What exactly had Ian noticed?
Nothing particularly earth-shattering.
He had simply picked up a very faint but unmistakable fluctuation around the abdomen of the smiling brunette who had approached him. It was a newborn aura of life, closely linked to her own life energy but separate from it.
In everyday terms, a baby.
The aura was still fragile and unstable, suggesting that the pregnancy was only a few weeks along. What made Ian's gaze sharpen, though, was the clear difference between this new life's energy and that of either the brunette or her blonde companion. He could sense none of the continuity that would suggest it had been inherited from either woman.
'A surrogate?'
He also detected subtle fluctuations around the girl herself: excitement, a desire for thrills, and a barely noticeable trace of weariness and inner conflict.
They didn't quite match the quiet, inward focus and heightened protectiveness he would normally expect from someone carrying a new life. In that brief moment, Ian understood. This cheerful, bold girl trying to chat up a handsome stranger outside an art gallery was already pregnant. And judging by the sense of separation in their energy fields, the child probably had no direct blood relationship with either of the two women.
More likely, she was simply carrying it for someone else. Her pregnancy certainly hadn't made her more restrained. If anything, she seemed determined to enjoy herself while she could.
'Well, well.'
A faint flicker of feeling passed through Ian. Open attitudes, thrill-seeking, and a certain indifference, or helplessness, toward the consequences of one's actions apparently had little to do with the era. There were shadows beneath the sunshine in every age, and people had always been complicated.
"What is it?"
The girl was still puzzled by his look.
"Nothing."
Ian smiled slightly. His gaze rested on her face for less than half a second, calm as ever, revealing nothing unusual. He gave another small nod, then turned and continued down the path.
Behind him, the girls murmured something to each other and laughed, sounding disappointed and a little reluctant to give up. Neither followed him.
Ian soon put the encounter out of his mind. He skirted the edge of St James's Park, catching a distant glimpse of Buckingham Palace's imposing grey walls and the flag flying above it, but didn't go any closer.
The trees in the park wore their autumn colours. Waterbirds drifted across the lake, while couples and joggers passed in twos and threes. Ian sat for a while on a bench facing the water, watching the sunset paint the clouds gold and red and scatter glints of gold across the lake.
An elderly gentleman in a wool coat sat beside him, a corgi on its lead. The dog sniffed curiously at Ian's shoes, and Ian reached down to stroke its fluffy head. Its owner gave him a friendly smile.
As evening deepened, London's streetlights came on one after another, tracing the outlines of the buildings. Ian stood, feeling hungry again. Remembering the steak pie he had planned to try, he headed toward Covent Garden. The area was famous for its market and theatres, but it also had plenty of small places serving proper local food.
'Still plenty of time before the meeting.'
Dusk settled over the streets as he walked. Neon signs began to glow, and music and laughter drifted from the pubs. He stopped outside a record shop whose window was plastered with posters of popular bands and recognized several names.
The music of this era really did have an energy all its own.
'Still, I'd rather have something to eat.'
Eventually, he found a small pub on a side street called the Anchor and Oar, which supposedly made excellent pies.
Warm yellow light shone through the windows beneath its low frontage. Inside, the room was small, furnished with wooden tables and chairs, with rows of bottles behind the bar. The air smelled richly of beer, roasted meat, and baking pies.
It was dinnertime, and the place was almost full of regulars talking at the tops of their voices. Ian finally found an empty seat at the corner of the bar.
The bartender was a broad, heavily built man with a thick beard and a booming voice.
"What'll you have, mate?"
"Your house steak and kidney pie, a portion of potato wedges, and a pale ale."
Ian ordered without hesitation. He was meeting You-Know-Who tonight, after all. A little liquid courage was only sensible.
"Coming right up!"
The bartender shouted the order toward the kitchen. Thanks to Ian's disguise spell, he had no idea his customer was actually a fifteen-year-old boy.
While he waited, Ian listened to the conversations around him. Football results, union strikes, new films, family troubles, the place was full of ordinary, lively chatter.
His beer arrived first, with a fine head and a rich malty aroma. Soon afterward came a steaming pie on a heavy ceramic plate. Its crust was crisp and golden. A gentle press of his fork broke it open, revealing thick, dark brown gravy around generous chunks of tender beef and... kidney.
'Not much point eating this to boost my virility at my age.'
Ian had nothing against kidneys. He tried a bite and found them stewed until wonderfully tender, their distinctive flavour balanced by the rich gravy and spices, with no unpleasant taste at all. The pastry had soaked up the juices and was delicious.
The potato wedges were crisp outside and soft within, seasoned with salt and herbs. They went perfectly with the pie. It was a simple, hearty meal, but deeply satisfying after an afternoon of walking around.
He ate at a leisurely pace, enjoying the uncomplicated pleasure of good food. The pub's noise made an oddly fitting accompaniment.
An elderly man beside him, wearing a flat cap and looking like a dockworker, struck up a conversation. Perhaps Ian's unfamiliar face and obvious enjoyment of the meal had caught his attention.
"First time here, lad? Best pies in the neighbourhood, these."
"They're excellent." Ian smiled and raised his beer glass.
"Aren't they just? Been eating here twenty years!"
The old man sounded proud of it. He then moved on to complaints about prices and the weather. Ian listened with a smile, adding a word or two now and then. There was something real and enjoyable about these brief conversations between strangers, with neither person trying to get anything out of the other.
Once he had finished, he paid the bill. The modest price made him marvel once again at how cheap things were in this era.
'Right. Soon I'll have to face the harsh reality of the wizarding world.'
He stepped out of the pub. Night had fully fallen, and London glittered with lights, so different from its grey daytime appearance. A cool breeze brushed his face, carrying damp air from the Thames.
He wandered along the streets, letting his dinner settle and sorting through his thoughts. The Crow's invitation, the suggestion planted in Jorkins, whoever might be pulling the strings, and the hidden tensions in this era's wizarding world, all of it would require care.
For now, though, he was reluctant to give up these last moments as an ordinary tourist.
He passed brightly lit theatres advertising popular plays and musicals, then a market square that was still lively despite many of the stalls having closed. Cafés and food stands remained open. Farther on, he walked through quiet, expensive residential streets, where warm light and the blue flicker of televisions shone through the windows.
Without realizing it, he reached a relatively open stretch of riverbank.
It wasn't a famous attraction. There were no noisy tourists or crowds posing for photographs, only a few walkers and couples nestled close together, moving slowly through the night as though afraid to disturb the river's murmur.
Of course, they might just have been looking for somewhere to snog.
It depended on how poetic you wanted to be about it.
As far as Ian was concerned, he was feeling terribly artistic at the moment, so he forced himself to keep his mind out of the gutter. He watched the river, where the reflected lights swayed and broke apart with the waves.
Like stars scattered across the water.
"By my time, places like this have fallen into disrepair."
Ian slowed his pace, his soles making soft, steady sounds against the damp paving stones.
A little way ahead, an elderly man was walking a golden retriever. Every so often, the dog stopped to sniff a lamppost, its tail swaying lazily. Farther along, a young couple sat side by side on a bench overlooking the river. The girl rested her head on the boy's shoulder. Neither spoke; they simply gazed across the water.
Perhaps they were enjoying being in love.
Or perhaps they were planning their marriage.
"Wonder if I'll run into Harry Potter's mum in this era?"
As Ian indulged in idle speculation about strangers, a young man rolled past on a skateboard, his headphone cord fluttering in the breeze.
A mother and daughter walked by, talking quietly. The little girl pointed at the water and cried, "The stars have fallen into the river!" Farther away, a street musician cradled a guitar, softly playing a tune too distant to make out.
The river flowed quietly, the city's lights and shadows mingling before Ian's eyes.
Several bridges stood out against the night in the distance. Traffic streamed across them, and lights traced bright ribbons along their cables and decks. One had old piers and rather dim lighting. Its shadow stretched across the dark water, swaying and twisting with the waves, breaking apart before coming together again.
"Where the bridge's shadow sways" certainly described it.
Ian stopped and looked at the bridge.
Could that be the place?
"When night falls, where the bridge's shadow sways."
It wasn't time yet. There was no hurry.
He leaned against a stone section of the embankment railing, looking out at the river and the lights on the opposite bank as the night breeze brushed past him. The afternoon's sights drifted through his mind: the children's innocent smiles at the second-hand market and their struggle to raise money; the quiet café; the enthusiastic tourists in the square; the girls' bold approach and the story behind it; the hearty pub food and friendly conversation. And now, the river flowing through the night, carrying all those lights and shadows.
This was London, decades before his own time. It had history and energy, hardship and hope, everyday warmth and the darker sides of human nature.
Real and complicated.
Ian had enjoyed spending half a day immersed in it as an outsider. Now, though, it was time to become Raven again and face the mysteries and challenges that lay beyond ordinary life.
"Ah..."
He let out a soft breath, the white mist quickly dissolving in the cold night air. Just then, he sensed something and looked up toward the southeastern sky.
He saw nothing.
But at almost that exact moment, far, far away, something stirred on the top floor of an ancient stone tower, hidden from the world by intricate spatial magic.
There were no windows, only a few floating crystals that cast a gentle, moonlike glow. The furnishings were sparse: a stone table, a high-backed chair, and shelves crowded with old scrolls and books. The cool air smelled of parchment, dried herbs, and a potion with a sharp, cold scent.
A figure sat in the chair with his back to the entrance. He wore a dark grey cloak made from an unusual fabric, its hood concealing his face. Only one hand was visible, resting on the armrest, deeply wrinkled, yet remarkably steady.
An enormous, heavy book lay open on the stone table beside him. Its pages looked like animal hide rather than paper, covered in intricate, obscure writing and diagrams that gave off a faint magical glow.
"Heh heh heh..."
A moment later, the faint sound of wings cutting through the air came from beyond the tower's only ventilation opening.
A black shape slipped through the magical barrier, as undetectable to ordinary people as the tower itself, and glided into the room like a drop of ink dissolving into the night. It was the magical crow, its feathers jet-black and its wingtips gleaming a dusky blue.
Without a sound, it flew straight to the table and landed gracefully beside the wrinkled hand, just inches from the open book. It tilted its head, its small black eyes fixed on the hooded figure, as though reporting that its task was complete.
"So he agreed."
The figure beneath the cloak shifted slightly. His aged but strong hand slowly rose and stroked the crow's satin-smooth back. The bird nuzzled his fingers.
Then something strange happened.
At that gentle touch, the crow began to fade from the edges inward, like a pencil drawing being rubbed away. Its body rapidly became transparent, then insubstantial.
The change was silent and astonishingly fast. In the blink of an eye, the lively, intelligent bird beside his hand vanished completely.
In its place, on the smooth, cold stone table, appeared a neatly wrapped parcel of greaseproof paper.
A steaming pie.
The square wrapping offered a glimpse of golden, crisp pastry, still fresh from the oven. An inviting aroma of beef, gravy, and baked flour rose from it, mingling strangely with the tower's cool scents of parchment and herbs.
Ian hadn't imagined the smell of food earlier.
The crow really had been created through Transfiguration.
From something edible, no less.
Whoever had cast the spell was clearly among the finest in the wizarding world.
The hand that had stroked the crow lingered in the air for a moment. The old man seemed unsurprised by the disappearance of the feathers beneath his fingers or the steaming pie before him. He flexed his fingers slightly, as though sensing something, then reached out and picked up the parcel. Its warmth was real against his hand.
From beneath the hood came a murmur, so quiet it was barely audible. There was old wisdom in the voice, along with a hint of amusement.
"That fellow... still has a healthy appetite, even in this era."
Silence settled over the tower again. The crystals cast their pale light over the ancient book and the wrapped pie, which he had set down beside the open pages.
Steam continued to rise into the cold glow, slowly curling and twisting like a silent message.
(End Of This Chapter)
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