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“So…magic,” said Vanessa again, obviously trying to compose a sentence that would make her sound like a police officer and not a ten-year-old fangirl. “So…magic is a real thing.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But it isn’t like Harry Potter, is it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re driving a Volkswagen,” she said.
“What?” I said. “You think Harry Potter would drive a Mercedes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Vanessa. “If he drove anything it would be a Ford Anglia.” Which meant nothing to me—I thought the boy wizard rode a broomstick.

There was a statue on the lawn outside the institute of a woman, hand on breast, looking mournfully upwards as if contemplating the death of a loved one and the amount of paperwork it was bound to cause.

Gaston was a short, bulky man in his late fifties who favoured tight jeans, studded belts and sleeveless T-shirts, the better to show off the tattoos on his own arms. Only the absence of a mullet or a purple Mohican saved him from a breach of the EU directive against egregious cliché embodiment.
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