C1: The Most Unlike Slytherin
There's a whispered warning in the Slytherin common room:
"Disobedient wizards get swallowed by the Night Stalker."
He—John Wick—is that Stalker.
They say he commands the stars above the Black Lake. That he roams the halls like a phantom of the Forbidden Forest. That even the Bloody Baron avoids eye contact with him.
Glory made him the pride of Slytherin.
But when the Dark Lord returned, they remembered the words he once spoke:
> "Weapons. I need a lot of weapons."
Staff in his left hand, sword in his right, students cried out:
> "Damn the Sorting Hat, this can't be a Slytherin!"
When the stars return to Hogwarts, they'll do so beneath the glow of one name:
John Wick.
---
Chapter 1: The Wizarding World and John Wick
Year: 1991.
No. 6 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
A shaft of morning light sliced through the curtains of a small upstairs bedroom and struck the wooden floor with golden defiance.
The rhythmic click of a sharpener ceased. John Wick, aged eleven, tall for his age and disturbingly composed, glanced up.
A round shadow circled on the floor, ominous, deliberate.
"Right," he muttered. "I knew I wasn't normal. But this is a bit much."
Dressed in a tailored gray-blue vest suit, complete with a golden pocket watch chain that shimmered like it belonged to a Victorian assassin, he moved gracefully to the window. His black hair caught the sun like silk. His winged lashes trembled slightly with the brightness.
Behind his reddish-brown eyes lived something older. Colder.
He had the face of a fairytale prince, but none of the kindness.
On the windowsill, an owl stared through the glass, tapping insistently.
An owl.
Delivering mail.
Strange, though not stranger than what he'd already seen in this world.
The envelope, thick and yellowed like something out of a Dickens novel, bore his full name in flowing emerald-green ink:
Mr. J. Wick
Bedroom, Second Floor
No. 6 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
But what made his breath still was the wax seal—crimson, ornate, and unmistakably authentic: a capital 'H' framed by a lion, eagle, badger, and snake.
"Hogwarts…" he murmured.
He had secrets, of course. He always did.
The first: he wasn't from this world.
The second: he was John Wick.
Yes, that John Wick. The name alone carried a curse or a prophecy. In his previous life, it had become synonymous with vengeance. Violence. A man who killed three men in a bar with a pencil. A pencil.
Reborn into a British household under the same name, he trained. Obsessively. Relentlessly. And when he bested three bullies with a pencil at age ten, the legend grew again.
But now, it was different.
Magic existed.
Not sleight-of-hand, not stage tricks. Real magic. The kind that wiped memories. The kind that could summon fire or bend the mind.
He sighed.
"So… my pencil skills were useless after all?"
He glanced down at his beloved desk, a tribute to years of single-minded obsession. Each pencil aligned like soldiers. All honed to perfection.
Ten years of brutal training… all seemingly wasted.
Still, he had one more secret: his Goldfinger.
From age five, a mysterious panel had appeared in his mind, a gift of his transmigration. It assigned missions. Rewarded skill points. Granted "blessings," buffs that could enhance reflexes, stamina, even combat efficiency.
He was already at level 7 in short weapon proficiency.
And now… a new category had appeared.
[Magic Detected: Initiating Hogwarts Arc]
He opened the window. The owl gave a derisive hoot and slapped the envelope against his face before flying off with an indignant screech.
"No manners," John grumbled. "Hagrid must be too kind to these birds."
He peeled the wax and opened the letter:
---
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Wick,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
---
It was real.
No doubt. No illusion.
And the new panel stat—Magic: 3/10—confirmed it.
He now had until September 1st. But first, the greater challenge: explaining this to his family.
---
"John, this joke isn't funny."
Watson Wick, his father, looked like a London banker and carried himself like one too—golden-brown hair, reddish-brown eyes, a permanently furrowed brow.
"You once made me apologize to four children you beat with a pencil. But magic letters? Really?"
Watson had had a long day.
Across the table, Mrs. Wick, a stunning woman with raven-black hair and Russian features that could melt ice, held her coffee like a wine glass. Her look was equal parts curiosity and maternal concern.
"I'm serious," John said. "There were three bullies. One fell on his own. Dudley Dursley ate the apology cake. All of it."
At the mention of "Dudley," Watson's eyes narrowed. The name sounded oddly familiar.
John, however, had made the connection. Dudley. Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon.
That meant only one thing.
Harry Potter was real.
And living just four houses down.
The Wicks didn't believe him. But they agreed—grudgingly—to humor him.
Soon, word spread. Local children mocked him, calling him "Little Wizard."
But when they pushed too far, he pulled out a pencil.
They ran.
---
And so began John Wick's journey into the world of magic.
Where spells replaced bullets.
And vengeance took on an entirely new meaning.