There were so many things about this situation that Terrence was thoroughly enjoying. First, a chance to step out of line without his supposed master knowing, which was like a breath of fresh air after having been stifled by his Death Eater-related and Dark Lord-approved plans, which seemed to be all he was doing lately. (It was also the first time he'd actually gotten fresh air outside of Ella's flat in a few days, but he wasn't complaining about that, at all.)
He also loved the adrenaline rush of the adventure itself, the fact that they'd already missed being blown up by the skin of their teeth, and their lives were still in danger. But second to how well they worked together in the bedroom, this was where he and Ella excelled, getting into trouble and improvising their way out of it. They didn't even need to speak or make gestures to work together; they were on the same page. He could predict her movements and she could predict his, or at least they could understand each other's moves within seconds, enough to seem completely cohesive, and yet unpredictable to anyone watching them.
It was them against the world. That was, by far, his favorite part. And when they were done, no matter how many pieces they were in, he was going to kiss that wicked grin she was wearing (he knew she was grinning, even though he couldn't see it) off her face and tell her so, in their own language.
But he wasn't going to let that distract him now. Terrence was a creature of the moment, and right now, in the moment, he was wondering how Weasley had gotten his hands on a bomb, or created one himself. It was creative and underhanded, and Terrence had to admit he liked the bloke's style. Maybe, if they got enough space to breathe and talk, he would ask him about it.
"I'll be careful," he responded, smirking himself. His wand was in one of his hands, one of his knives in the other. If Weasley wanted to play with non-magical weapons, he was more than happy to oblige.