As the saying went: from the Muggles, back to the Muggles.
That certainly applied to Ian. He had grown up in a Muggle orphanage, and in his previous life, he had been a genuine Muggle himself. He understood their world and felt completely at home in it.
In fact, judging by the way he thought, Ian was simply a Muggle who could use magic.
Naturally, he blended right in.
He stopped for a while at a stall selling old cassette tapes. The stallholder was a young man in a leather jacket, his hair a mess, bobbing his head to the punk music playing from a portable cassette player. Ian wasn't particularly fussy about music, but he liked the raw energy. It really captured the feel of the era.
"These are proper vintage treasures. They'll be hard to find in the future."
Feeling a little thirsty, he spotted a cart selling hot chocolate and hot apple cider and went over to buy a large cup of hot chocolate.
The thick, sweet drink warmed his hands and chased away the chill of the flea market. He sipped it as he continued wandering leisurely between the stalls.
"Now I get why the protagonists in those stories enjoy hunting for bargains at market stalls."
In one corner, a particularly shabby little stall caught his attention.
It consisted of nothing more than an old blanket spread flat on the cold ground, washed almost white and fraying around the edges. A selection of handmade crafts had been carefully arranged on it. The materials were simple, even a little rough: rabbits, bears, dogs, and other small animals knitted from coloured yarn. Their shapes were clumsy, but endearing.
There were also pictures made by sticking buttons from old clothes, discarded bottle caps, and scraps of colourful fabric onto cardboard. They were full of a child's innocent imagination.
"Someone's caught the art bug."
Ian spotted paper cranes, boats, and planes folded from old newspapers and colourful sweet wrappers, their creases sharp and neat. Beside them lay simple greeting cards decorated with sequins, coloured paper, and glue, bearing messages such as "Happy Birthday" and "Thank You."
The stallholder was a little boy who looked no older than ten. He wore a faded grey coat that was clearly too big for him, its sleeves rolled up several times. His trousers were worn pale at the knees, and his shoes were old too.
The late-autumn wind had turned his nose and cheeks red, but he didn't seem to mind. His bright blue eyes were lowered in concentration as he worked with the little yellow and black yarn he had left. His movements were awkward but careful, and whatever he was knitting looked like a duckling.
A cardboard sign stood beside him. The handwriting was crooked, but every letter had been painstakingly formed:
"Handmade crafts. 3 pence each.
Raising money for St Mary's Orphanage.
Thank you!"
An orphanage child, sitting alone at a stall on a cold afternoon, trying to raise a little money for the other children.
The sight touched Ian. In this era, orphanages like St Mary's generally survived on charitable donations and meagre government funding. It wasn't hard to imagine the conditions. Keeping the children fed and warm was difficult enough. Extras, "luxuries" such as picture books and crayons, probably had to be saved for a few pennies at a time.
"These look pretty good."
Having grown up in an orphanage himself, Ian felt for the boy. Still holding his hot chocolate, he walked over and crouched in front of the blanket so they were at eye level.
Sometimes, it took another orphan to understand those small ways of showing respect.
The boy immediately looked up when he noticed someone approaching. At the sight of Ian, he paused, then quickly set down his yarn and needles. He tried to give him a welcoming smile, though he couldn't quite hide his nervousness. Hope made his blue eyes shine even brighter.
"G-good afternoon, mister!"
His voice was clear and youthful, with the earnestness of a child trying hard to act like a proper businessman.
"Would you like to have a look? I… I made everything myself. They're really cheap, only three pence each! The money's going towards new picture books and crayons for the orphanage. Sister Martha says our crayons are almost used up, and the picture books are all old and torn…"
He spoke a little too quickly. Towards the end, he seemed to realise he had said too much and pressed his lips together shyly, though he continued looking at Ian with hopeful eyes.
'Martha, huh? Now there's a name with a story behind it.'
Ian looked gently over the little objects on the blanket. He could see the care and childlike imagination that had gone into each one. For a child from an orphanage to make all this with so little to work with was already quite an achievement.
He picked up a bear knitted from brown and white yarn. One ear was slightly larger than the other, and its button eyes were a little crooked, but it was sweet-looking and soft in his hand.
"This little bear is lovely," Ian said with a sincere smile.
The boy's eyes lit up as though stars had fallen into them, and excitement brought a fresh flush to his cheeks.
"Th-thank you, sir! That bear… it took me two evenings to knit! Sister Martha taught me. I kept dropping stitches at first…"
Having found someone who appreciated his work, he couldn't help saying a little more. Then he caught himself and waited hopefully.
"You did a great job."
Ian meant it. Making something like this certainly took patience.
He looked at the other crafts. The sequins on a card depicting the sun weren't evenly spaced, but the colours were bright and cheerful. A paper plane had been folded very neatly, with perfectly matching wings. Clearly, the boy had practised it many times.
"I'll take this bear, this sunshine card, and this paper plane."
Ian pointed to the three items.
"R-really? That's wonderful!"
The boy almost jumped up, but managed to restrain himself. His face grew redder with excitement as he hurriedly worked out the total in his head.
"Three pence for the bear, three for the card, and three for the plane… That's… nine pence altogether, sir!"
He was terribly nervous, afraid Ian might only be teasing him.
Seeing that, Ian tried to reassure him.
"Don't worry. I'm a good guy. My mum in my dreams is called Martha too, what's with that confused look? Can't I imagine I'm Superman sometimes? You'll understand when you're older."
He reached into his pocket and took out a silver half-crown. In 1979, that was worth thirty pence, certainly no small sum to an ordinary child.
He handed it to the boy.
The boy stared at the shining coin, stunned. His blue eyes widened as he looked from the money to Ian and back again, his mouth slightly open. For a moment, he couldn't find any words.
Finally, he stammered, his voice trembling.
"M-mister… this… this is too much."
"This silver coin is worth thirty pence… I… I can't take that much. My things only cost nine…"
His fingers were tightly curled around the coin.
Yet he held it as though it were too hot to handle, torn between wanting it and worrying that he shouldn't accept it.
Ian's heart softened. Still crouching at the boy's eye level, he spoke more gently.
"Keep it. Your work is worth that much. Besides, helping the orphanage is a good thing. The extra money can buy more picture books and crayons. Maybe some paints too? Or something for the other children."
He picked up the three little crafts and weighed them in his hand.
"I really like these. That alone makes them worth the price. If word got out, people might think I couldn't afford them."
Once again, Ian was amusing himself with a reference no one else understood.
The boy was simply touched. His eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes quickly reddened. He bit down hard on his lower lip, struggling to hold back his feelings. The hand clutching the coin trembled slightly.
He looked at Ian's sincere expression, then down at what was, to him, an enormous sum of money. Finally, he poured all those feelings into a deep bow, his forehead almost touching his knees.
"Th-thank you, sir! You're such a good person! G-God bless you!"
His voice was thick with tears. When he raised his head, his eyes were wet, but his face had lit up with a smile full of gratitude, happiness, and relief.
It was so bright and pure that it seemed capable of chasing away all the late-autumn chill.
Ian smiled back and gently patted the boy's thin shoulder.
"Take care of yourself. And say hello to Sister Martha and the other children for me. Who knows? You might become an artist someday."
He stood, slipping the knitted bear into his coat's inner pocket and keeping the sunshine card and paper plane in his hand.
The boy nodded vigorously, still clutching the silver coin as though it held every hope the world had to offer.
Ian turned to leave that little corner of the market, with its everyday bustle and bittersweet warmth. The brief conversation with such an innocent, determined child had eased some of the tension left by the Jorkins incident and the mysterious invitation. He felt lighter, his mood brighter.
"I really am a kind little wizard."
He glanced at the colourful card and neatly folded plane in his hand, a faint smile on his face.
But he had barely taken a few steps, still within the rows of flea-market stalls, when a sudden, piercing birdcall shattered that warm, peaceful moment.
"Caw!"
It wasn't an ordinary crow's harsh cry. This call was clearer and shorter, with an almost metallic ring that cut straight through the market noise and reached Ian's ears.
"What now? More trouble? Am I really going to have to become a superhero?"
He stopped, a faint flicker of caution passing through him almost instinctively, then looked up towards the sound.
A black shape was diving from the jagged red-brick roof of an old Victorian building beside the market. It descended in an almost perfectly straight line, moving with surprising speed for its size.
It was a crow, but nearly twice as large as an ordinary one, with broad wings. In the dim afternoon sunlight, its feathers weren't simply black: they had the deep sheen of polished obsidian. Along the tips of its wings and the edges of its tail feathers, a faint, mysterious blue metallic lustre shimmered, barely visible.
Its target was unmistakable.
It was heading straight for Ian.
"Heh heh heh…"
The crow flew with a precision and purpose rarely seen in a bird. It neither hesitated nor circled, but shot through the air like a black dart pulled along by an invisible thread.
Several stallholders and customers bargaining nearby noticed it too. They looked up with startled cries.
"That crow's huge!"
"It's coming down! Watch out!"
Less than three feet above Ian's head, the crow abruptly checked its dive. Its wings beat down hard, stirring a small gust that ruffled the hair over his forehead.
Then it landed lightly on the grimy paving stones less than two feet in front of him. It stood perfectly at ease, looking him over with an air that was almost condescending.
"Interesting."
A thoughtful look entered Ian's eyes.
This time, he actually meant it.
As though it understood him, the crow tilted its head. Its small, black, beadlike eyes held none of the fear or wariness an ordinary bird might show when faced with something so much larger than itself.
Instead, it stared steadily at Ian's face. Its gaze was unusually calm, focused, even, as though it were checking something.
More striking still was the exquisite little parchment scroll, no thicker than a little finger, tied securely to its slender but strong right leg with dark red silk. Against the crow's black feathers, the silk looked almost unnaturally red.
Ian was now certain this was no chance encounter with a wild bird. The crow was a magical creation, or something produced through Transfiguration, rather than a truly living creature.
Its precise navigation, remarkable flight, unnatural composure, and the scroll on its leg all pointed to the same conclusion: it was a messenger sent to find a particular person.
And that person was undoubtedly Ian Prince.
"What do you want with me?"
He was rather surprised himself.
Who was behind this? How had they learned about him so quickly? He had "dealt with" the Jorkins incident only a few hours ago, and it hadn't happened anywhere near the heart of the wizarding world.
Was this retaliation from whoever stood behind the Death Eaters?
It seemed too efficient, and the approach didn't fit.
Was the Ministry of Magic watching him? That was possible, but he recognised the Ministry's owls and Patronuses. This wasn't their usual style either.
Or was it the unidentified figure in black robes who had planted that suggestion in Jorkins's mind?
"And choosing a crow was rather clever."
The possibilities flashed through Ian's mind, but his expression remained calm. The warmth the little boy had brought to his eyes quickly faded, giving way to his usual thoughtful composure.
He even raised an eyebrow slightly, as though this unexpected crow had merely piqued his curiosity.
The murmurs around him grew louder as more curious onlookers turned their attention his way.
"Heh heh heh…"
The crow ignored them all. Still watching Ian intently, it made another short, strange sound in its throat, as though urging him to hurry.
"People in this era don't laugh like that. That laugh is my copyrighted property."
Ian stopped hesitating and crouched down. His movement was smooth and natural, as though he simply wanted a closer look at an unusual bird. To the Muggles around him, he probably seemed like an odd young man who liked animals and wasn't afraid of them.
The crow didn't move away. It even extended the leg bearing the scroll to make things easier for him.
And so Ian reached out and touched the mysterious letter.
(End Of This Chapter)
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