A crinkle of Theodore's brow expressed volumes about his concern over this alleged lack of plates. He assumed Tracey was kidding -- hoped she was kidding, anyway -- but he couldn't help the niggling doubt that she was going to dump a newspaper full of fish and chips into his lap and expect him to pick through it with his fingers. Grease near his robes? All over his wine glass? The idea gave him hives. He wasn't obsessive in his dislike of getting dirty, but there was a time and a place for mess, and his comfy time in a friend's shop didn't qualify. Even knowing she was probably teasing, he couldn't help but twist around, looking for any sign of plates. Maybe he could transfigure something in his pocket -- no, this was getting silly. He'd worry about it when there was food being handed to him.
This immediate distress for the well-being of his robes distracted him from the moment of pause that passed in her concern. He was indeed easily embarrassed at the idea that he should be the subject of anyone's worry or pity, and in that vein he typically avoided discussing anything that might bring down upon him any kind of sympathy. But Tracey had asked, and he'd been at least half-honest (insofar as he'd stated a fact without attaching emotional sentiment to it), and if she was worried there was nothing more he could do. He certainly agreed with her sentiments.
"I'm unsure what they hope to accomplish," he said lowly. Potter had said it wasn't the resistance, but Theodore didn't quite believe him. Occam's razor. They were the least unlikely candidates.
His attentions seemed to teeter between politics and quidditch with haphazard abandon, and when Tracey drew his attention to the game with her colourful interjection, he struggled to pay attention the mixed commentary coming through the radio. The presenters seemed as confused as they were, and then --
He laughed. Loud, and abrupt, and utterly genuine, a short burst of emotion borne of weariness and the utter hilarity of Tracey's fury. Oh, Merlin. Perhaps it was good that the food had arrived. "I'll serve the wine!" He offered, pinching out the tobacco at the very end of his filter. A few shards hit the ashtray before they, and the filter, twisted themselves into the ether with a gentle burst of smoke.