Madam Malkin is a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

"Hogwarts, dear?" she says as soon as she spots her. "Got the lot here—a young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face is standing on a footstool while a second witch pins up his long black robes. 

Boys. Well, he can't be as bad as Dudley. Maybe wizard boys are less immature than muggle boys or something.

She stands Dorea on a stool next to the boy, slips a long robe over her head, and begins to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," says the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"

On the one hand the answer to that question is obvious; on the other hand smalltalk is polite and annoying people for no reason is bad.

"Yes."

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," he says. He has a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?"

Oh, it's this type, ugh. She wasn't even sure they were real and not just something people who don't like rich people put in books or on the telly.

Still, social games are social games.

"Not yet."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"Not yet," she repeats. She doesn't know what Quidditch is but admitting that is a great way to lose points.

"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you'll be in yet?"

Aaaah what are Houses. Hagrid did not mention Houses. She can't say "not yet" again, she'll sound like a broken record--

"No, do you?"

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

Aaaah what's Hufflepuff--

"That sounds like rather an overreaction."

"I say, look at that man!" he says, nodding towards the front window—

—where a familiar giant can be seen, grinning at Dorea and pointing at two large ice creams to show he can't come in. 

"What about him?"

"I've never seen a man so big! I wonder if he's half-giant."

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you it's rude to stare?"

"—excuse me?"

"You're staring at a person with an unusual physical trait and speculating wildly aloud about it. Honestly, I would have thought your parents would have taught you better."

"My parents have taught me very well how to deal with people like," he shoots Hagrid another look, "him."

"Oh, so you're the 'everyone who's different from me is inherently inferior and I don't have to treat them like a person' kind of rich brat, I see," she says, lip curling ever so slightly in disdain.

"Who do you think you are?"

"Now, now, I'll have no fighting here," says Madam Malkins.

She gives him a cold smile and sweeps her hair away from her forehead,

"I think I'm the Girl-Who-Lived."

He stares, unable to come up with anything to say to that.

Then she can pretty much ignore him, can't she. "Sorry," she says to Madame Malkin.