He wanted to brush Harry's hand away from his back with a vague "not helping, Harry," but he didn't, because Harry would have no idea what he was talking about and he'd confused him enough. Nor could he know just how little help that back patting was. Instead he smiled, though it felt more like a grimace, and offered his thanks.
What had Harry just said? His brain struggled to work its way around to the present.
Quidditch. Right. You know, you ponce, your profession? Get a bloody grip. This is Harry for God's sake.
"Yeah, that'd be brilliant. Might be better to bring him to a practice, he can meet the team. Maybe even fly a bit with us, if he's got a good seat on the broomstick."