"Ollivanders: Makers of fine wands since 382 BC."
At his final stop, John had finally reached the most exciting moment.
If anything in Harry Potter best represented the magical world, it had to be the wand every wizard carried.
Without a wand, even Voldemort would have to behave himself.
Ollivanders Wand Shop.
This was the wizarding world's biggest arms supplier.
John couldn't help praising it. "As expected of wandmaking dating back to 382 BC. Truly extraordinary."
Then, like a little adult, he reminded Mrs. Wick to keep an eye on her excessively curious, middle-aged husband.
John walked inside with unusually excited steps.
The first thing he saw upon entering wasn't a person, but thousands of narrow wand boxes piled high.
The already small shop seemed even more cramped with all those boxes.
The thick dust everywhere made John wonder how Ollivander lived in there. Didn't he ever clean?
While John studied the shop, Ollivander studied him.
"Good afternoon."
Ollivander emerged from the mountain of boxes with a kindly smile.
"Hello, I'd like a..."
"A wand. Of course, everyone wants a wand."
Ollivander finished John's sentence with a smile and came out from behind the counter.
"A new Hogwarts student. What's your name?"
"John Wick."
"Very good, Mr. Wick. Which is your wand arm?"
"My right... though I can use my left, too."
John was ambidextrous, thanks to two and a half years of practicing his pencil technique so he could swiftly deal with enemies on either side.
"Let's go with the left, then."
After giving it some thought, John chose his left hand.
Ollivander took out an enchanted tape measure and measured John.
Watching Ollivander's earnest expression, John felt a strange sense of incongruity.
The old man seemed less like a wand seller and more like a tailor.
"Every wand is unique. It isn't the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand who chooses the wizard."
After taking his measurements, Ollivander left him with those words and a mysterious smile.
Returning behind the counter, Ollivander first took a box down from a shelf.
Inside lay a black wand.
"Willow and unicorn hair, seven and three-quarter inches," Ollivander explained. "Give it a try."
Brimming with excitement, John took the wand. It was the first one he had ever touched.
He tried giving it a forceful swish to the side, and a wooden cabinet in the shop exploded, scattering splinters across the floor.
The sheer power left John rooted to the spot.
"Apparently not this one. Try another."
Ollivander carefully took the wand back and produced a mahogany wand.
John took it, and the boxes beside him burst apart.
"You're a particular customer. Try this one, yew and dragon heartstring."
Time passed, but not a single wand seemed to suit him.
After trying wand after wand, John was starting to feel numb.
The shop, which had initially been fairly orderly, had been blasted into disarray. Even Watson, whom his wife had stopped outside, wondered whether they sold weapons in there rather than wands.
"Mr. Wick, if you'll forgive my saying so, I've never met a student quite as destructive as you."
Even the mildest oak and unicorn hair wand became a bomb in John's hands, and Ollivander grew increasingly excited.
The more particular the customer, the greater Ollivander's sense of achievement.
"I remember now. There's a wand every bit as particular as you."
Remembering something, Ollivander slapped his forehead.
His elderly body scrambled up the shelves with astonishing agility. He moved so fast that John wondered how old he really was, while also worrying that he might miss a step and fall.
After rummaging through the boxes on the shelves, Ollivander emerged with a dust-covered box.
He blew on it, sending the dust billowing away in a gray cloud.
"Red oak and Thunderbird tail feather, nine and three-quarter inches, springy and supple."
Smiling, Ollivander took out the wand and handed it to John with eager anticipation.
He stared at John, looking as nervous as a father watching his daughter get married.
As John took it, a thought sprang unbidden into his mind.
This is the one.
It was a flash of intuition.
He raised his hand and waved the wand gracefully.
There was no explosion. Tiny glowing specks emerged from the wand's tip, gentle as a breeze, touching his face like bubbles.
"That's the one!"
Ollivander clapped delightedly and smiled in satisfaction.
Every wand was a willful child, and there was no greater joy than helping that child find its own companion.
Ollivander smiled at John. "Red oak wands relish the thrill of battle. They're the warriors among wands."
"Sounds like it suits me better than a pencil." John smiled too. Now he wouldn't need to keep a pencil tucked into his jacket lining.
He hoped red oak would be more durable than a pencil, so he wouldn't have to worry about snapping it.
A wand cost seven Galleons.
After paying, John went to rejoin his parents.
Along the way, Watson showed enormous interest in John's wand. He even took it and tried to make a morning glory blossom on his wife's head.
John snatched his wand back before his dad could cause any more trouble.
"Oh, right. I still need an owl." John slapped his forehead.
He had nearly forgotten there were no telephones at Hogwarts. Without an owl of his own, he would have to use the school's communal owls.
Remembering that bad-tempered owl, John decided he would rather buy one.
Eeylops Owl Emporium.
The shop was full of noisy fluttering. Mrs. Wick couldn't stand the smell of owls and bird droppings and went outside first.
"That one."
Among all the owls, John picked out that patch of white at a glance.
It was a snowy owl, and John named the owl Basil.
Basil tilted its head, its round-faced gaze fixed on John as though trying to commit its owner to memory.
Once they got home, Watson's playful streak took over, and he posed for all sorts of photos with John's wand.
If John's wizard robes hadn't been too small for him, he probably would have worn them for a few more shots.
Mrs. Wick leaned helplessly against a cabinet, watching him as though he were a child who had never grown up, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Meanwhile, Harry had received his present too.
A snowy owl he named Hedwig.
It was the happiest day of his life.
John received a present.
When Mrs. Wick brought it out, the moving gift box startled John. He instinctively drew his wand in a reverse grip, on guard.
When he opened the box, a puppy popped out.
It had big ears, a brown upper head, and a black back.
A beagle, its full name the beagle hound.
The moment the puppy emerged, it furiously licked John's face, showing its true colors as an eager little flatterer.
Mrs. Wick smiled at the heartwarming sight and leaned into Watson's arms, saying warmly:
"Your dad and I both thought we couldn't send you to school with a spider or a rat. This little darling is our back-to-school present for you."
Watson nodded along, then silently mouthed that it had been his mother's idea.
Watson, who had somehow become a wizarding enthusiast, certainly didn't see anything wrong with rats.
Come on, taking a rat to school would be incredibly cool.
John thought that if his dad were a wizard, he would definitely be in Gryffindor.
That urge to explore everything, coupled with a spirit of adventure utterly unafraid of courting disaster, perfectly embodied those little lions.
"Thanks, Mum. I don't think taking a rat would be a good idea either."
John, who wasn't fond of rats either, loved the gift. After all, rats reminded him of a plot point in Harry Potter.
If he remembered correctly, some greasy middle-aged man had turned into a rat. When the man changed back into human form, John had been thoroughly disgusted.
He picked up the puppy, only a few months old, its tail whipping around like a propeller.
"Give your pet a name. I even named the first toy car your grandmother gave me."
Watson was disappointed that he hadn't gotten his wish of buying his son a black widow as a pet.
When it came to naming things, father and son had always shared the same taste.
John held the puppy, fending off its relentless licking.
"A name? Let me think. Let's call him Tom."
Yes, this Tom was from Tom and Jerry, definitely not Voldemort's real name.
And just like that, John had his first dog.
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