I gingerly clasp the wand, holding it lightly, thinking about how to phrase my wish.
Without realising what I am doing the wand fulfils my unspoken wish and the plate in front of me is filled with breakfast again. Stacks of pancakes, smothered in syrup, piles of bacon nearly a loaf of bread in toast, oceans of beans and an army of fried mushrooms. Other pieces of breakfast, each more decadent than the last start to appear on the plate until I let go of the wand, which clatters to the ground.
I look up from the floor, my eyes drawn downwards to the noise of the wand. The plate is practically overflowing with food.
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