The sitting room appeared equal parts average and bizarre, as though someone from the middle-ages had decorated with an Ikea catalogue.

Finally, the Sorting concluded. Super-Baby Harry Potter had ended up Gryffindor—to exactly no one’s surprise.

Finally satisfied that Tristan's stereo and music collection didn't contain dark magic, Filch let them on their way.

 

Apparently, there had been a troll. Only not in the dungeons. And Harry Potter, all of eleven years old, had somehow managed to kill it. But he'd also lost about a million House Points from Gryffindor in the process.

Tristan wasn’t really that clear on the situation.

Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt.

Isobel had never spent much time around muggles before, but was starting to see what Tristan meant about their being magical in their own way.

“Laurel, seven inches, Dragon Heartstring,” Mr. Ollivander had said. “Rather heavy.” 

“Penelope might still fancy you, and apparently she’s single after all,” Isobel joked.

Tristan offered an exaggerated frown. “The blonde one in your House? Half the school still believe the story she spread second year about my being the illegitimate child of the dark lord, so..."

“I’ll file her under ‘maybe,’ then.”

While no expert on the facial expressions of cats, Tristan could have sworn that Mrs. Norris looked triumphant.

It was hard to work out what Tristan did out of love, and what what he did because he hated himself—maybe all of it, one way or the other.

“That one,” Tristan pointed out the youngest Weasley. “Played some chess. And that one,” he indicated to a manic little witch with a lot of hair, “did something clever with potions. The rest has a lot to do with some special rock.”