Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be dam­aged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle it engulfed him in thick grey smoke which smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing, Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn’t pleased.

Harry was relieved to hear the lunch bell. His brain felt like a wrung sponge. Everyone filed out of the classroom except him and Ron, who was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.

‘Stupid ... useless ... thing ...’

‘Write home for another one,’ Harry suggested, as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.

‘Oh yeah, and get another Howler back,’ said Ron, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. ‘It’s your own fault your wand got snapped -’