Tracey's expressions waxed and waned with the match playing out on the radio, but just as intriguing was the company in her presence. They would definitely have their glasses ready the next time Falmouth scored. As much as she was loath to admit it, she was listening closely for any remarks made about Montague's performance on his broom.
"It's not too late," she stated, chewing her lip and accioing a quill and parchment. "We can send the order change through the floo. They've got to be backed up at this hour. What would you like better? How about roast? Beef wellington would be tasty." It was getting late enough in the day, and she was hungry enough, that Tracey would have been happy with muggle pizza but Theodore would have likely balked at that suggestion.
She managed to give Theodore a properly chided nod at his knock-on-wood. "I'm sure he'll be back to complain for any reason he chooses," she countered with some authority. "But his broom was in perfect shape when he left here this morning." And when her words sounded not quite right, she tried to correct herself. "Last night, I mean. Bugger, it was late anyway." No point in trying to clear things up. Hopefully Nott wasn't going to judge her by that.
Puddlemere had the quaffle again but the Falmouth beaters changed the course with a well aimed bludger. "Take that!" she hissed under her breath and plopped back into her well worn chair. "You've not said much about yourself. Rough week?" It wasn't pity in her expression. If there was a way to help Theodore right the wrongs of injustice, she'd do it. She knew he wasn't guilty of anything.