"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
At the final stop, John finally arrived at the most exciting moment of the day.
If anything represents the magical world in Harry Potter, it's definitely the wand that every wizard carries.
Without a wand, even Voldemort would have to stand still and behave.
Ollivanders Wand Shop.
This was the magical world's largest supplier of military-grade equipment.
John couldn't help but praise, "No wonder they've been making wands since 382 B.C.—truly extraordinary."
Then, like a little grown-up, he seriously instructed Mrs. Wick to keep an eye on that overly curious middle-aged man—his father.
John stepped into the shop with a spring in his step, bursting with excitement.
Inside, the first thing he saw wasn't a person, but stacks upon stacks of narrow wand boxes—thousands of them.
The already small shop felt even more cramped and narrow with all the boxes crammed inside.
Thick layers of dust made John wonder how Ollivander managed to live here. Did he ever clean?
While John was observing the inside, Ollivander was observing him in return.
"Good afternoon."
Emerging from behind the mountain of wand boxes, Ollivander wore a kindly smile.
"Hello, I'd like to get a—"
"A wand, of course. Everyone wants a wand."
Ollivander smiled and finished John's sentence, stepping out from behind the counter.
"A new Hogwarts student. What's your name?"
"John Wick."
"Very good, Mr. Wick. May I ask which hand is your dominant one?"
"Right… although I can use my left as well."
John was ambidextrous, thanks to two and a half years of intense pencil training, designed to fend off enemies from either side.
"Then let's go with your left hand."
After thinking for a moment, John chose his left.
Ollivander took out a measuring tape and began measuring John's body. The tape was enchanted.
Watching the serious-looking Ollivander, John felt a strange sense—this old man looked more like a tailor than a wandmaker.
"Every wand is unique. It's not the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand that chooses the wizard."
After the measurements, Ollivander left behind this mysterious statement with a smile.
He returned behind the counter and took down a wand box from the shelf.
When the box opened, a black wand lay inside.
Ollivander introduced it: "Willow wood with unicorn hair, seven and three-quarter inches. You should give it a try."
John, excited beyond measure, took the wand in his hand—his very first wand.
He gave it a strong swing to the side—and the wooden cabinet in the store exploded, wood splinters flying everywhere.
The sheer power left John stunned.
"Looks like it's not the one. Try this next."
Ollivander carefully took back the wand and fetched another—made of cherry wood.
The moment John took it, a nearby box burst open.
"You're a picky one. Try this one—purpleheart wood with dragon heartstring."
Time passed, and none seemed to suit.
After so many changes, John began to feel numb.
The once-tidy shop was now a disaster zone. Even Watson, who had been stopped outside by Mrs. Wick, started to suspect the shop sold explosives, not wands.
"Mr. Wick, if I may be blunt—I've never seen a student as... destructively inclined as you."
Even the mildest combo of oak and unicorn hair produced explosions in John's hand, which only made Ollivander more thrilled.
The pickier the customer, the more satisfaction Ollivander felt in finding the right match.
"Ah! I remember now—there was one wand that was just as picky as you."
Suddenly recalling something, Ollivander slapped his forehead.
Despite his age, he scrambled up the shelves with the agility of a young man, moving so fast that John began to question just how old he really was—and worried the old man might fall.
Rummaging through some dusty boxes on the top shelf, Ollivander finally pulled one out.
He blew the thick layer of dust off in one breath, sending a small cloud of gray mist into the air.
"Red oak and thunderbird tail feather. Nine and three-quarter inches. Springy and flexible."
Smiling, he handed the wand to John with anticipation glowing in his eyes, as though watching his own daughter walk down the aisle.
When John took the wand, a thought popped into his head out of nowhere:
"This is the one."
A sudden intuition.
He lifted the wand and gracefully swished it.
There was no explosion—only a soft glow of light from the wand's tip, drifting like a breeze and settling on his face like soap bubbles.
"That's the one!"
Clapping with delight, Ollivander beamed with satisfaction.
Every wand was like a temperamental child. Helping such a child find its destined partner—that was true happiness.
Ollivander smiled at John and said, "Red oak wands love passionate battles. It is a warrior among wands."
"Sounds more fitting than a pencil," John laughed. Now he no longer needed to carry pencils in his lining.
He hoped the red oak wand would be more durable than a pencil too—so he wouldn't have to worry about it snapping.
The wand cost 7 Galleons.
After paying, John went to meet back up with his parents.
Along the way, Watson showed great interest in John's new wand, even trying to make a morning glory bloom from his wife's head.
John quickly snatched the wand back before his dad could continue his antics.
"Oh right, I still need to buy an owl." John slapped his forehead.
He had nearly forgotten—Hogwarts didn't have telephones. Without an owl, he'd have to use the school's public ones.
Thinking of the cranky school owls, John decided he'd rather buy his own.
Eeylops Owl Emporium.
The store was filled with flapping wings and noisy squawking. The smell of birds and droppings was too much for Mrs. Wick, who stepped outside.
"That's the one."
Among all the owls, John immediately spotted a flash of white.
A snowy owl. John named it Laurel.
Laurel tilted her head, her round eyes fixed on John as if trying to memorize her new owner.
Back home, Watson was in high spirits, taking all kinds of pictures with John's wand.
If he could have squeezed into John's wizard robes, he probably would've worn them for the photos too.
Mrs. Wick leaned helplessly against the kitchen cabinet, watching him like one would watch an overgrown child, a soft smile in her eyes.
Meanwhile, Harry also received a gift.
A snowy owl he named Hedwig.
It was the happiest day of his life.
John also received a gift.
When Mrs. Wick brought out the present, John jumped back in shock at the moving gift box, instinctively grabbing his wand in a reverse grip.
Opening the box revealed a puppy.
Large ears, brown on top of its head, black on its back.
A beagle—full name: Beagle Hound.
The little puppy pounced on John's face, licking him all over—truly a textbook "licker dog."
Mrs. Wick smiled at the heartwarming scene and snuggled into Watson's arms.
"Your dad and I thought it wouldn't be right for you to bring a spider or a rat to school. This little guy is your back-to-school gift."
Watson nodded along and silently mouthed, That was your mother's idea.
Watson, who had somehow become a wizard fan, didn't think rats were a bad idea at all.
Come on—bringing a rat to school? Super cool.
John thought if his dad were a wizard, he'd definitely be a Gryffindor.
That adventurous spirit and reckless curiosity were pure lion material.
"Thanks, Mom. I agree—bringing a rat would be bad."
John, who also disliked rats, loved the gift.
After all, rats reminded him of a certain scene from Harry Potter—a greasy middle-aged man had transformed from a rat, and that scene had utterly grossed him out.
Picking up the puppy—it was only a few months old—its tail wagged like a helicopter blade, full of energy.
"Give your pet a name. When your grandma gave me my first toy car, I gave it a name too."
Watson was still a little disappointed that he couldn't buy his son a black widow spider as a pet.
When it came to naming things, father and son shared the same quirky taste.
John, still fending off the puppy's licking attack, thought aloud:
"A name… Let's go with Tom."
Yes, that Tom—from Tom and Jerry, definitely not Voldemort's real name.
And just like that, John got his very first dog.