"What are you reading?"
"A book."
"What's it called?"
"It doesn't matter, because I doubt you'd know what it is."
"I want to know, though!"
"Fine. It's called 101 Ways to Murder a Chosen One."
"...If you didn't want me to know, you could have just told me."
"I did, but you can read subtle social cues as well as you can read German."
"How do you know? I could be fluent in German."
"Really? Sie sind der größte Idiot ich je getroffen habe."
"You speak German?"
"Yes, just a little. I am fluent in French, though."
"Of course you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing, Mr Oh-I'm-So-Special-I-Can-Speak-Multiple-Languages-Look-How-Cool-I-Am."
"...Are you five?"
"..."
"Oh, my God, you are. Alright, stop sulking. If you want, I can teach you a little bit of French."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Okay."
"Okay. Um… Mon nom est Harry Potter et j'adore à manger de la merde."
"Mon nom est Harry Potter et j'adore à manger de la merde. Did I say it right?"
"Your pronunciation was atrocious, but it was passable."
"What did I say?"
"My name is Harry Potter and I love to eat shit."
"... I'm not talking to you anymore."
"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a book over here with my name on it."