Constantine glanced up as Sorin picked up the ball. Great. It would be typical of one of his team-mates to walk by just as he messed up. He pulled himself up off the floor and pulled a sharp breath through his teeth. Blood was already welling up in the tiny cuts, the spot where he'd scraped the ground burning painfully and gritty.
"Bit late for that," He replied, moving to the edge of the courtyard, to the low wall so he could sit down. Back when he'd first met Sorin, Taff had had more than a little trouble figuring out what he was saying when it was underlayed in Sorin's heavy accent. Over the years, Taff had slowly figured it out. "Thanks for grabbing that," He nodded to the quaffle in Sorin's hand, but made no attempt to retreive it. He was too busy prodding his scratches with his wand.
"Aguamenti," He murmured. A small trickly of water dribbled from the tip of his wand and Taff set about cleaning the grit from his hand.