And so this was it. Michael had received his marching orders, and he hated it. He had done a great many things that he didn't like in his lifetime, but he had normally done them for the greater good. The anxiety washed over him like a tsunami. He was rarely ever anxious, but this seemed to justify it. This was a flashback to the old days, where survival depended upon such compliance. Imprisonment, whether it was in Azkaban or by marriage, was still imprisonment. Madeline Ross did not appear to be any more delighted with the situation. He had had a few reassurances from friends but they did appear to be ringing cold in his ears this morning.
His blood ran cold, colder than the bitter winter air that whipped his face as he walked to the Library. It hadn't gone unnoticed that Maddie was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and she seemed to have a lot of spirit. He liked that. And it wasn't that he wasn't allergic to women--far from it. He was highly allergic to marriage. However, he was more allergic to dementors. Besides that, he was a gentleman. He wasn't going to be the cause of her being endlessly tormented by dementors. If she chose that for him, well, he would accept it. He wasn't sure if this situation was a win-win or a lose-lose. He pulled the collar up on his gray wool peacoat and hastened his step while he had the nerve.
He pushed open the door of the Library--the Hogsmeade branch of Sparks. He liked the friendly atmosphere here. This morning, there was a fire in the stone fireplace, and the smell of tea, coffee, pastries baking, and breakfast did offer him some comfort. He was early, he saw. Madeline wasn't here yet.
"Your regular table is open, Michael," Tina, the morning shift manager,called, motioning towards the table in front of the fireplace. He liked the table because it also had a nice view out the window towards the street. "Your usual tea?" she asked in a chipper voice.
"Yes," he said. "Please. Bring a pot and two mugs. There's someone joining me today."
"Earl Grey, then?" she asked, presuming Robert was his guest. "Or Winter Spice?"
"I honestly have no idea," he sighed.
"Earl Grey," she said, opting for tradition. He made his way to the table, took off his coat and, sighing heavily, he sat down. He had nothing to offer her, really. Not in the things that mattered. He was going to be, to her, old. Maybe he should have robbed Robert's stores for a bottle of youth potion. Maybe should have brought the dogs. But what if she didn't like dogs? What if she would prefer to cell to this? He made a mental note to read the paperwork over again in case there was an escape clause for irreconcilable differences.
"Jesus, what am I doing?" he muttered to himself. And why the hell was he feeling like he was thirteen?