Between the blasted snowstorm, for which he was thankfully out of the country for, and a few more spots of travel here and there, Dean hadn't been able to make good on his invitation to Lestrange and now that he finally had a free night, he'd reached out to see if the other man was still interested.

As luck would have it, he was, so Dean had made a trip to muggle London to get his hands on a bottle of the Tullamore and upon returning home, bothered to tidy up his modest flat a little bit. He had a housekeeper that came in a couple of times a week to do the big stuff for him, which was a relief, mostly because he worked so much, but also because he was at a loss as to how to do the upkeep properly. He was useless in the kitchen as well, preferring to take most of his meals at the pub or on the odd days the housekeeper was in, she would make him a meal. Dean paid her generously, so it worked well.

It was still a bit chilly for April, but this early in the evening that was to be expected, evidenced by the roaring fire in the hearth of the sitting room. The flat was fairly large, the generous sitting room, his own study and just the one bedroom. The kitchen, according the housekeeper was small, but good enough, though he rarely entered. He rather thought that was by design; most of the other tenants int his building were gents around his age and station. It worked, he wasn't ready for a house of his own or anything of the like.

The hearth lit up green, announcing Lestrange's arrival and Dean stood from the armchair he'd tucked himself into. He'd been reading a book in Greek, preferring the original stories to any that had been translated, but placed it aside, grinning. "Glad you could make it, make yourself comfortable." He extended a hand to shake and then gestured to the armchair opposite the one he'd been sitting in. He already had a few glasses out and his decanter of whiskey on the table between them for the taste tests, but they needn't jump right into it.