"Good morning, Scorpius," Amy says cheerfully, stepping back a neat half step to avoid the milk now dripping off the table. "And friend," she adds, to the broom.

She studies it curiously for a second and then turns back to Scorpius.

"Does the broom eat?"

Because she has no idea what a broom would eat, or how, but she has a palace kitchen at her disposal, should they need it.

(Or it can help itself to sausages.)