Watching Tracey react was nearly as interesting as listening to the match; Theodore enjoyed quidditch, but when torn between real, live company and the inevitably flawed commentary of WWN match observers, he tended to exert more of his efforts towards the former. She was delightfully expressive, and he both enjoyed and appreciated her effusiveness -- he felt it symbolised trust, and that was difficult to come by, these days. His own trust was inevitably fractured, leaving some friends with rare hints to his frustrations while others were entrusted to his views on politics. Rarely, he allowed anyone access to his emotional spectrum. It seemed too tenuous a thing to burden anyone with, and he could see little use in steeping his friendships in melancholy or exhaustion. That she could be open, even with so passing a fancy as quidditch (though he would never claim it wasn't a serious matter, not in this shop), was comforting. Just as most things here were comforting.
"No, no. Don't change the order." Ever the stereotypical Brit, he disliked the idea of making a fuss, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd had a mismatched wine. This wasn't a formal dinner, and his concerns were mostly that she would end up disliking the red he'd chosen. It was a nice one. He was proud of his collection. But matters of pride always fell to those of propriety, and he raised a hand to put her at ease. Interrupting quidditch to faff about with changes would be blasphemous, anyway.
Curiosity about Montague's late call died upon his lips as he refrained from asking if she'd slept at all, and he attempted to turn his sights inwards as she shifted the tone of the conversation. "Bit difficult," he said, but his smile turned wry -- a little too much revealed. He rubbed his eyebrow, waving away tendrils of smoke. "Diagon seems to be the focus of the resistance's wrath. Unfortunately, it isn't an enjoyable time to be a second class citizen."