The door of the Sorting Room opens, and what looks like a small, curly-headed child walks in, holding a pipe. Only, rather than a small child, the figure is instead rather a tall hobbit; and in taking in the proportions of the room he finds himself in, he looks perhaps understandably confused
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Merry's fond of children.
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When you're the shortest person in the class, this is a good thing.
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"I'm a hobbit. That's not particularly odd."
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"Well, I like your answer to the Ravenclaw question over your dad's. There's more important things in life sometimes!"
Like MMORPGs.
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"Well, he has many civic duties. He forgets, sometimes, that inventories and such are not the be-all. It was rather aggravating, when I was younger."
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"Because there are standards that decent folk abide by."
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Ooh! You're Merry!
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But this was the first time he had been hailed by a talking dog.
"I... am," he said, rather taken aback.
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That might explain the animal's ability to speak.
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"What's pipe-weed? Do you have seeds? Does it have flowers, or healing properties?"
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In his middle-age, Merry will go on to write a book called Herblore of the Shire, a rather exhaustive volume; for now, his interest is chiefly in pipe-weed.
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He pulls a smallish pouch from one pocket.
"How much would your friend like?"
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