The Ministry of Magic atrium was, as ever, a cathedral of polished black marble and self-importance. Witches and wizards streamed through the golden gates of the fireplaces, memos darted overhead like irritable paper birds, and the enchanted fountain of the Magical Brethren glittered under the high, vaulted ceiling. And there, directly in front of the security desk, stood Draco Malfoy, radiating the particular fury of a man who has just been asked to hand over his wand for inspection.

Draco’s inner voice, dry as gin: My wife bought me this quill. She handed it over with that little smirk she does when she’s pretending not to be pleased with herself. If this man so much as scratches his ear with it, I will personally hex his eyebrows off.

A few metres away, Harry Potter was doing a very poor job of pretending to read a Ministry pamphlet. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he was watching the exchange with the expression of someone witnessing a slow-motion disaster.

He was already reaching into his inside robe pocket, pulling out his phone with the gravity of a man drawing a wand in a duel.

The security wizard stared. Harry stared. A passing witch paused mid-stride, clearly recognising the phrase from somewhere and deciding she wanted no part of it.