"I suppose professional stalker isn't the right job for you," Millicent said with a grin. "Just like I'm not meant to work in a Quidditch shop. I helped Tracey out a few times, and I think I scared away at least half a dozen customers. They kept asking stupid questions. Like... 'which broom suits a ten-year-old best?' How am I supposed to know that anyway?"
She took a deep drink. After a week of sharing a desk with Romilda and a very non-descript Hufflepuff whose name nobody ever remembered she deserved a drink. Or ten.
"Troll? Not a chance. You're tiny. I suppose I could be. A troll with an awesome dress sense and really good skin, obviously. You're more of a... I don't know. A pixie? A bowtruckle? A mandrake?"