C3: Wands and Gifts
"Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C."
At last, John Wick had arrived at the most anticipated part of his Hogwarts preparation.
If anything truly defined the wizarding world, it was the wand—personal, powerful, and essential. Without one, even Voldemort himself would be as harmless as a cat declawed.
Ollivanders Wand Shop.
The most revered and mysterious armory in the magical world.
John stared at the faded gold lettering above the narrow storefront, then couldn't help but comment under his breath, "Made since 382 B.C. No wonder it's got a reputation."
As if slipping into a battlefield briefing, he told Mrs. Wick to keep a close eye on his father—Watson had the curiosity of a toddler in a chemistry lab.
John stepped through the doorway with quick, eager strides.
Inside, the shop was dimly lit and felt almost sacred. Towering stacks of long, narrow wand boxes lined every wall, chaotically organized, yet somehow purposeful. The tiny space felt even more claustrophobic beneath the oppressive weight of magic-laced dust.
John paused. Did no one clean this place? Did cobwebs grant wands more power?
Before he could explore, a soft voice greeted him.
"Good afternoon."
An elderly man appeared seemingly from nowhere, pale-eyed and ghostlike. His presence was gentle, yet unnerving, as if he could see through one's soul.
It was him, Garrick Ollivander.
John had seen this scene on-screen, in that first film where Harry met the enigmatic wandmaker. But experiencing it firsthand was an entirely different matter.
"Hello," John began. "I'd like to buy—"
"A wand," Ollivander finished, a hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. "Of course. Everyone wants a wand."
He stepped around the counter like a man stepping into a familiar dance.
"Hogwarts, I presume? First year?" he asked, peering intently.
"Yes, sir. John Wick."
Ollivander's silvery eyes gleamed. "Mr. Wick... let's find out what you're made of. Which is your dominant hand?"
"Right. But I've trained both," John replied. Years of training, even in this younger body, had made him ambidextrous. Pencils, knives, wands—it made no difference.
"Let's try the left," Ollivander decided with a nod.
He produced a self-measuring tape, which sprang to life and began to twitch, coil, and take John's measurements, arm length, wrist size, shoulder width, even ear spacing.
John watched, uncertain if he was being outfitted for a wand or a bespoke suit.
"Each wand is unique, Mr. Wick," Ollivander said, voice low and reverent. "And just as no two phoenix feathers are the same, no two wizards wield their wand the same way. It is not you who chooses the wand... the wand chooses you."
With that, he vanished behind a towering column of boxes.
The first wand presented was jet black.
"Willow with unicorn hair core. Seven and three-quarter inches. Swishy."
John grasped it with quiet reverence and gave it a sharp flourish.
BOOM!
A shelf exploded, flinging wand boxes like shrapnel. Watson waiting outside jumped, while Mrs. Wick screamed.
John stood frozen, the wand burning faintly warm in his palm.
"No, no, not that one," Ollivander said quickly, whisking it away. "Perhaps something with more... spine."
He handed John a mahogany wand. Before he even waved it, the wand box beside him burst into flame.
The shop descended into chaos. Wands flew. Shelves quivered. Even the enchanted measuring tape fled under a cabinet.
"Yew and dragon heartstring!" Ollivander shouted over the din, handing over another.
It didn't work either.
Minutes passed. Then nearly an hour. The floor was littered with crushed boxes and scorched dust. John stood like a soldier who had just survived a firefight. His face was calm, but his sleeves were singed.
Even Ollivander looked slightly ruffled—his silver hair standing on end.
"Mr. Wick," he said finally, his tone a mix of awe and calculation, "with all due respect, I have never met a student more... volatile."
Even the gentlest wand—oak and unicorn hair became a firecracker in John's grip.
Then, something seemed to click in Ollivander's mind.
"Aha," he muttered, smacking his forehead softly. "Reminds me of another... picky match."
The wandmaker clambered up a rickety stepladder with agility that belied his age, rummaging among the topmost boxes.
John instinctively stepped forward to catch him if he fell.
At last, Ollivander retrieved a long-forgotten box. He blew away the dust, sending a gray cloud into the light like smoke from a wand duel.
"Red oak," he announced. "Core of ptarmigan tail feather. Nine and three-quarter inches. Springy."
John's fingers tingled as he accepted it.
Something surged through him, warm and resonant. He gave the wand a slow, graceful flick.
Tiny golden sparks flew from the tip like falling stars. They hovered for a moment, then fizzled out like soap bubbles against his cheek.
No explosion. No damage.
Only magic.
"That's it!" Ollivander declared, eyes wide with joy. "You felt it, didn't you?"
John nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's the one."
Ollivander smiled as if he'd just married off his favorite child. "Red oak is a warrior's wand. Loyal, bold, and best suited to someone who is destined for duels of wand or will."
"Better than my pencils," John joked softly. He hoped the wand would last longer too.
Seven Galleons.
John paid at the counter, Watson begrudgingly peeled the coins from his pouch and stepped out proudly, his new wand tucked in a holster beneath his robe.
---
Next stop: Eeylops Owl Emporium.
Inside the dim shop, the sharp tang of feathers and droppings filled the air. Owls screeched and hooted in dissonant chorus.
Mrs. Wick backed out immediately, hand over her nose.
John examined each cage carefully before pointing.
"That one."
A majestic snowy owl sat upright, unblinking. Its amber eyes locked with his, intelligent and unafraid.
John named him Basil, a nod to Basil the Great, the saint and warrior. The owl gave a slow blink, as if in approval.
---
That night, the Wicks returned home, weighed down by trunks and books and memories.
Watson had become insufferably enthusiastic taking photos with John's wand, trying to summon tea from across the room. At one point, he caused a candle to set his own sleeve ablaze.
John retrieved the wand with a sigh. "This is why I told you not to touch it."
If not for the robe being too small, Watson would've insisted on a full wizard photo shoot.
Mrs. Wick watched them from the kitchen doorway, arms folded, shaking her head at the man-child she'd married. But she was smiling.
---
Later, John received a box gift-wrapped, but twitching.
His hand instinctively reached for his wand.
He opened it carefully...
Yip!
A puppy leapt out and began licking his face with abandon. Brown-eared, black-backed—a Beagle-Harrier. A hunting hound, playful and loyal.
Mrs. Wick, beaming, wrapped her arms around Watson. "We thought you'd prefer this over rats or spiders."
Watson mouthed "not my idea," but his goofy grin gave him away.
"Thanks, Mum," John said sincerely. "I don't like mice either."
He remembered Peter Pettigrew, greasy, traitorous and shuddered.
The puppy wagged its tail like a propeller. Watson leaned in and asked, "What'll you name him?"
John smiled. "Let's call him Tom."
"Tom, like..."
"Tom and Jerry, Dad. Not Voldemort."
In that moment, John had his first wand, his first owl, and his first dog.
---