Watch? Michael had one watch, which had belonged to his father, and he rarely removed it; he was wearing it right now. Lavender knew this. He trusted her enough to take the box without betraying his confusion, setting it aside unopened as if it didn't matter very much. "Right, that's where it went, thanks."
He sat there and digested the news about the Prophet for a moment, knowing that it meant something, like the box, but he couldn't quite focus long enough to make everything slide into place. It was like one of those 3-D pictures. There was something there if he had the trick to it. The trick was caring. He didn't. The Prophet. He'd talked with Lavender about blowing up the presses once. So was she responsible? She must be worried about being overheard or she would have told him directly; and if she knew something, she must be at least partly responsible. He should be pleased he'd worked out the logic there. Maybe later.
"... They could take up knitting. I hear that's relaxing. 'Course fucking up the Prophet, maybe they should buy themselves a celebration drink instead. I would." More blades of grass were sacrificed between his constantly-moving hands, slightly faster this time at the mention of that day. What the fuck would she want to bring that up for? That had been a fucking awful day. "I remember. My neighbors wouldn't talk to me for a month after that." What did she want him to say? "You thought I knocked you up, which was apparently the most depressing thing you could think of. You know, Lav, if this is happy memory time, you're failing."