"A pretty face!" Theodore's objection was lost to the sudden, deafening cheer of the radio, and he turned towards it: Falmouth had just scored, and he didn't even have his wine glass in hand to toast. Damn him! Reaching across the table between the chairs, he raised the empty one in salute and set it back down with a, dare it be said, charming smile. But the celebration wasn't long lasting, and United soon had the quaffle again, leaving Theodore's attentions lacking.
"If it clashes too much, I shall just drink and eat separately," he assured her, though he wished he'd brought a txakoli. "Tell me what we're having next time and I'll bring a more sensible pairing."
Tracey's face said more than her words did, and though Theodore didn't doubt her distaste, he didn't comment on it -- merely noted it away for further reference. With a hint of old-fashioned superstition, he tapped his knuckles lightly on the table before drawing in another lung full of smoke. "Let's not make jokes," he said with faux sobriety. "If the Falcons have difficulties, I'm sure he'll be back in to complain. Loudly." He had no real prejudice against the man, but Quidditch players on the whole seemed more inclined to think with their brawn rather than their brains.