Draco's not sure what possessed him to drive into London today. But here he is, on the M3, just passing Basingstoke. He blames his mother.

"You work too hard," she'd said. "Take some time to yourself." How that had turned into take two hours to get to London by car when he could have apparated there in seconds, Draco's not sure. But it's true that he hasn't had time to listen to the wireless much recently. So he does just that as the car eats up miles on his way into the metropolis.

It's just as well he decided to drive, he muses, listening a news bulletin about a new disease that St. Mungo's is tracking. If there's a new magical malady going around, it's safer to be alone. And this one sounds nasty — draining you of all your magic until you're little more than a squib, along with slowly drowning you in your own bodily fluids. Or something like that.

He changes the channel once he reaches the end of that segment, choosing instead to listen to music as he gets onto the M25. As he passes, he imagines he can see the tops of the rides at Thorpe Park, but really all he can see are trees. Blaise had taken Draco to Thorpe Park a few years ago and it had been a revelation. Of course, the Draco of seven years ago would never have deigned go to a muggle theme park, but the war had changed many people, not least of all Draco Malfoy. Though he'd been doubtful of the safety of the metal rides at first, he'd quickly found out that they were brilliant — like riding a broom without having to do any of the work. It had been an important part of his journey to reforming his opinions on muggles. He'd even taken on some as clients. Hence the need for a car.

Of course, it's not just any car. It's a beautiful, sleek Bentley sports car with a cream colored leather interior, replete with stained walnut trim, and Draco adores it. His mother calls it impractical, but she would rather Floo everywhere anyway. She doesn't understand the calm that Draco finds in speeding down empty country roads, hugging the curves in the road and watching the fields flash past his window.

The client he's meeting with today is a wizard, however. A new client: Mr. Herbert Pike. They've had several letters' worth of correspondence thus far and the briefcase on the passenger seat next to Draco is filled with Pike's words and Draco's subsequent notes.

As he gets onto the A40, he runs down the rough details of the house in his mind. Eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, two half baths, a large dining room, entrance hall, drawing room, large kitchen, library… Herbert, or so he had written, had inherited the house a number of years ago and had been slowly trying to patch it up himself. He'd seen some of Draco's work in Home, Garden and Broomstick and had reached out for help in "sprucing the place up". Once the problem of Draco's fee had been taken care of ("money is no object for this project"), they'd set a time for Draco to come and view the house. Thus, Draco is driving into the city.

The house is in Islington, so Draco takes the Marylebone flyover and keeps going until he reaches Pentonville Road. Then he slips his wand out of his pocket, taps the car's GPS system and says,

"Take Me to Grimmauld Place." The GPS pulls up the directions after a moment's pause. Draco knows he can program it without his wand, but he'd forgotten to do it when leaving the house and this requires much less of his concentration. Which is good as there's a large lorry trying to overtake him on the inside and Draco's more than a little concerned it's going to swerve into his lane.

He follows the GPS until he reaches a leafy square. The garden in the center is fenced off from the public, protected by a locked gate, and Draco's almost tempted to apparate into it just because he can. But he's running close on time, so he doesn't want to dally. Instead, he parks the car in the first available spot and then gets out. He casts a quick disillusionment charm on the Bentley so that it appears to be a standard four door saloon, and not the two hundred thousand pound sports car that it is.

Then he turns and looks up at the closest house to check its number. A gleaming five rests on the front door, so Draco continues his walk down the pavement, looking up periodically to check the numbers. When he reaches where twelve should be, he stops and frowns up at the eleven and thirteen that stand next to each other. He takes a step towards eleven and as he does, the houses move. Ah, that would explain it. Number Twelve pushes its way out from between its sister houses and once it has, Draco stares up at it.

The house is dirtier on the outside than its muggle counterparts, which indicates to Draco that it hasn't been cleaned since around the time of the industrial revolution. He dearly hopes that the interior is better. If not, then he'll certainly have his work cut out for him. Which, really, won't be the worst outcome as more work means more hours billed.

He pulls out his pocket watch and checks it. Twenty-nine past twelve. Perfect timing. He steps forward and makes his way up the front steps. When he reaches the door, he takes a moment to look at it, taking in its shoddy condition and silver, serpent-shaped knocker. Interesting. Perhaps Herbert or his family were in Slytherin. Draco shakes the thought away. He's not here to inquire as to Mr. Pike's schooling. He's here to help him fix up his house. He's about to use the knocker, when he notices the doorbell. He reaches up and presses it just as the clock ticks over to half past twelve on his pocket watch.

A Malfoy, after all, is never late.

Inside the house, an almighty racket starts up. Draco can't hear exactly what is being yelled, but someone is having a complete conniption fit. Draco's eyes widen and he takes and unconscious step backwards before he gets a handle on his emotions again. He tugs his waistcoat straight and takes a deep breath.

"Oh, shut up, you daft cow," yells a voice near the door and Draco flinches in spite of himself. The other yelling peters out and Draco plasters a smile on his face as the door swings open. And then his heart stops. Honest to Merlin, it stops for a beat. Because the man behind the door is none other than Harry James Potter.

…

Draco blinks at him for a moment and Potter blinks back. Potter looks for a moment like he might shut the door in Draco's face, but perhaps out of some ingrained politeness, he instead stands to the side and says,

"Come in." So Draco does. As he crosses over the threshold, he feels the change from the crisp March air to the damp interior of the house like a slap across on his face. Potter closes the door behind him and Draco looks around. They're in the Entrance Hall mentioned in Herb— no, Draco supposes it must be Potter's letters. Herbert Pike, Harry Potter: HP.

The hall is long, reaching to what must be the back of the house, and lined with gas lamps on the wall. There's a large, dusty chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling. At one point, Draco can see that it must have been a grand hall. He can imagine it back in its hey day, lined with portraits —the lack of which can be guessed at from the uneven fading on the wallpaper— and reflections from the lamps shining off the gold accents on the wallpaper. But now the wallpaper is peeling and the carpet is threadbare.

There's an out of place set of curtains along one part of the wall. Draco frowns at it as they pass by, but Potter doesn't slow, so Draco doesn't get the chance to ask about it. Draco follows Potter through a large double archway on the lefthand side of the hall and into the dining room.

A cursory glance of the room tells Draco the room is a pretty standard, pureblood dining room. From the room long table to the china cabinet, he could be looking at his parents' old dining room. In fact, and here he does a double take, the china pattern might even be the same.

"Is this," he starts to ask before he can think better of it. "A Black family house?"

"It is." Potter indicates a chair and Draco takes it. "How did you know?" Potter sits down at the head of the table, diagonal to Draco.

"We had the same china," Draco says.

"Right." Potter stares at a knot on the table, a frown etched into his forehead. He seems reluctant to meet Draco's eye. Draco lets the silence hang, waiting for Potter to break it, but after a minute, it becomes apparent that Potter is going to do no such thing. It's clear Potter still doesn't like him, and though Draco would rather flee the house and drop Potter/Pike as a client, he's a professional and he's going to act like it. A job is a job, after all, and Potter had hired him. So Draco places his briefcase on the table.

He opens it and pulls out his notebook. He opens it to a new page and uncaps the Montblanc fountain pen his mother had gifted him when he'd announced he was starting his own interior design company.

"In case you ever have to deal with muggles," she'd said with only the smallest of sneers on her face. "It's better you have a fountain pen than a quill." Because no wizard such as himself would ever be caught dead with a biro.

"So," he says. "What did you have in mind?" Slowly, Potter looks up.

"What?"

"The house. You wanted to redecorate it, did you not?"

"You're the interior designer?" Potter leans forward, his eyebrows raised. Merlin, the man really wears his emotions on his face. The look of surprise is almost comical.

"Yes," Draco says. Potter slumps back in his chair. "Why else did you invite me in?" Potter lifts one shoulder in a shrug and Draco resists the urge to sigh. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek for a moment before he asks,

"Who did you think it was going to be?"

"I don't know. Not you."

"That much is obvious." Draco continues to shuffle though his paperwork, mostly to have something to do with his hands. "To be fair, I didn't know it was you either."

"You could have signed your letters," Potter says, lifting his head to look petulantly at Draco.

"I did," Draco says flatly. He leans across the table and points towards his initials that are prominent on the bottom of one of his letters. "See. DM of Briarthorne Interiors."

"DM? I was supposed to know it was you from that?" Now it's Draco's turn to shrug. Potter had sought him out, after all. How was he to know the man hadn't known that he and Pansy were the pair behind Briarthorne? They'd been written up in enough magazines.

"You're one to talk, Mr Herbert Pike." At this, Potter's eyes flick away from his again and a flush creeps into his cheeks.

"I like my privacy," Potter mutters. "You never know when letters might get intercepted."

"Quite." They sit in silence for another few minutes. He's had difficult clients before, but if Potter continues to be as reticent as he is now, this process is going to be like collecting bubotuber pus. "Do you want to show me the house then?" Draco asks, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, alright." Potter pushes his hands down on his knees and stands up. "This is the dining room." Draco bites back the comment that comes to mind about this room quite obviously being the dining room and then follows Potter on the tour of the house.

…

Draco listens and takes notes as they traverse the various rooms, asking the occasional question here and there. He is amazed when they reach the drawing room and he sees the tapestry of the Black Family Tree. It's even grander than the one back at the Manor, which is saying something. His eyes travel the familiar branches until he finds his own name.

"That can go," Potter says dismissively, waving his hand dismissively in the direction of the tapestry. "They're not my family," he continues at Draco's raised eyebrow.

"Then how did the house come to you? I imagine there would be many Black heirs—"

"My godfather," is all that Potter says. Draco lets the subject drop. He'd read somewhere that Potter had lost his godfather at some point during either school or the war. Like so many people had lost someone. Like Pansy and her father, or Draco and Vince.

They make their way up the floors of the house until they reach a small landing at the top. There are four doors that lead off of it. Two doors lead to bedrooms — one of which is smothered in Gryffindor red and plastered with muggle posters of bikini clad women, the other of which is bedecked in Slytherin green. One door leads to a modest bathroom, but it's the last door that's the most interesting. This fourth door opens onto a staircase leading to the roof, where there's a small garden, kitted out with a two person wrought iron table and chair set.

"This is lovely," Draco says once they're up there. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and tugs his jacket closed to fend off the brisk March breeze.

"I come up here often," Potter concedes. He looks out over the rooftops of Islington and Draco watches as the wind ruffles Potter's hair. Draco frowns and he takes in Potter's appearance for the first time since the door had swung open to reveal his schoolday rival.

It's been perhaps five years since Draco's seen Potter in person. The last time had been at the conclusion to the Malfoy family hearings, when Draco had been acquitted for the reluctant part that he'd played in the war.

Potter had vouched for him, for reasons not known to Draco, and had been present to hear the verdict. Draco had tried his hardest to ignore Potter that day, but his eyes had sought him out at the back of the courtroom, just as they had for years in Great Hall at Hogwarts. At the announcement of Draco's reprieve, Draco could have sworn he'd seen the corner of Potter's mouth lift in a smile. But he hadn't been sure. He'd looked at his mother, seen tears of relief in her eyes, and by the time he'd looked back towards Potter, the man had gone.

Back then, Potter had looked tired, like he hadn't been sleeping well. He looks better now. His skin is golden and his green eyes are bright behind his glasses. Draco's not sure what he's been doing with his time, but he's clearly been active — it shows in the cut of his shoulders and the fit of his trousers. Draco finds himself staring and so he stops, turning instead to look out over the city as well.

"So that's the house," Potter says, turning back towards Draco.

"It's," and here Draco hesitates for a fraction of a second. "Nice." Potter's mouth curls into a smirk.

"But you can see why I might want to redecorate?" he asks.

"Yes." Potter nods and turns back to gaze over the neighborhood. A gust of wind tugs at Draco's clothes and he shivers. "Shall we go back inside and discuss what sort of look you're thinking about?"

"Of course," Potter says, nodding deferentially, like he's the one working for Draco and not vice versa.

...

"You need to give me more to work with than 'not stuffy', Potter," Draco says.

"I don't know," Potter protests. "I want it to look nice." Draco takes a deep breath. Nice. If he had a galleon for every time a client had told him they wanted their house to look nice.

"Modern? Farmhouse? Minimalist? Scandinavian?"

"I— what?"

"Style. What sort of style do you want?"

"I don't know! What do you think will look good?" Potter stands up and begins to pace the dining room, where they've relocated.

"Are you—" Draco starts to ask and then stops himself. Potter turns to stare at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. No— I don't— it's just— this new virus. I'm quite worried about it. I almost cancelled on our meeting today if I'm being quite honest." He starts to pace again.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Draco says.

"Are you?"

"Well, not sure, per se, no," he concedes. He doesn't know enough about it to be as worried as Potter though.

"I mean, I've stocked up on food," Potter says, continuing on as if Draco hasn't spoken. "And loo roll. Just in case. You know." Here, Potter turns to look at Draco and Draco has to admit that he doesn't know. "In case we go into quarantine."

"Sorry, what?"

"We might," Potter says. "It's all over the news."

"Is it?" How had Draco missed this? He's been busy, but surely he hadn't been that busy? But clearly he had been. Perhaps once this Potter project is done, he can go on holiday.

"The muggle news, at least."

"The muggle news? But I thought this was a wizarding disease."

"It affects muggles too. Differently, of course. But it seems to be highly contagious and if nothing else, they can spread it." Draco's insides turn cold. He's immensely grateful that he decided to drive into London today. But then, when he stopped to get petrol? How many people were—

Draco's thoughts are interrupted by Potter's pocket bursting into tinny song. He frowns and watches as Potter pulls out a mobile phone. Draco does his best to hide his amusement. It is exactly the mobile phone he would expect Potter to have — one of those Nokia 3310 bricks: practically indestructible and as unfashionable in this day of age as his clothes were all throughout Hogwarts. As he looks closer, he sees that it does at least have a personalized case — a gold lion on a crimson background, the bloody Gryffindor — but this doesn't change the fact that phone itself is outdated.

"Do you mind if I?" Potter asks, indicating the phone.

"What? No. I—" Draco starts to say but Potter's already answered the call and is holding the phone up to his ear.

"Hermione," he says. "What's going on?" Potter stands and begins to pace again as he listens to whatever it is that Granger is saying. Draco fidgets with his fountain pen and listens to Potter have one side of a conversation.

"What?" Draco watches as Potter's eyes go wide. He stops pacing and runs a hand through his hair. "Right now? But Malfoy's here… She what?… We're going to have to what?… Quarantine together? Jesus, 'Mione, I can't—" He pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's really as you suspected?… Fuck, the tests worked?… The Floo network too?… Oh Merlin, I hate that you were right about this… Of course I listened to you… Yes, enough for several months… Really? Them too?… Holy shit." Draco pulls out his pocket watch. It's near the time that he should be thinking about leaving. Perhaps he can slip out quietly while Potter is still talking to Granger and avoid the traffic. He begins to put papers back into his briefcase.

"What are you doing?" Potter asks. It takes Draco a moment to realize that Potter's talking to him and not to Granger.

"Leaving."

"But you can't."

"I think you'll find that I can," Draco says, his irritation showing itself in his clipped tone.

"'Mione, I need to go. Malfoy's trying to leave… At least two weeks you said? Fuck. Ok." Potter stabs the end call button and shoves the phone back into his pocket. He stares at Draco as if trying to find the right words to say. Draco closes his briefcase and snaps the clasps shut. The click that they make echoes around the dining room.

"You can't leave," Potter says again as Draco stands.

"Potter, I—"

"The Minister's tested positive. For the virus." That Parvati Patil has tested positive for this new disease is news, to be sure, but Draco isn't sure what this has to do with his leaving.

"And?"

"And the wizarding world's gone into a mandatory lockdown, as of," Potter checks his wristwatch. "Twenty minutes ago."

"Then I need to get home."

"You can't." Potter's so insistent about this that he grabs Draco's sleeve as he makes to leave.

"Let go of me." Draco tries to snatch his arm back, but Potter's grip is firm. "Potter—"

"—It's attracted to magic."

"What?"

"I don't entirely know how it works, but Hermione had a theory that the virus was drawn to sources of magic — you know, she works at St. Mungo's so this has been on her radar for a while." Draco had not known that's where Granger had worked. Nor does he entirely know what a radar is, but he's too distracted trying to parse the rest of what Potter's now saying to care about either of those things. He listens as Potter tells him about Granger's tests.

"So you're telling me that Granger has determined that this virus — what did you call it? Ar Too something or other — is attracted to magic and that's why it's so contagious to the magical community?"

"Yes." Potter seems relieved that Draco has understood him.

"How does that prevent me from going home?"

"You can't apparate. It's too dangerous. And they've shut the Floo Network down. So you'll have to stay here. That would be safest. I do have the room, I suppose. You could have your own bloody floor if you wanted." Potter had seemed as though he'd been saying most of that to himself, but he looks at Draco expectantly nonetheless.

"For your information, Potter," Draco says. "I had planned on driving home."

"You have a car?" Potter looks momentarily blindsided.

"Yes, I have a car." Potter blinks at Draco for a moment before he nods and lets go of his sleeve.

"I guess you should get on home then."

"Thank you." Draco sweeps out of the dining room, and into the entrance hall, without a backwards glance.

…