Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: This is written for the newyearcntdown challenge on LJ. The prompts used in this part is spiced cider.

The Blackbird Falls Silent

Phase 1: Freefall

Cold rain fell upon the metropolis and dampened everything in its path: holiday lights, pavement, the sound of the city, and people's spirit. It was not the kind of night to be out on the streets for merrymaking. On a certain empty street in a certain corner of the town was a certain shabby pub connecting one world to the next. Candlelight burnt low upon the wrought iron chandelier; firelight flickered in the soot-stained hearth. Smoke from someone's pipe hung in the air and soaked through the old wood of smoke-stained furniture. It was the kind of pub for clandestine activities.

Sitting by himself in a dimly lit corner, Harry flipped through his notebook. There was no need to pore over the content of the notebook he already knew by heart; he was merely keeping himself occupied while dissuading any curious patrons from bothering him. When Tom the innkeeper came over, bearing several cups on a wooden tray, Harry closed his notebook and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat.

"Here we are." Tom placed one of the steaming cups on the table. "A cup of wassail to keep you warm on New Year's Eve. It's on the house." Tom grinned a toothless grin and winked at Harry.

"Thanks." Harry flashed Tom a grateful smile, his eyes falling away from Tom's friendly face and catching a glimpse of a certain someone who had just entered the pub. "Would you mind making it two cups? My date is here."

"Why certainly, Mr Potter. Anything for you." After placing another cup on the table, Tom turned around and slouched away. When a certain someone strode past him and headed towards Harry's table, he could not resist staring after the figure in question.

"Good evening. Is this seat taken?"

His lips curved into a smile, Harry looked up at Draco. Soft blond strands gleamed with a hint of dampness; the already pale face seemed a shade paler than usual; and the double-breasted dark coat smelled faintly of rain and smoke.

"Good evening." Harry returned the greeting while contemplating Draco's visage, but as always he could not tell what was on Draco's mind. "This seat is reserved for you."

"I'm flattered."

With a wave of his wand Draco dried himself, sat down beside Harry, and stared at the content of the cups. Knitting his brow, he nonetheless picked up a cup, held it to his lips, and took a tentative sip. As a shadow of warmth returned to his countenance, he let out a breath. "Not bad for a pub-quality concoction. Have you been here long?"

"I got here a few minutes ago." Harry watched Draco drink some more from the cup. "You look peaky. Are you all right?"

"It's the weather," Draco replied in a dismissive tone. Wrapping his hands around the cup, he surveyed his surroundings: a handful of patrons were scattered about in the gloom. "How are you these days? Still running around chasing leads for the Ministry?"

Harry shot Draco a sidelong glance. "I'm not an Auror anymore, remember?"

"They could summon you back to act as a consultant, and you wouldn't refuse." His lips twisted into a humourless smile, Draco fixed Harry with a long, hard look. "You can't stay away when someone asks for your help." There was no malice or mockery in Draco's words; instead, a hint of ruefulness seeped out of his voice.

Stricken with a spell of agitation, Harry did not want to talk about it anymore. "I'm working on staying away." He left it at that, reached for his cup of wassail, and sampled the auburn-hued drink. The drink tasted strongly of apple and liquor, beneath which lurked sweetness and spice that warmed up his body and calmed his mind. He sighed in appreciation. "This is really good. I should ask Tom for the recipe."

"He's not going to give you his secret recipe even if you are Harry Potter," Draco said in jest as he cast a disinterested glance at the rest of the pub. He could feel gazes discreet and otherwise directed at him and Harry. "It seems some people are looking for a good show."

Well aware of the stares they had garnered, Harry put down his cup and reached out to brush his thumb over Draco's bottom lip. "Shall we give them one?" A conspiring smirk from Draco was all the answer he needed.

His fingers lingering on Draco's shaven chin, Harry leant forward and caught Draco's lips with his lips. Someone beyond their corner of the pub gasped, but he ignored it. Instead, he concentrated on the mouth moving against his mouth, the hand resting on his thigh, and the taste of Draco—apple and spice and tobacco. When he drew away, he licked his lips before sending a cool look at their audience, who quickly averted their gaze and pretended to be nursing their drink.

"I can already imagine the title of Rita Skeeter's next article," Draco remarked in a sardonic tone before removing his hand from Harry's thigh. "Disgraced hero performed lewd act on ex-Death Eater in public or something like that."

"Let her write whatever she wants. She probably enjoys digging into other people's love life so much because she isn't getting any herself." Resting his chin atop his folded hands, Harry crooked his head to one side with a quirk of a smile upon his lips. "Want to get a room upstairs? They have some cosy rooms here."

"The rain isn't going to stop any time soon, is it?" Draco mumbled, speaking more to himself than to Harry. It was little more than an excuse, and both Harry and Draco knew it. "I suppose this place is good enough for the night."

"Right." With that Harry called out to Tom, who, wiping his hands on his black apron, came over to their table. "May I have another cup of this? And..." Harry looked over to Draco, who gave him the slightest of a nod. "And another cup for him if you don't mind. I'll pay for both. Also, are there any rooms available tonight?"


To be continued...

A/N: Wassail is a hot spiced cider of the alcoholic kind in English tradition. Thank you for reading.