Rewritten
Diagon Alley was not new to Ravelle Valloren. With her chin raised just enough to indicate that she was not a part of the commotion, she had passed shabby cauldron stores and cacophonous apothecaries. However, she had never visited Flourish and Blotts herself.
House-elves were there for that. When she entered the room by herself for the first time, the bell above the door rang thinly and sharply. It wasn't very impressive. It lacked elegance. It was too noisy, claustrophobic, and dusty. Uneven towers of books were stacked.
Someone pushed a ladder along its rail, making it screech. A book in the store farther back slammed shut as if someone had been bitten by it. Ravelle's nose wrinkled. She had anticipated something... sophisticated. It felt alive instead. According to their robes, two first-year students were fighting over the final copy of the Grade 1 Standard Book of Spells.
The fingers of one of them were inked. The other appeared to be about to cry. They both missed her. She went unnoticed. Like a splinter, the realisation slid beneath her ribs. Her last name came into rooms at home before her. Professors would be aware of it. It would be recognisable to other purebloods. Valloren had a purpose.
It had no meaning here. She walked deeper inside, lightly running her fingers along the spines. A few hummed softly. One shuddered. Another attempted to escape the shelf, but a frustrated store employee pushed him back into position.
It was disorganised.
It lacked dignity.
It was... euphoric.
She looked at a heavy, slightly battered copy of Hogwarts: A History. Handling had softened the edges.
Not perfect.
Not very impressive.
utilised.
She picked it up after hesitating. A new copy would have pleased her mother.
Not touched.
Not shared.
However, Ravelle opened it and found the Founders chapter with ease, as if it had been read there frequently. Someone who had attempted, but failed, to erase their thoughts left faint pencil marks in the margins. She couldn't help but wonder who they were. More than the dust, the noise, or being disregarded, that thought made her uneasy.
Since she had never been urged to consider those who were not in her social circle. Somewhere behind her, there was a fit of laughter. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a girl gasping as a stack of books rearranged themselves in midair. This girl was obviously not from an ancient wizarding family, based on the way she held her wand as if she was still in shock that it was hers. The girl appeared elated.
Something twisted in Ravelle's stomach.
It wasn't disgust.
It wasn't superiority.
Envy was the cause.
Ravelle was informed that her ancestry gave her rights to magic. She had never been informed that she would find surprises in magic. She carefully shut the book with her hand resting on top of the book for clarity and confidence.
There was the first time she thought about the question: quietly and dangerously: "If magic belongs to all those who use it, what makes me different?"
The thought frightened her.
The thought excited her.
And Ravelle Valloren, heir of a name that had endured for centuries, standing in the middle of a cluttered bookstore and realizing she didn’t want to be special because of her blood. She wanted to be special because she knew more than everyone else in that room. That was something she could earn.
House-elves were there for that. When she entered the room by herself for the first time, the bell above the door rang thinly and sharply. It wasn't very impressive. It lacked elegance. It was too noisy, claustrophobic, and dusty. Uneven towers of books were stacked.
Someone pushed a ladder along its rail, making it screech. A book in the store farther back slammed shut as if someone had been bitten by it. Ravelle's nose wrinkled. She had anticipated something... sophisticated. It felt alive instead. According to their robes, two first-year students were fighting over the final copy of the Grade 1 Standard Book of Spells.
The fingers of one of them were inked. The other appeared to be about to cry. They both missed her. She went unnoticed. Like a splinter, the realisation slid beneath her ribs. Her last name came into rooms at home before her. Professors would be aware of it. It would be recognisable to other purebloods. Valloren had a purpose.
It had no meaning here. She walked deeper inside, lightly running her fingers along the spines. A few hummed softly. One shuddered. Another attempted to escape the shelf, but a frustrated store employee pushed him back into position.
It was disorganised.
It lacked dignity.
It was... euphoric.
She looked at a heavy, slightly battered copy of Hogwarts: A History. Handling had softened the edges.
Not perfect.
Not very impressive.
utilised.
She picked it up after hesitating. A new copy would have pleased her mother.
Not touched.
Not shared.
However, Ravelle opened it and found the Founders chapter with ease, as if it had been read there frequently. Someone who had attempted, but failed, to erase their thoughts left faint pencil marks in the margins. She couldn't help but wonder who they were. More than the dust, the noise, or being disregarded, that thought made her uneasy.
Since she had never been urged to consider those who were not in her social circle. Somewhere behind her, there was a fit of laughter. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a girl gasping as a stack of books rearranged themselves in midair. This girl was obviously not from an ancient wizarding family, based on the way she held her wand as if she was still in shock that it was hers. The girl appeared elated.
Something twisted in Ravelle's stomach.
It wasn't disgust.
It wasn't superiority.
Envy was the cause.
Ravelle was informed that her ancestry gave her rights to magic. She had never been informed that she would find surprises in magic. She carefully shut the book with her hand resting on top of the book for clarity and confidence.
There was the first time she thought about the question: quietly and dangerously: "If magic belongs to all those who use it, what makes me different?"
The thought frightened her.
The thought excited her.
And Ravelle Valloren, heir of a name that had endured for centuries, standing in the middle of a cluttered bookstore and realizing she didn’t want to be special because of her blood. She wanted to be special because she knew more than everyone else in that room. That was something she could earn.