July 30th.
A knock sounded on the door of the Wick residence.
Upon opening it, they found a tall woman standing there.
Dressed in deep green robes, her stern face framed by square spectacles.
The image was unmistakable, even without prior thought. It was the Deputy Headmistress renowned for her love of Quidditch.
Minerva McGonagall, Professor at Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor House.
Professor McGonagall gave a polite nod, then addressed John, who was momentarily stunned.
"Minerva McGonagall. May I come in, John Wick?"
Seeing a character straight out of the books for the first time, John snapped out of his daze, a brilliant smile spreading across his face as he ushered the professor inside.
The skeptical Mr. and Mrs. Wick were equally dumbfounded. They exchanged a glance, wondering if their son had hired an actress.
Harbouring doubts, the couple sat on the sofa while Professor McGonagall took a seat opposite. Meanwhile, John, the supposed subject of this visit, found himself relegated to the role of a servant, fetching tea.
Once seated, Watson spoke first, his tone and expression radiating skepticism. "So, you're the teacher from... Hogwash?"
"Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall corrected patiently, her voice measured. "And Professor, to be precise. I've encountered many parents like yourselves."
The Wicks turned their gaze to John, a flicker of doubt surfacing. Could he have been telling the truth?
John merely looked innocent. He had told them.
Watson wasn't convinced so easily. He shifted forward, hands gesturing slightly as he continued, his voice laced with skepticism. "So my son is a... wizard? You people... peel fingernails off corpses? Nail black cats to doorposts?"
The question, steeped in prejudice and ignorance, was profoundly offensive. Even Professor McGonagall frowned, her expression turning severe. "Mr. Wick, only Dark Wizards engage in such abhorrent practices. Hogwarts is a school for magic, proper magic."
"Apologies," Watson mumbled, realizing he'd gone too far. Still, blind faith wasn't his style.
Knowing Muggle families needed more than words, Professor McGonagall drew her wand with a fluid motion. The teacup Watson had just raised transformed instantly into a plump, grey mouse. It scampered up his sleeve, eliciting a startled yelp.
John watched, wide-eyed. This was his first glimpse of magic, and it was high-level Transfiguration! A thrill of excitement shot through him.
That demonstration settled it. No mere stage magician could turn a teacup into a living rodent across a coffee table. Watson was thoroughly convinced.
After Professor McGonagall departed, Watson became a whirlwind of wide-eyed curiosity.
"John! Turn this cup into a mouse!"
"John! Make the broom sweep by itself!"
"John! Can you fly on a broomstick?"
"John...!"
Driven to distraction, John finally resorted to his ultimate weapon: appealing to his mother. With a stern look from Mrs. Wick, Watson was promptly banished from the room.
...
July 31st.
Time for John to prepare for school.
"This must be it," John murmured.
Charing Cross Road.
The Leaky Cauldron squatted, dirty and narrow, utterly incongruous between its respectable neighbours – a large bookshop and a record store.
Yet, despite its glaring oddity, passersby seemed completely oblivious to its existence.
A Muggle-Repelling Charm.
Any reader of the Harry Potter books would recognize this instantly. It was where Harry's journey began, the gateway to Diagon Alley.
This grubby little pub boasted a rather evocative name: The Leaky Cauldron.
Before entering, Mrs. Wick voiced her concern. "John, you're still a child. You shouldn't really be going into a pub."
John readily assured her he wouldn't be tempted. The place's ambiance wasn't exactly inviting.
Stepping inside confirmed it. The air hung thick with a pungent cocktail of stale sweat and sour ale, causing all three Wicks to wrinkle their noses in distaste. If the exterior was shabby, the interior was downright alarming.
John couldn't fathom how the wizards tolerated the smell, particularly emanating from one figure swathed in a moth-eaten shawl. If the pub's odor was rated at 100%, that individual alone contributed at least 60%.
The bald, somewhat grubby barman emerged from behind the counter. One look at the well-dressed trio told him all he needed to know. "This way then," he grunted, his tone sour. "Standing about gawking costs me Knuts." His obvious irritation at their presence reinforced Mrs. Wick's impression of wizarding rudeness.
Under the barman's curt guidance, they reached the entrance to Diagon Alley. He tapped the brick wall with his wand. "Three up... two across..." he muttered. The bricks quivered, then folded inwards, revealing a bustling, magical thoroughfare.
"So this... is magic..." John breathed, utterly transfixed. The scene unfolding before him felt like stepping between two worlds. It was a moment he knew he would recall with perfect clarity for years to come.
"Scuse me, comin' through!" A booming voice sounded behind them.
A giant of a man, easily ten feet tall, filled the passageway. He wore a vast, shaggy moleskin coat that seemed to radiate a potent aroma – a confusing blend of wild beast and profound lack of bathing.
Beside the giant stood a small, painfully thin boy, looking as though he'd suffered years of malnutrition. His overlarge clothes only emphasized his frailty. Round spectacles perched on his nose, beneath which shone a pair of startlingly vivid green eyes. And there it was, just visible beneath his untidy black fringe – the lightning-bolt scar.
Recognition hit John instantly. He'd read the books in his previous life. While over a decade had passed, this pairing was unmistakable.
The Boy Who Lived.
"Hagrid and Harry," John murmured under his breath. His parents, meanwhile, were rendered speechless anew. Turning a cup into a mouse was one thing; Hagrid's sheer, inhuman size was quite another.
As the odd pair moved deeper into the alley, John pulled his attention back. While part of him wanted to introduce himself, now wasn't the time. He had a long list of supplies to procure, and first, they needed currency. Off to Gringotts.
Let us gloss over the murky exchange rate at Gringotts.
The Wicks were comfortably well-off. Watson Wick was a corporate manager; Mrs. Wick ran a successful beauty salon. They exchanged a hefty £2000 for a satisfyingly heavy pouch containing 400 gleaming Galleons. John couldn't shake the feeling, watching the goblin clerk's shrewd, greedy expression, that they'd been thoroughly fleeced. Still, they now had the means.
Ignoring Watson's muttered plans to hoard a few Galleons to show off to his golfing buddies, the family set off to explore Diagon Alley. Passing a stall selling glistening Dragon liver, John felt a stirring of gastronomic curiosity – a bizarre urge to buy a slice and fry it up. To his parents, however, it was just a revolting pile of bloody offal to be avoided.
...
Flourish and Blotts.
Watson learned a valuable lesson about keeping his hands to himself when The Monster Book of Monsters nearly took his finger off. John collected all the books on his list, adding a few extra volumes on wizarding history and culture. He forced himself to walk past the thick, enticing tome titled Hogwarts: A History with considerable effort.
...
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Madam Malkin, a plump, cheerful witch with a ready smile, was delighted with John. He was a natural mannequin, every robe hanging perfectly on his frame. After he left, Harry Potter entered the shop and encountered a certain spoiled, pale-blond boy named Draco Malfoy.
...
Potage's Cauldron Shop.
John spent considerable effort dissuading Watson from purchasing an expensive, self-stirring cauldron as a 'collectible'. Watson argued it might make an excellent stew pot. The mere mention of bringing such a contraption into her kitchen, however, brought swift and decisive intervention from Mrs. Wick, effectively quashing the idea.
...
The Apothecary.
The family peered at the jars filled with bizarre ingredients suspended in murky liquids. Mrs. Wick instinctively clapped her hands over her precious son's eyes. Watson turned a distinct shade of green, looking as if the bacon he'd had for breakfast was staging a rebellion in his stomach. They beat a hasty retreat, practically fleeing the shop.