting us, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal."
"Very much. Thank you."
Ian rose and straightened his clothes, though they weren't wrinkled in the slightest, then calmly left the restaurant.
Evening was settling over London. The sky had taken on a bluish tint, and the streetlamps were lighting one after another, casting warm golden halos into the gathering dusk.
After a satisfying meal, Ian felt much more relaxed. He slipped his hands into pockets his robes had discreetly created and decided on his next ordinary activity: taking a walk and enjoying the scenery.
The time machine certainly needed to be repaired, but it didn't have to be done immediately. Ian had only just survived a major battle and truly needed time to rest. The fullness in his stomach brought a pleasant laziness, while the cool evening breeze against his face kept his mind clear.
He strolled along the pedestrian path beside the Thames at an unhurried pace. The river was broad and calm, reflecting the lights slowly appearing along both banks and the hazy outlines of the buildings opposite. In the distance, Tower Bridge stood silhouetted against the dusk, lending the scene an even greater sense of history.
There were plenty of pedestrians around, office workers hurrying home after finishing their shifts, couples walking arm in arm, and tourists and locals wandering alone while admiring the view.
Ian suppressed every trace of magical power, making himself appear entirely ordinary, perhaps just a little too quiet and observant for the average pedestrian.
"So this really is the period when Voldemort was active."
As he walked along the South Bank, he noticed that the famous London Eye had yet to be built, further confirming the era in which he had arrived. Even so, several street performers were already working along the riverfront. Some played accordions while others drew portraits, attracting scattered audiences and the occasional coin.
An elderly man wearing a beret sat on a small folding stool, his wrinkled face overlooking several paintings of the river done in bold strokes and vivid colors.
Ian stopped in front of him, his attention settling on a painting of Tower Bridge on a rainy night. The hazy lights and their reflections on the wet ground gave it a wonderfully evocative atmosphere.
"Like it, young man?" the old man asked, looking up. His eyes appeared unusually bright in the fading light. "Thirty pounds, and it can go home with you and brighten up your wall."
Ian genuinely liked the painting. It captured London's damp, misty, faintly melancholy beauty. "It's an excellent piece," he said sincerely. He took thirty pounds from his pocket and handed it over. "I'll take it."
The old man looked surprised, having clearly not expected such an eager purchase from a young man who hardly resembled an art collector. He carefully wrapped the painting in old newspaper and handed it to Ian, then grinned, revealing a gap where one of his teeth was missing.
"Good luck to you, sir. It'll bring the soul of the Thames into your room."
"Thank you."
Ian accepted the painting and continued on his way, leaving the elderly artist with nothing but the mysterious silhouette of a generous young man.
No one could possibly have guessed that he was a wizard.
(End Of This Chapter)
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