It definitely would have surprised anyone who knew Draco to catch sight of him in the clothes he wore to go into the Muggle world. If you had to guess, you probably would have put him in something ridiculously formal, a common mistake made by wizards ignorant of Muggle culture, or even the closest thing to robes he could approximate (and he’d seen a few things in niche corner stores that weren’t far off). What he actually wore was so nondescript that one of the richest and most pureblooded wizards in Britain became practically invisible; jeans scuffed at the cuffs, a plain white t-shirt, and a hooded jacket a few sizes too big for his slender frame. It was transformational, and it would have made his father froth at the mouth to know he was more comfortable in those things these days than any of his other clothes. Of course he never wore them on his rare and brief sojourns in wizarding public, and today would be the first time anyone from his real life - other than his mother, who was disapproving but merciful on the subject - had seen him in them.
He couldn’t deny that he was nervous. He still didn't understand Terry's interest, and wasn't sure he could believe the explanation that he was simply looking to make a friend. After all, Terry had friends, clearly. And Draco was famously not someone anyone really wanted as a friend. And the last time he'd met someone one-on-one like this, he'd had a public panic attack. Not an experience he wanted to repeat.
It didn't help being so close to the Ministry. Not that he was doing anything wrong, but he didn’t like the idea of running into someone who might recognise him and want to ask questions. He generally stayed well clear of this part of London. And he was early, which was uncomfortably typical. He ducked into the shop Terry had directed him to, to avoid standing around on the street, and found a quiet corner to browse in.