"I mean a pencil." She knew he was from an old magical family that was weirdly sheltered about what went on in the parts of the world that weren't magic - but pencils were so fundamental.

At least they were to Lily, who did well enough with a quill, but felt she wrote much quicker with a pencil. Reaching for one, she rolled it across the table towards him to inspect.

"A pot of ink could have never survived the night at the bottom of the lake, pencils you can recover." She had fretted over them almost as much as she had the bag itself, or the books it contained.