Theodore watched her with interest, and his eyes crinkled from a broadening smile as she announced the start -- there was nothing quite like watching someone with genuine passions be free with those passions (to an extent). The shop itself was a testament to her dedication to the sport; everything tended and well-cared for, product organised in a way that spoke to a keen understanding of the customer, and her rooms upstairs. No one could question that Tracey Davis loved and lived and breathed quidditch. But it was quite another thing to know it and to see it painted across her bright features. He relished how open she was with him -- and how open he was welcome to be with her.
His own enthusiasm was of a more muted variety, drawn into the lines of his back as he leaned forward, into the impatient need to know what was happening knitted across his brows. He was of a decidedly male brain, and less apt to multi-task, and when Tracey hunted for a corkscrew, his attentions turned entirely on her, and it. "Let me --" he began, holstering his cigarette between his lips and squinting away errant threads of smoke. But she'd gotten it, and he laughed a little. Slytherin had never wanted for self-sufficient women, and that was something he appreciated, predilection for chivalry aside. "My apologies, Miss Davis," he teased in an exhale of smoke. "I should know better than to try and be helpful in this shop."
But chivalry died hard, and he shook his head at Tracey's insistence. "You owe me nothing. It was my pleasure," he said firmly, looking over to the pair of brooms to try and change the subject. "What sort of work did Montague need?" A little gossip never hurt anyone.