Ravelle Valloren pushed the unlatched door to enter, and the manager of the shop was duly notified of her arrival. She stood in the long, haphazard aisle and dust motes wafted in the shafts of varyingly aged sunlight which streamed obviously through the dirty glass windows. It smelled of wood polish and sawdust and something far older, but a scent that tied together all living things. She stepped into the rows of wands and looked each one over as they whispered tiny notes on the edge of hearing. As a pureblood, Ravelle was always recounted tales of legendary witches and wizards whose names were spoken with reverence in every corner of the magical world. Whenever one is born into privilege and prestige, as a right of birth, one has them at one’s command. But none of that seemed to make any difference in the venerable, dusty, and old shop. Ollivanders is a place where magic reacts to the person, rather than the notoriety of the wizard. And for a moment, Ravelle felt, anemic and invigorating brief touch of humility. Her eyes roamed along the cramped shelf, following the complex labels and imagining the many hands that had once run over the wood. There was a thrill to it, a shudder running through her spine. Not fear, never fear, simply a dark, electric anticipation. When Mr. Ollivander came towards her, his presence was unobtrusive but intense, his gaze appraising her as though he could look straight into her magical essence. She straightened up a little, smoothing out her robes, a flicker of pride glowing inside her. Even then, she could not shake the lure of her family’s expectations: she needed to excel, her magic had to be undeniable. The first wand seemed unexceptional, and yet it vibrated faintly, testing her, evaluating her. The second, the third, not a one of them fired that electric feeling. Within her heart, there was a slight quickening of pace, that indistinct wave of possibility and humility. Then there was the fourth. It was 23.8 cm long, made from cherry wood with a dragon heartstring core. The moment her fingers touched the wand's smooth, polished surface, it felt as if the wand were awakening. Up her arm, a faint, pulsating hum, a fuse of fire and promise. Cherry wood, she knew, represented her grace, her power, the subtle strength of her pride. Dragon heartstring thrums with primeval, uncontrolled power—audacious, aspirational, intrepid. It was drawn to her heartbeat, not her bloodline. Not her name. Just Her. She picked it up delicately, and a surge of magic passed through her, tingling at her fingertips, igniting in her mind. And for the first time she had the feeling that the wand had chosen her, rather than the other way around. The centuries of Valloren blood within her had ceased to be a legacy, but rather a bridge linking the woman she had been to the future that awaited her. Pride melted into wonder, bloodline into bond. “Perfect,” Mr Ollivander murmured, and she knew without a word being said what was happening. The wand trembled in her palm, brimming with potential, waiting to be shaped by her wishes. She lifted her wand and, as if by muscle memory, uttered the most basic spell she could conjure up, a pinprick of light, and it exploded from the tip like molten flame, teeming with life and sturdiness, reacting to her summoned touch as if it had been buried asunder in darkness since the onset of time. Ravelle Valloren smile with a look of triumph and wonder. She knew this was hers. Hers because of nothing she had been born with, nothing she had been given—only the wand had chosen her. But in the choosing of the wand, she witnessed the path of her own magic, unfettered and natural and unlike any other.