Revenge was not at all at the forefront of Jon's mind. The invitation he'd extended to Ishmael was simply in the interest of ending this... interaction once and for all. It had not occurred to him how much easier it would be to owl the book back with a note, how much less personal, how much more practical. Jon's initial instinct had been to seek Ishmael out, but considering he worked in the Department of Mysteries, Jon had resorted to inviting him to the laboratory.
He'd been both surprised and horrified and any number of other feelings when Ishmael had accepted. In the hours before Ishmael's arrival, Jon had tried to focus on his work, on ensuring the new samples were properly labeled and stored, ready for use. By about half two, however, his attention was shot and he was a quill stroke away from cancelling the meeting. He wasn't sure what stopped him, just as he wasn't sure what had possessed him to request the meeting in the first place, but before he knew it, it was three o'clock and the fire in the hearth flared.
Jon looked up from the cauldron in front of him, hands stilling on the cutting board where he was preparing ingredients (busy work was about all he could manage at th emoment) as he waited for Ishmael to step out and into his lab.
Once he did, Jon's mouth went dry and he decided immediately this had been a terrible idea. Why had he even invited him, again?
The book. The gift. The one he'd sent on Valentine's day.
"I assume it was from you, the Catullus text?" Jon asked without preamble, and then put down the paring knife he had in hand and wiped his hands clean on his smock. Manners, Jon reminded himself. Manners above all else will ease any situation. He took a deep breath and tried to quell his nerves as he tucked his blonde hair back behind his ear. "I mean, good afternoon, Mr. Croaker. I beleive there is a book here that belongs to you."