Mandy hadn’t heard the news straight from the source (as if she would have been caught listening to that knock off bougie radio broadcast), but she had long trained herself to keep an open ear on these affairs - to catch the tail end of gossip, get a trusted source to confide in her, or happen to be in the room when it was being broadcast. It was only right. Only for her friends. And apparently, even those who weren’t friends. Or who weren’t anymore.
Watching Michael…what was the correct word for it? Breakdown? Throw a paddy? Act within the appropriate means and boundaries? Whatever it was, Mandy was tempted to hurry away. Her place wasn’t at his side, hadn’t been for a few years now. He had made that bed. She would lie back and think of England - and come to stand it in time. Their cold war, if you could call it that, wouldn’t be ended by her thank you very much.
But, a truce? A truce…a truce she could reconcile with. Perhaps.
Shooing away curious passerby’s, Mandy lingered at Michael’s side, half tempted to pat him endearingly on the back, half knowing the awkwardness would be too much for them to bear. “We’ll blame one of Hagrid’s creatures.” Eyes dropping to the canvas, she tutted. “God, that material is cheap.” It didn’t matter, but it suspended the silence for a little while longer. “I heard what happened.” A beat. “I’m sorry it happened.” Awkward phrasing, perhaps, but Mandy would never be caught saying I’m sorry, or accepting some sort of wrong blame.
As long as the paperwork holds up, I am sure your parents will find the Ministry to be more merciful than the tabloids let on. Michael still had Snape’s last words on repeat when he turned to face Mandy, and if he had any sting of tears in his eyes they quickly evaporated. He’d cried more than once at Mandy’s side, but they were young, their friendship unbroken, and he’d be orphaned before it happened again.
We’ll blame one of Hagrid’s creatures. Merlin, fuck, he still recognised the tone of her voice; the same she used in third year when he’d chipped half a toe off Rowena’s statue in the common room, and again in fourth when he busted his wrist in quidditch try-outs. Michael knew this was the worst part – seeing her around the castle, hearing her voice, knowing she knew everything about him and wishing he could take it all back. Knowing he can’t. He pulled his gaze from hers before she finished speaking. All his rage had fizzled out, replaced with grief and fear.
“Yeah, everyone fucking heard what happened,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Michael’s eyes swivelled up to meet Mandy’s. He didn’t say it, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – say it, but he hoped she understood the silent thanks. For her kindness, relatively speaking, for keeping his secret. He reached forward to lift up a fragmented piece of the canvas. “It was ugly anyway. Now it’s modern art.”