Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The final stop. John had finally arrived at the most anticipated moment of all.
If anything embodied the wizarding world in Harry Potter, it was the wand – an essential tool for every witch and wizard.
Without a wand, even Lord Voldemort himself would be rendered powerless.
Ollivanders Wand Shop.
This was the premier purveyor of magical armaments in the wizarding world.
John couldn't resist a murmur of admiration. "Truly remarkable wand-making, dating back to 382 B.C. Impressive." He then, with an air of miniature adulthood, instructed Mrs. Wick to keep a close eye on her overly curious, middle-aged husband.
John stepped inside, his stride vibrating with excitement.
Upon entering, his gaze wasn't immediately drawn to a person, but to the towering stacks of thousands of narrow, wand-shaped boxes. The already cramped shop felt even more claustrophobic beneath their weight. Thick layers of dust coated everything, making John wonder how Mr. Ollivander managed to live here. Did he ever clean?
As John surveyed the interior, Mr. Ollivander was simultaneously surveying him.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice emerged from behind a mountain of boxes. Mr. Ollivander stepped into view, a kind, if somewhat distant, smile on his face.
"Hello, I'd like a w—"
"A wand. Of course, everyone wants a wand," Ollivander finished smoothly, gliding out from behind the counter. "A new student for Hogwarts. And your name?"
"John Wick."
"Excellent. Mr. Wick. Which is your wand arm?"
"My right... though actually, I can use my left hand too." John was ambidextrous, a skill honed over two and a half years of rigorous pencil combat training to handle threats from either side. "Let's go with the left," he decided after a moment's thought.
Ollivander produced a tape measure – one clearly enchanted – and began taking measurements, the tape whirring and twisting of its own accord. Watching the old man's intense focus, John felt a peculiar sensation. Ollivander seemed less like a wand-seller and more like a meticulous tailor.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Wick," Ollivander intoned mysteriously once the measurements were done, a phrase that seemed to hang in the dusty air. "That much has always been clear to those of us who study wandlore."
Returning behind the counter, Ollivander selected a box from a shelf. Inside lay a dark wand. "Willow and unicorn hair. Seven and three-quarter inches. Reasonably pliant. Give it a wave."
John accepted the wand, his heart pounding. This was his first contact with real magic! He gave it an enthusiastic flick towards a nearby shelf. With a thunderous CRACK!, the wooden cabinet exploded, showering the floor with splinters.
John stood frozen, stunned by the sheer destructive power he'd unleashed.
"Clearly not," Ollivander murmured, carefully retrieving the wand. He produced another box. "Mahogany and dragon heartstring. Try this."
John took it. A nearby stack of boxes promptly burst apart.
"Hmm, a demanding customer," Ollivander mused, eyes gleaming with growing interest. "Here, yew and dragon heartstring."
Time crawled by. Wand after wand proved incompatible. The shop, initially somewhat orderly, was steadily reduced to a scene of devastation. Even Mr. Wick, held back by his wife outside, began to suspect they were selling artillery rather than wands.
"Mr. Wick," Ollivander said, wiping dust from his brow, "forgive my candor, but I have never encountered a new student who possesses such a... destructive affinity with wands." Even the gentlest combinations, like oak and unicorn hair, exploded like bombs in John's grip. Yet, Ollivander seemed energized, not dismayed. The more difficult the match, the greater the eventual triumph.
"Ah!" Ollivander suddenly exclaimed, slapping his forehead. "I remember now! One wand, as particular as its potential owner!" His aged frame moved with surprising agility as he scrambled up a tall ladder. John watched nervously, half-expecting the old man to take a tumble.
After much rummaging on a high shelf, Ollivander descended, clutching a box thick with grime. He blew a layer of dust off, creating a small grey cloud. "Red oak and Thunderbird tail feather. Nine and three-quarter inches. Pleasantly springy." He extracted the wand with reverence and offered it to John, his eyes fixed on the boy with the anxious intensity of a father watching his daughter walk down the aisle.
As John's fingers closed around the smooth wood, a thought bloomed unbidden in his mind: This is the one.
A sense of rightness settled over him. He raised the wand and gave it an elegant, controlled flick.
No explosion. Instead, a cascade of soft, silvery sparks drifted from the tip, light as dandelion fluff, settling gently on his skin like tiny, cool bubbles.
"Ah!" Ollivander clapped his hands together, a look of profound satisfaction spreading across his face. "Precisely! Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed!" Each wand was a unique, willful creature. Finding its perfect partner was the wandmaker's greatest joy. "The red oak wand," Ollivander explained, beaming at John, "is drawn to the heat of battle. It is a warrior among wands."
"Sounds like it might suit me better than a pencil," John replied with a grin. Perhaps he could leave the pencils lining his jacket at home. He hoped the red oak would prove more durable than graphite – less prone to snapping.
The price: seven Galleons. Payment exchanged, John rejoined his parents outside. Watson immediately displayed an intense fascination with the wand, even attempting to point it at his wife's head, muttering something about conjuring morning glories. John swiftly retrieved his precious instrument, preventing any further paternal magical experimentation.
"Oh, and I need an owl!" John smacked his forehead, remembering. There were no telephones at Hogwarts. Without his own owl, he'd be reliant on the school's notoriously grumpy post birds. The memory of his first delivery solidified his decision.
...
Eeylops Owl Emporium.
The cacophony of flapping wings and screeches, combined with the pervasive scent of bird droppings, proved too much for Mrs. Wick, who promptly retreated outside.
"That one," John declared, his eyes instantly drawn to a flash of white amidst the chaos.
It was a Snowy Owl. John named her Basil. The owl tilted her head, her large, round eyes fixed intently on her new owner, as if committing his face to memory.
Back home, Watson's enthusiasm knew no bounds. He paraded around with John's wand, posing for photographs. Only the fact that he couldn't squeeze into John's robes prevented him from modeling those too. Mrs. Wick leaned against the kitchen cabinet, watching her husband's antics with an affectionate, amused smile, like one observing an overgrown child.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in Little Whinging, Harry Potter received his own magnificent birthday gift: a Snowy Owl he named Hedwig. For Harry, it was the happiest day he could remember.
...
John received a gift of his own.
When Mrs. Wick presented the wriggling box, John instinctively recoiled, his hand darting to his wand, gripping it in a defensive reverse hold. Cautiously, he peeled back the wrapping.
A small puppy tumbled out.
He had large, floppy ears, a tan head, and a sleek black back.
A Beagle. A Beagle puppy, to be precise.
The tiny creature immediately launched an enthusiastic assault on John's face with his tongue, a true master of lavish affection.
Mrs. Wick smiled warmly at the sight. "Your father and I agreed," she said, leaning comfortably against Watson, "we couldn't possibly send you off to school with a spider or a rat. This little fellow is your going-away present."
Watson nodded vigorously beside her, then silently mouthed behind her back, clearly indicating it was her idea. The newly converted wizard enthusiast secretly thought a rat would be rather cool, actually. Imagine the looks!
John thought his father would make a fine Gryffindor – that fearless spirit of exploration and cheerful disregard for potential peril was pure Lion material.
"Thanks, Mum," John said, gently wrestling the affectionate puppy. "A rat wouldn't have been my first choice either." Rats reminded him unpleasantly of a certain greasy-haired, rodent-shaped character from the Potter saga whose human form was distinctly... unappealing.
He lifted the wriggling bundle. The puppy was only a few months old, its tail wagging with the furious energy of a helicopter rotor.
"Give him a name, son!" Watson urged, his eyes sparkling. "I named my first toy car, you know!" He sounded slightly wistful, perhaps still mourning the lost opportunity to gift his son a pet Black Widow spider. Naming things was a shared passion where father and son had remarkably similar (if sometimes questionable) taste.
John cradled the puppy, enduring the relentless tongue-bath. "A name... let's see..." He considered. "Tom. We'll call him Tom."
Tom, as in the iconic cartoon cat who chased Jerry, not as in a certain Dark Lord's birth name.
And so, John Wick acquired his first dog.