Theodore propped up his chin upon his palm, and his elbow upon the chair arm. It was a relief how quickly he felt at ease here, in this raggedy chair, in the presence of a (charmingly) mouthy halfblood, wireless blaring, surrounded by the smells of leather and hay and grease. It was something his regal father would have considered lower class -- but that was one of the several things Theodore disagreed with. Class wasn't about company, or even surroundings. It was about behaviour, and even though he was relaxed, even comfortable, he knew his behaviour to be impeccable. Tracey could shout obscenities at the radio until she was blue in the face -- he didn't make a habit of policing others' behaviour -- her enthusiasm wasn't a disease to be avoided, and no number of memories of a stern faced Edmund Nott would dissuade him.
Besides, she was considerate and, in most respects, quite lovely. Theodore quite liked her forthrightness, her genuineness. It was a quality he didn't get to indulge in frequently.
"Thank you, Tracey," he murmured, adjusting the ashtray on the arm of his chair before patting his robes for a slim case of cigarettes. One lit, he leaned back into his comfortably upholstered chair, looking as though all the cares in the world couldn't reach him through a soft haze of smoke. The ashtray was more a formality than anything; he shied away from buying muggle cigarettes, and the ash from his tip swirled out of existence before hitting the curved glass -- but he liked resting his fingers on it, palm splayed out from ridge to ridge as he considered the swell of nicotine in his veins. He hadn't been this comfortable since -- well, the last time he was here.
"Please do, I'm glad you don't mind red. My whites are getting rather sparse."
A restful smile spread out over his lips.
"The shop is not looking any worse for wear. I expect you've been hard at work after the ministry investigation." His tongue curled around the word like it was bitter. It was.