Ever in search of students to gift with detention, Puf moonwalked into the Sorting Room and stopped dead, staring at the Guide with quizzical intensity, which in this case meant the blankest of bovine stares (although his independently mobile pupils made his slack jaw marginally more expressive. Wait, no they didn't).

"Hi!" The greeting was unsettlingly bright, punctuating the inanimate expression on Puf's enormous felted dial. "Where's my Rescue Racer?"