C2: Diagon Alley and the Giant
On the morning of July 30th, there was a sharp knock at the door of the Wick residence.
Opening the door revealed a tall, stern-looking woman in a dark emerald robe, a pointed witch's hat perched precisely on her head. Her square spectacles rested on her sharp nose, and her eyes assessed everything with a no-nonsense glint.
There was no mistaking the figure. She was Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor House, and a strict enforcer of rules also known for her deep passion for Quidditch and Transfiguration.
With a polite nod, McGonagall addressed the tall eleven-year-old boy standing in the doorway. "Minerva McGonagall. Mr. John Wick, may I come in?"
John, though surprised to see a character from fiction brought to life, composed himself quickly and gave a bright, courteous smile. "Of course, Professor."
The Wicks, still doubtful of their son's fantastical claims, watched with narrowed eyes, half-expecting this to be some elaborate prank.
The family sat in the living room—McGonagall upright and poised, while Watson and Mrs. Wick exchanged skeptical glances. Meanwhile, John busied himself with preparing tea as if hosting a guest of honor.
"So, you're... a teacher at this Hogwarts place?" Watson asked, skeptical but trying to keep it civil.
"Professor," McGonagall corrected gently but firmly. "At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
The couple blinked at each other. Was their son not lying, after all?
John gave a beatific, innocent expression, as if to say: "Told you so."
Watson leaned forward, lacing his fingers. "So you're telling me my son is a wizard? That he'll start brewing potions or nailing black cats to the door next?"
McGonagall frowned slightly. "Dark magic and wizardry are two entirely different things, Mr. Wick. Hogwarts teaches structured, ethical magic."
Realizing he had gone too far, Watson muttered an apology.
To prove her point, McGonagall gave her wand a subtle flick. The teacup in Watson's hand quivered, twisted, and suddenly scurried up his sleeve as a gray mouse. Watson yelped and jumped back.
Even John, who had trained with pencils as weapons and had seen much in both lifetimes, was dazzled. This wasn't sleight of hand, this was magic.
That evening, after McGonagall left, Watson turned into a curious child himself.
"John, make that cup a mouse again."
"John, can you make the broom sweep by itself?"
"John, can you fly yet?"
Eventually, John had to beg his mother to escort Watson out of the room just to get some peace.
---
July 31st.
It was time to shop for Hogwarts.
Charing Cross Road.
A narrow, grimy pub stood squeezed between a bookstore and a record shop. To any Muggle, it barely seemed to exist at all.
The Leaky Cauldron.
A Muggle-Repelling Charm shimmered around it, keeping prying eyes at bay. Anyone familiar with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone would recognize this place immediately—where Harry first met Professor Quirrell and entered the Wizarding World.
Mrs. Wick hesitated at the door. "John, you're still a child. A bar is hardly the place for school shopping."
John nodded. "Don't worry, Mum. I'm just here for school stuff."
Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was worse than expected. The mingling stench of stale beer, sweat, and something unidentifiably sour hung in the air like an unwelcome fog. The three of them wrinkled their noses.
One particularly malodorous presence came from a man in a turban. John didn't miss the irony: Professor Quirrell, meek Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, hiding Voldemort on the back of his head. In this timeline, the Dark Lord was already moving behind the scenes.
The bald bartender, Tom, took one look at them clearly Muggles and muttered, "Great. More first-years."
He led them to the rear courtyard and tapped the bricks with his wand. "Three up, two across."
With a ripple and a rumble, the bricks shifted, revealing the bustling cobblestone street of Diagon Alley.
John's breath caught. It was like a watercolor from a dream had spilled into real life. Brooms, owls, bubbling cauldrons—everything he'd once thought fiction came alive.
Just then, a gruff voice interrupted from behind. "'Scuse me there."
A mountain of a man loomed over them. Standing nearly twelve feet tall, he wore a shaggy coat that smelled like a combination of wet dog and smoked meat. Beside him stood a skinny boy in oversized clothes.
The boy had wild black hair, a lightning bolt-shaped scar under his fringe, and round glasses barely holding to his face.
There was no mistaking it. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
"And that must be Hagrid," John muttered.
Mrs. Wick clutched her son's shoulder while Watson's eyes bulged. Turning cups into mice was one thing. Meeting a literal half-giant was another.
John longed to introduce himself but held back. It wasn't the time. He still had shopping to do.
---
Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Despite their middle-class lifestyle, the Wicks had saved generously. Watson, a business manager, and Mrs. Wick, owner of a boutique beauty shop, exchanged £2,000 for 400 Galleons—thanks to the confusing and likely exploitative goblin exchange rates.
One goblin in particular gave John a grin so sharp it made his instincts kick in. He clutched his money pouch like a man walking through a back alley with a Rolex.
---
Diagon Alley shopping montage.
Slugs and Jiggers Apothecary. The jars of pickled organs made Mrs. Wick shriek. Watson looked green, swallowing back breakfast. They left in haste.
Flourish and Blotts. Watson nearly lost a finger to The Monster Book of Monsters. John bought every required book and picked up "Hogwarts: A History," which quickly consumed his attention.
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. A short, plump witch with a friendly smile fitted John. With his frame, every robe looked tailor-made. Madam Malkin called him "a walking mannequin." They left just as Harry arrived, unknowingly heading toward his fateful meeting with Draco Malfoy.
Potage's Cauldron Shop. Watson eyed an auto-stirring cauldron with glee. "Could stew a Sunday roast in this!" Mrs. Wick promptly vetoed the idea.
Eeylops Owl Emporium. John admired the owls, recalling how Hogwarts used them for mail. "Better than the owl that slapped me with my letter," he joked.
The Wicks exited Diagon Alley exhausted, arms full of parchment, robes, and potion kits. The Wizarding World, once fiction, had become their new reality—and John Wick, the boy with a pencil and a past, had just crossed the threshold into magic.
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