A comfortable end to a long week seemed more and more appealing as Theodore closed the gap between his flat and Tracey's shop, looking and feeling remarkably dressed down (for him). He'd been in work wear the entire morning, though he hadn't actually gone to the office -- couldn't, as he wasn't, despite being the only other employee, considered trustworthy enough to have a set of keys. Instead, he'd worked at home, sifting through an impressive stack of files and folders to prepare himself for his employer's trial Monday morning. He could imagine better uses of a Sunday than sitting at his coffee table, bedecked in a button up, tie, and formal robes (he swore that he was more productive in stifling clothes), but these files had to be completed. They should have been finished by Friday, as his boss had reminded him twice before they'd gone home for the weekend, but Theodore wasn't a damned miracle worker, and the various upsets in Diagon this week had made it impossible to complete his research and prepare adequate notes. Time he should have spent working had been taken up with pointless interrogations, and he could only forgo lunch and dinner so many times a week to stay at the office and read.
By the time he escaped his flat, in dark grey Falcon-pride robes, he was committed to not reading a single word before tomorrow morning.
This was, of course, impossible. The last week's cases spoke to him more viscerally than any had in the past year, and a determination to find the best possible solution for the wizards involved in his case had displaced most of his desires for comfort and ease. He'd read another case before bed, finish up his notes, and be sure that their argument was as strong as it could possibly be -- even if he had few hopes for a successful case. Hope was a disease of the privileged, and he couldn't claim to be privileged in anything but morals these days.
Not quite the best mindset for a fun night in, admittedly, but Theodore took a deep breath before stretching out a lean hand to rap at the Quidditch Supplies' door. He wasn't going to be grumpy this afternoon. He was going to enjoy quidditch.