"Look," Hairy heard one of the the boys say, "the new Nimbus Forty-two Hundred - smoothest ever -"

Hogride stopped them at another store. Hairy looked up and read the sign: "The Tomato Factory." The store had huge glass windows displaying lush, ripe tomato plants growing under blindingly strong lights.

The doors automatically slid open for them as they entered the store, and Hairy saw more displays of tomato-growing systems. The Tomato Factory was crowded with all sorts of equipment for growing plants, both indoors and out. Hairy saw water pumps, bags of soil and fertilizers, huge lightbulbs hanging from racks, electrical ballasts, assorted sizes of fans, and a small dumpy woman wearing green, who was pulling off her gardening gloves as she approached them from behind the counter.

"Hello Hogride, how're things growing?" she said, greeting them both with a big smile.

"Good as always, Professor Sprout," replied the giant biker. "But we need some help with this 'ere seedling," he added, gesturing towards Hairy's plant.

"What have you got there?" she asked, taking Hairy's teacup from his hands. "Oh my, we'd better take you into the back room for a closer look." She bustled them both past complicated displays of Trickle Feed Tube Systems, Nutrient Film Tables, Ebb & Flow Hydro Trays, Aeroponic Mister Assemblies and Turnkey Homegrow Closets. They went through a swinging door marked "Employees only" and into the back room.

Sprout took a large magnifying glass from a table cluttered with all sorts of pots, mounds of soil, packets of seeds, and other gardening paraphernalia. She examined Headstash thoroughly and efficiently.

"Your plant has a nitrogen deficiency, some mild root fungus and a few spider mites," she said, taking a pinch of soil from the teacup, dropping it into a small vial of pink fluid, and examining the results. "But it's nothing we can't take care of. She needs more light though, a great deal more light. It looks like she was grown in a dark closet."

Sprout expertly scooped the plant and its meager bit of dirt from out of the cracked teacup and into a slightly larger pot, already half-filled with rich, moist soil. She packed some fresh earth in around the plant, then sprinkled on a variety of nutrients and poured in a beaker-full of murky brown water. She then sprayed the entire plant with three different misters, caressed the leaves for a moment, and handed it back to Hairy.

"She'll be fine now," she said. "Just don't let the soil dry out, and make sure she gets plenty of sunshine and fresh air."

"Gee thanks!" said Hairy. "I'll be sure take good care of it, uh, I mean her." He was thrilled to see Headstash looking so green and perky.

"Thanks Professor," said Hogride. "We've got to ge' a move on, we've still got to buy the lad more school supplies."

Next was Ollibonger's House of Glass. Inside this shop Hairy saw all sorts of beautiful things made from blown and melted glass. The whole inside was stuffed full of exotic goblets, pendants, vases, bowls, paperweights, orbs, sculptures of birds, fish, animals and fruits, chandeliers, sconces, even kaelidoscopes, all shimmering with intricately swirled colors and complex patterns of reflected light.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like the beads of glass in his shop.

"Good afternoon, Hairy Pothead," said the man, in a voice like grinding glass. "I thought I'd see you here soon."

Mr Ollibonger moved closer to Hairy. Hairy wished he would blink. His big eyes were a bit spooky.

"You have your father's hair and your mother's eyes I see. It seems only yesterday that they were here, buying their first bongs. Your father got a Color-changing Bubbler with Fumed Sidecar, and your mother took a Pink Mini Triple-Bubbler with Donut Mouthpiece. I remember every bong I've ever sold young man."

Mr Ollibonger had come so close that he and Hairy were almost nose to nose. Hairy could see himself reflected in those glassy eyes.

"And that's where..."

Mr Ollibonger touched the leaf-shaped scar on Hairy's forehead with his long, cold finger.

"Fascinating," he muttered, then shook his head and, to Hairy's relief, he spotted Hogride.

"Ruderalis, Ruderalis Hogride. How good to see you again. Dichromatic Chubbler with inverse swirl and an extra-deep bowl, wasn't it?"

"It was, yes sir," replied Hogride, nodding happily.

"Good bong, that one. I suppose they confiscated it when you were expelled?" said Ollibonger, suddenly stern.

"Er - yes, they did tha'," replied Hogride quickly.

"Hmmm," said Ollibonger, giving Hogride a piercing look. "Well, let's go into the back room."

He escorted them into the back section of the shop, through a door marked Private. Hairy saw that the shelves in here were all filled with shimmering glass bongs.

Ollibonger turned his attention to Hairy. "Well now Mr Pothead, let's see." He pulled a tape measure from his pocket. "Which is your bong arm?"

"Er - well, I'm right-handed," said Hairy.

"Hold out your arm then, that's it." Ollibonger expertly measured Hairy from shoulder to wrist, then wrist to fingertip, thumb to pinkie, knee to nipple and chin to nose, plus across his lips, then around his bicep, wrist, neck and head. He wrote everything down in a small black notebook.

"Every Ollibonger bong is unique, hand-crafted by one of our team," said Ollibonger, his long fingers trailing along a row of bongs. "We have dozens of talented glass-blowers on staff, working day and night to create these works of art." He suddenly stopped an grabbed one off the shelf, bringing it to Hairy. "Try this, it's an nine-inch Sherbulator with removable stem."

Hairy held the cold bong in his hands. He wasn't sure how to hold it properly, and before he could get a comfortable grip Ollibonger was whisking it from his hands and replacing it with another, much bigger glass contraption.

"Try this seventeen-inch Saxophone Odyssey with chubby double-knuckle grip."

Hairy looked at the strange glass object in his hands. It was beautiful and covered in swirling patterns, but he wasn't even sure which end he was supposed to suck on. Ollibonger quickly replaced it with a Four-way Donut Sherlock Bubbler, then a Ziggy Hammer with Sidecar, followed by a Candy Cane Sidewinder Genie with Left-handed Shotgun Grip.

Soon Hairy had gone through another dozen unique bongs, and Hogride was starting to fidget impatiently.

"'airy, this could take a while, and we've got a schedule ta keep. So I'm gonna fetch yer robes an' books an' bus ticke', and I'll meet ya back 'ere in a wee bi'. Alright?"

"Sure, I guess so," said Hairy, feeling a bit nervous about being alone with Ollibonger, who was rooting around in another room for even more glassware.

As Hogride left, bumping into shelves and leaving glass jostling precariously in his wake, Ollibonger returned with another stack of boxes.

"You'll know the right one when you grip it," said Ollibonger, taking a tiny bong shaped like a toadstool from Hairy's hands and replacing it with a heavy glass sculpture with two separate bowls and four water chambers. It covered Hairy's lap and he could barely lift it. "The person doesn't choose the bong," said Ollibonger, "it's the bong that chooses you."

Hairy went through another two-dozen bongs in rapid succession, and began worrying that he would never find one that suited him. Finally Ollibonger paused, looking at Hairy with his head tilted, lost in deep thought. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers and muttered "Yes, why not?" He slipped into the storage room again, emerging with a beautiful piece of glass. "Eight inches, color changing trichromatic glass, double bubbler, easy grip, removable bowl."

He passed it to Hairy, and it felt warm and snug in the young Weedster's grip. Hairy's hand seemed to fit perfectly, his thumb rested naturally on the carb hole, and when he brought it to his mouth and took a dry draw, it felt smooth and clean and good. He instantly knew that this was the bong for him. It felt right.

"How much is it?" asked Hairy, suddenly worried that he wouldn't have enough Hempscript to afford the beautiful bong.

"This is a quality piece," said Ollibonger. "A very special item. It's been in my shop for years, many years." He took the glasswork back from Hairy and held it up to the light. "The glassblower who made this bong created another bong - just one other."

Ollibonger picked up the box from the floor and started to carefully pack the bong back inside. "It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this bong," he said, "when its brother - why, the man who uses its brother gave you that scar."

Hairy swallowed.

Ollibonger looked at Hairy and smiled grimly. "This is an expensive piece Mr Pothead. I'm afraid I must charge you nineteen Ozzys to make it yours."

Hairy pulled out his thick wad of cash and counted out the needed bills. He was happy to see that he had more than enough Hempscript to pay for a dozen bongs.

Hairy didn't think he liked Mr Ollibonger too much. He took the box and went back to the main part of the store to wait for Hogride.

There were two other boys waiting in the store to buy their bongs. Ollibonger gestured for one of them to enter the backroom, and Hairy was left alone in the shop with the other boy.

"Hullo," said the boy. "Hempwards too?" He had a bored, drawling voice, and a pale face with a pointed nose.

"Yes," said Hairy.

"My father's down the street buying my books and my mother's next door getting gardening supplies. Next I'm going to drag them to the aromatherapy shop to look at vaporizers. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully daddy into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Hairy was reminded of Studly.

"What kind of bong did you get?" asked the boy.

"Uh, it's eight inches, and it has color changing glass."

"Play Qannabbi at all?"

"No," said Hairy, wondering what Qannabbi could be.

"I do - Daddy says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree. Know which house you'll be in yet?"

"No," said Hairy, feeling more stupid by the minute.

"Well, no one really knows until we get there, do they? But I know I'll be in Snytcherin. All our family have been. Imagine being in Puffintuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm," said Hairy, wishing he knew what the boy was talking about.

"Where are your parents?" asked the boy.

"They're dead," said Hairy quietly.

"Oh, sorry," said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were Weedsters, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Just imagine, some of them have never even heard of ganja until they get the letter from Hempwards. I think they should keep it in the old Weedster families. These newbies are almost as bad as the Legalizers."

"Legalizers?" asked Hairy.

"You know, they want everyone to have access to our special plant! They just can't leave things alone. Some of us like the laws just the way they are, thank you very much. Besides, how could we make such a big profit if just anyone could grow weed?"

"I don't think it's really about the money..." began Hairy, but the boy interrupted him.

"Who's that?" he said, pointing at the window behind Hairy. Hairy turned and saw Hogride walking past the store, carrying a heavy bag in each hand.

"That's Hogride," answered Hairy.

"Oh yes, he's a sort of servant at Hempwards, isn't he?

"He's my friend," answered Hairy coldly, walking to the door to greet the massive biker.

"You should watch out who you're seen with!" called out the boy, as Hairy left the shop.