Swinging The Great Sword At Hogwarts

1991. In the quiet neighborhood of Little Whinging, Surrey, on Privet Drive, Number 6. The early morning sunlight streamed through the second-floor window, casting a warm glow across the wooden floor. A steady tapping broke the concentration of a young boy who had been meticulously sharpening a pencil. He glanced up, noticing a plump, round shadow etched onto the floor. Once he caught sight of the shadow’s owner, he couldn’t help but mutter to himself. “I know I’m no ordinary person,” he said, “but you’re really taking it too far.” The eleven-year-old boy was taller than most his age, his lean frame made all the more striking by the neat, grey-blue waistcoat and suit he wore. A golden watch chain glinted against the fabric, lending his small pencil-sharpening knife an air of elegance, as if he were holding a fine glass of wine. He stood, stepping from shadow into sunlight. The golden light caught in his jet-black, smooth hair, and his long, feathery lashes flickered as they adjusted to the brightness streaming through the window. He squinted slightly, his reddish-brown eyes narrowing against the sun’s glare, while his thin, pale pink lips pressed into a quiet smile. With his half-Slavic heritage, the boy lacked the usual freckles of his English peers. His fair, finely featured face resembled that of a noble prince from a storybook. John arranged his pencils neatly across the desk, handling them as if each were a piece of fine art. His gaze shifted to the window, where an owl persistently tapped at the glass, a letter clutched firmly in its beak. This sight made him pause, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. Owls themselves weren’t strange. After all, it wasn’t like this was the age of instant messaging or anything—it was perfectly reasonable for someone to send a letter. But an owl delivering one was another matter entirely. He studied the letter more closely. The envelope was crafted from thick, heavy parchment, with deep green ink scrawled elegantly across it. So far, nothing too unusual—until his eyes landed on the wax seal. Pressed into the seal was a shield marked with an ornate, capital ‘H’ and surrounded by the figures of a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake. “It couldn’t be… could it?” From his name alone, one might guess John was a peaceful sort, though he held certain secrets close. Yes, he was a traveler from another world. Since arriving, he’d sensed that he wasn’t quite ordinary. After all, he was John Wick. Bearing the same name as that infamous character—who singlehandedly dismantled an entire gang for a dog—seemed a sure sign that his life would be anything but ordinary. In preparation, he’d even trained himself to kill with a single pencil, a skill well-practiced among his peers, earning him the ominous title of “Pencil Slayer.” He was confident that, if faced with a dangerous situation, he could calmly pull out a pencil and demand his opponent drop their weapon. Yet he hadn’t anticipated that he truly was in an extraordinary world—just not an ordinary one. This was a world filled with wizards, capable of erasing memories with a flick of their wands or invading minds without a second thought. A world where people wielded supernatural powers, including twisted souls like Grindelwald and Voldemort. “So all those years of pencil-killing practice were a waste?” John cast a regretful glance at his neatly arranged pencils. Ten years of diligent training, only to find himself in a world of magic. No matter how skilled an assassin might be, could he really stand a chance against a wizard? For a wizard, even the most baffling ailments were easily cured, not to mention the sneaky, unpredictable spells they wielded. “Fine,” he muttered, recalling a wise saying, “Since I’m here, I’ll just make sure they find their final resting place here too.” After a moment’s contemplation, he reached over and opened the window. The owl, waiting outside for what must have felt like an eternity, flew in with an indignant hoot and promptly tossed the letter square at John’s face before flapping off without so much as a demand for food. A cheeky kid like him, a new Hogwarts student? What rotten luck. “Tch, how rude. Are all the Hogwarts owls this uncivilized? I bet Hagrid’s the only one who could put up with them,” John muttered, pulling the envelope off his face and complaining about the Hogwarts owl’s lack of decorum. He opened the letter. “Dear Mr. Wick, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. The term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress.” “September 1… still a bit of time,” John murmured to himself, when suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind. [Ding! Hidden aspect of the world detected. Series quest initiated: Hogwarts.] Of course—his “golden finger.” As a traveler from another world, John had discovered his unique advantage, or “golden finger,” back when he was five. He’d stumbled upon a mysterious panel that seemed to exist only in his mind. That panel, he was convinced, was why he’d mastered the art of “killing three people with a single pencil” by age eleven. Simple and functional, the panel had only two features besides assigning quests: “Augmentation” and “Skill Points.” “Augmentation, as the name suggests, was akin to stacking various buffs from games, enhancing his capabilities. Skill Points allowed him to level up specific skills. Both Augmentation and Skill Points could be acquired by completing randomly assigned tasks. For instance, John had achieved Level 7 in short weapon mastery. This meant that, even armed with nothing but a pencil, he could take down three full-grown men with ease. Originally, he had a grand plan: accumulate enough skill points to turn himself into an all-around athlete or get accepted into the most prestigious universities. But those ambitions were momentarily put on hold by this unexpected Hogwarts acceptance letter. A new attribute, ‘Magic Power,’ had appeared on his panel, confirming the letter’s authenticity beyond a doubt. It was July now. John’s next challenge would be convincing his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wick, that their son was, indeed, a wizard… “John, this joke isn’t amusing,” said Mr. Watson Wick, his father, with a stern expression. “You may have successfully forced me out of the office and back to school with nothing but a pencil—and even managed to make me apologize to four kids on your behalf—but torturing your father with this kind of far-fetched joke is going too far.” Watson Wick, John’s father in this life, was the quintessential British elite: golden-brown hair, reddish-brown eyes, a sharp nose, and a well-tailored suit. John, however, took more after his mother. Mrs. Wick, a striking beauty from the snowy land of Russia, shared John’s jet-black hair. Even her dress exuded a graceful sophistication. As middle-class professionals, the Wicks were understandably skeptical of young John’s seemingly outrageous claims. Mrs. Wick sided firmly with Watson, holding a gold-rimmed bone china cup of coffee, her eyes reflecting the exasperation parents often feel when their children seem to be stretching the truth. “It was three. And I’m not joking,” John countered, correcting the record. “It really was three. That fourth one fell over on his own—had nothing to do with me.” “Oh, really? That little Dudley kid told a different story. And he devoured that entire apology cake we sent. I still can’t fathom how he fit it all in,” Watson replied with a bemused smirk. Realizing he was indeed in a world of magic, John started to connect the dots. Could that chubby Dudley be Harry Potter’s cousin? The pieces seemed to fit. After considerable persuasion, John finally managed to convince his parents—well, almost. Mr. and Mrs. Wick, half-believing, agreed to give him a chance to prove his story. And so, the days slipped by, each one nudging them closer to September. The Wicks even began calling him their “little wizard,” a nickname they’d coined just for him. However, word of his new title somehow leaked out. Soon, a gang of kids who’d never gotten along with John began taunting him as “Wizard Boy.” That was, until John brandished a pencil at them. Terrified, they bolted home to their mothers without a second thought. …