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Bowie was one of those people who took conversation to automatically assume that the other was friendly and engaging enough to want to continue the conversation. He was awkward in that sweet and strangely naive way, the sort that others could walk all over if they wanted to because he was so trusting and didn’t view any negative intentions. He was also the type who blushed lightly when a compliment, or in this case a wink, was sent in his direction. Denzel seemed to be achieving the opposite in that he was currently making the thirty-year-old mildly frazzled.
“I’m sure you can find far more interesting people to talk to than I..” He replied humbly, although he wouldn’t agree that humbleness was necessarily exclusive to Hufflepuffs. “But I wouldn’t mind seeing behind the scenes at the radio station, if that was something you were offering?” He’d understand if the answer was a no, he was just a stranger he’d met on the street after all. A very friendly stranger with a keen interest in the exact subject that Denzel happened to be employed in too.
The swift change in subject to a matter in which he knew far less about was unexpected. He blinked, expression a little like he’d been hit with Petrificus Totalus, whilst he mustered up all the Quidditch knowledge he had stored somewhere deep, deep in his noggin’. “I’m sorry but I know absolutely nothing about Quidditch” he admitted a little sheepishly. “I think they’re incredible sportsmen and women but you wouldn’t catch me up there.”
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