His surname was Granger, he was a dentist, and his daughter was a second-year student at Hogwarts...
Jon wasn't stupid—he could easily guess who his daughter was.
But since he had already decided to keep his distance from the main trio, Jon willingly passed up the chance to meet her early.
Whether it was Miss Watson or Miss Black—what did it matter to him? Until he had a firm grasp on magic, it was best to lay low!
...
After parting ways with Eric and Dr. Granger, Jon stood at the entrance of a short, shabby shop.
The gold lettering on the door had mostly peeled off, but the faded words still read: "Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C."
Inside, the shop was small. Jon sat on a reclining chair in the center and looked up to see thousands of long, narrow boxes stacked all the way to the ceiling.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.
"Hello!" Jon jumped to his feet and saw a thin, elderly man appear behind him. "Are you Mr. Ollivander?"
"Yes, yes, I expected to see you soon, Jon Hart, no doubt about it," the old man said mysteriously. "You look almost exactly like your father. When he came here to buy his first wand, it was like just yester—"
Ollivander suddenly froze.
Jon also froze.
"Mr. Ollivander," Jon said hesitantly, "if I'm not mistaken, my father isn't a wizard."
"Ah... is that so..." Ollivander stammered, quickly pulling a piece of parchment from his robe, glancing at it, and tucking it away just as fast.
Jon managed to glimpse the parchment—it seemed to list names, with relatives and their wands noted beside them...
"Must've been a mistake—or rather, I remembered wrong..." Ollivander coughed awkwardly. "Ahem... Mr. Hart, which is your dominant hand?"
"Oh, I'm right-handed."
Perhaps still embarrassed, Ollivander stayed mostly silent while taking Jon's measurements.
He didn't say anything about "the wand choosing the wizard" or "remembering every wand he ever sold."
"Try this one, Mr. Hart—ebony and snake nerve, nine inches." After a quick round of measurements, he pulled down a box from the ceiling and handed Jon the wand.
Jon picked up the rather short wand—nothing happened.
So much for getting it right on the first try.
"Maybe this one—maple, phoenix feather, eleven inches."
...
About an hour passed.
Jon's arm was getting sore—he could barely lift it anymore.
He had tried wand after wand at a pace of one every ten seconds. Boxes now surrounded him and Ollivander like mountains.
Worse still, there didn't seem to be many boxes left on the ceiling.
"Such a picky customer... fascinating, and quite a challenge," Ollivander said, looking oddly excited.
"This one—ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches. A remarkable combination!"
He handed Jon the wand with anticipation, but when Jon gave it a wave, still nothing.
In that moment, Jon started to wonder if Professor McGonagall had made a mistake—maybe he wasn't a wizard after all. How else could it take over an hour without finding the right wand?
"Even more difficult than I expected," Ollivander muttered, lost in thought. Then he suddenly lit up. "Wait a moment, Mr. Hart!"
And with that, he disappeared.
Jon finally had a chance to sit back down and rest his aching arm.
Three minutes later, Ollivander returned, holding a dust-covered box.
"Try this one, Mr. Hart..." he said, carefully opening it and pulling out a rather unusual-looking wand.
Jon took it. It felt smooth—unlike any of the others—and even in the summer heat, it emitted a faint, cool sensation.
Before he could react, there was a sharp whoosh. A flash of red light burst from the wand tip, golden sparks crackling like fireworks and dancing along the walls...
"Oh, excellent! Wonderful!" Ollivander nearly shouted.
"Oh?" Jon's eyes lit up. Could this wand, like the protagonist's, have some special backstory?
Maybe it was a "brother wand" to a powerful wizard's?
Maybe a unicorn donated two hairs—one became Dumbledore's wand, and the other, this one?
Then again... Dumbledore was a dead pervert, kind of gross. Newt Scamander would be cool. Nicolas Flamel was fine too...
Jon was getting lost in his thoughts when Ollivander's next words crushed all his fantasies:
"Actually, this wand isn't one of mine."
"Huh?" Jon's mouth fell open.
"It was made by a wandmaker from China. Chinese wizards prefer to call them 'wandmakers,'" Ollivander explained.
"It was more than twenty years ago. That wandmaker fled to London... I got to know him, and we exchanged wandmaking techniques for a while."
"Fled to London?" Jon caught onto something.
But Ollivander didn't seem interested in discussing the history of Chinese magic. Instead, he dug into the box and pulled out a well-worn piece of cloth.
"Here it is... Made from green bamboo, thirteen inches long, with hair from an Iron-Eating Beast," he read from the cloth. "No wonder it's so smooth—green bamboo."
"Iron-Eating Beast?" The name sounded familiar to Jon.
"A magical creature native to China. I believe Newt Scamander wrote about them... They look a bit like bears, black and white in color. Iron-Eating Beasts have powerful enchantment magic. They can easily charm wizards and Muggles—especially women—into petting and feeding them..." Ollivander added casually.
"Their hair is a common wand core material for Chinese wandmakers. They believe it's stronger and purer than unicorn hair, though I remain unconvinced."
He had already placed Jon's wand into a U-shaped case and wrapped it in brown paper.
"The price is eight Galleons, Mr. Hart."