Breaking Rules

A Life Far Removed

Author: Rylee Jane

Rating: M

Summary: Harry has left England behind, and Voldemort's forces have taken over. In the Hereafter, Sirius receives a proposition he can't resist. Rated for language and some adult content.

Disclaimers: I wish, oh how I wish, I could say I owned them. But they're all J.K. Rowling's. God bless her.

The point where the ocean finally conceded to the land was Harry's favorite place on the planet. He loved to sit and watch as the waves rolled in, taking up as much of the beach as they could, before fading back. High tide or low, it made no difference to him. The ocean was always, at most, less than a hundred feet from his back door.

His life now was as far removed from London, Hogwarts or Little Whinging as the sun from the moon. He sat in a lounge chair, staring out at the ocean from the small patch of beach that served as his backyard. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, leaving the sky bright with oranges and purples that faded to a serene blue overhead. He could just barely make out the sounds of something sizzling on the grill in the summer kitchen, and raised his face to the sky, trying to get a smell of it. Shrimp, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. Garlic, definitely, and fresh fruit. He lowered his head again, sighing. That had been one of the hardest things to get used to on this island. The food was so different from what he was used to, and he sometimes craved a nice big plate of shepherd's pie or treacle tarts. And they drank coffee here, not tea, although tea was available at a much higher price. He'd adjusted. Perhaps not as quickly as he could have, but at the time, he'd only been 17. He hadn't really known enough of the world to fit in perfectly.

He had wanted nothing more than to find a place where the name Harry Potter didn't make anyone look at him twice. He had been afraid that he wouldn't find such a place, but he had. He'd traveled nearly halfway around the world to find it, but he'd managed. His scar was usually kept covered by his hair, but on the rare occasion that someone did see it, they always attributed it to an accident of some sort. Most people here had never even heard of Voldemort, and those who had seemed to consider him Britain's problem, not theirs.

It was as close to paradise, he believed, as his life could possibly get while Voldemort still lived.

He could hear Celia singing, her voice drifting out to him from the kitchen window. She couldn't sing very well, and the songs she picked were depressing, always about lost love and heartache. Harry knew heartache too well, and he hated having to listen to her lamenting it with those gloomy songs.

It was one of many things about her that irritated him these days. She wasn't a bad person, and she was company for him when he had no one else around, but he didn't love her. Not by any stretch of the imagination did he feel anything that deep for her. He didn't think she really loved him either. In fact, he was quite sure that they were both in this relationship (to use the term very loosely) simply because the only other option on this island was celibacy.

He'd realized very early on that younger people didn't stay here long. Most, when they had learned all their parents could teach them of magic, moved off the island to study or work elsewhere. He was, even at his assumed age of 23, one of the youngest people on the island. Celia, at 27, had only stayed on because her mother had passed on and there was no one else to run the family business, a veterinary clinic for magical (and some non-magical) creatures.

Even Enny, who was the closest thing to a friend that Harry had here, was nearing 40 and remained on the island simply because he owned Anderia's only pub.

Enny had been the first person Harry had met on the island, and he'd always been glad for that. Enny had introduced him to Miss Horn, who had rented her home to him after she'd moved to the mainland, and to Dalley Gutrey, the local apothecary, who had given Harry a job.

And Harry had met Celia in Enny's pub.

One evening, Dalley had made plans, and had closed down the shop early. He had, despite Harry's insistence that he didn't mind staying, told Harry to take the evening off. Harry had been on his way home when he'd walked past Enny's bar. He didn't know what made him decide to go in rather than just going home, but he'd found himself pushing the door open and stepping inside before he even thought about it.

"Harry!" Enny had greeted from behind the bar. "Haven't seen ya in 'ere in a while. Tought you'd forgotten where we were."

Harry had laughed. "I've just been busy working."

"Ah, a man after me own heart, you are. What can I get ya?"

Harry had thought to order a butterbeer, like always, but something else caught his eyes. On the counter behind the bar was a bottle of some kind of blue liquid. "What's that stuff?" he'd asked, motioning to it.

Enny had turned, then picked up the bottle. "Dis? Dis 'ere is me own special recipe. I call it Laquita."

"Laquita?" Harry had asked, pushing himself onto the stool. "Why Laquita?"

"Because I invented it while I was trying to drink away an ol' love. 'Er name was Laquita. An' since it work so well, I name the drink after 'er. Would ya like to try a bit?"

Harry shrugged. He'd never drunk anything intoxicating in his life but, for some reason, now seemed a good time to start. "Yeah, sure."

Harry had nearly spit the first taste of it back across the counter. He'd managed to swallow it, but only barely. "Geez, Enny," he'd coughed. "What the hell is in this stuff?"

"Ah, no. I never reveal dat secret, me friend. You're jus' gonna have to trust me."

Against his better judgment, Harry had taken another drink, which went down slightly more smoothly, and then another, which was almost good. By the time he'd finally slammed his empty glass down on the bar, he'd been feeling incredibly good. "Can I have another?" he'd rasped to Enny, who looked at him, chuckling.

"I'll get ya another, but ya ain' gonna be Apparating home tonight, ya hear me?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, all right." He'd been halfway through his second glass when he felt someone come up beside him and heard a woman's voice.

"Hello, Enny. How's me credit tonight?"

Harry had turned his head just slightly to catch a glimpse of the speaker and nearly fallen off his stool. She was beautiful. Her long, brown hair had been tied back in a tail, a few strands pulled loose to fall around her face. She had a round face with high cheekbones, and full lips that were pulled back into a pretty smile. She had glanced at Harry for a second, then back at Enny, who was saying, "Ya know ya got credit 'ere anytime, Celia. Now what can I get ya to drink, eh?"

She had bitten her lip, glancing at Harry again. "I tink I'll just have a glass of wine. Don' wanna get too loopy, ya know."

"Ya got it," Enny had said, glancing at Harry too. Then, he'd chuckled. "By the way, Celia, dis 'ere is Harry. 'E's new to the island. Harry, dis is Celia."

She'd held out her hand to him. "Hello, Harry," she'd said, giving his hand a firm shake. "Very nice to meet ya."

Harry had barely managed to cough out a "Hello". His throat had constricted when he'd tried to say more, and he had wondered if the burn in his cheek was from embarrassment or the liquor.

Enny had laughed again, then patted Harry's shoulder. "Now ya can stop staring at her, Harry."

Harry had known then that the rise in heat was from embarrassment and he looked away quickly. Celia had scooted onto the stool next to him. "I'm--- sorry," he'd muttered, staring down into his glass.

She had laughed. "Not a problem," she'd grinned. "Although I'm not all dat use to being stared at."

His mouth had dropped open. Before he could stop himself, he had said "You can't be serious. People must stare at you all the time."

She'd frowned slightly, turning to look at him with soft brown eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

He had shut his eyes and shaken his head. "I should really just stop talking, I think. I'm making an ass of myself."

Celia had broken into a fit of giggles. "I tink dat might be because you're a little drunk. Do you tink?"

He had started to deny it, then found himself nodding. "Yeah, I think I am."

"Well den, why don' we start all over." She had turned away for a second, then turned to look at him again. "Oh, hello dere. I'm Celia. And you are?" She held out her hand again.

He'd laughed. "Harry. Very nice to meet you, Celia."

"Likewise, Harry. You're new to the island, yes?"

"Yes, fairly. I've been here about two months now."

She'd raised her eyebrows. "Den how is it possible dat we haven't met before?"

"I'm usually at home or at work. I don't go out much."

"Ah, and where is your job?"

"I work for Mr. Dalley at the apothecary."

"Dat explains it den. I don' go to Mr. Dalley very often. Me mum was big on brewing everyting 'erself, so I guess I jus' always do the same ting."

Harry had smiled. "Nothing wrong with that."

"You have quite an int'resting accent 'dere, Harry. Where ya from?"

He had been asked that a lot, and no one ever seemed to think twice when he told them. He'd long ago understood that Anderia knew little or nothing about what went on in Europe, save Enny who had visited there once or twice. "England," he'd said, eyeing the glass that Enny placed in front of him with a bit of caution. He was already pretty drunk, and wondered if he shouldn't just quit now. It must have been his pride that made him go ahead and take another drink.

"Ah, Englan' eh? I never been there meself, but I heard it's a beautiful country. How are you liking our islan' then?"

He had grinned, bolstered more than a little by the alcohol. "I'm liking it quite a lot at the moment."

Celia had caught his meaning and grinned back. "Are all Englishmen are charming as you?"

He had laughed, taking another drink. "Most are more, probably. Most of my charm is coming out of that bottle over there."

"Well, I don' know bout that, but I would cert'nly like to find out sometime."

He'd tried to wrap his intoxicated mind around that. Was she --- was it even possible that she was --- flirting with him? Surely not. He had studied her as closely as his swimming vision would let him. It certainly looked like it. A deeper blush had risen on his cheeks. Enny had brought Celia a glass of wine and put it in front of her, and Harry had immediately reached for his pocket. "Here, let me."

Enny was obviously biting back a grin as Harry handed him the money. "Thank ya kindly, Harry. Ken I get ya some more of dat Laquita dere?"

Harry had shaken his head almost too vehemently. "Ah, no thanks, Enny. I've had enough."

"Celia," Enny had chuckled softly. "I don' suppose I could get ya ta walk Harry 'ere back to his place, could I? E's a good customer o' mine and I'd hate to see anyting happen to him."

She had grinned. "I suppose I could be of some help to ya dere, Enny. After all, he is a visitor to our islan' and I can' let him go gettin' lost now, can I?"

Harry had been thoroughly embarrassed by their teasing, but it had made him feel strangely accepted as well. "In that case, Enny, perhaps I will have just one more shot."

Six shots later, with his arm thrown over Celia's shoulder and barely managing to stay upright, Harry had stumbled out of the bar and in the direction he assumed was home. He'd been wrong, unfortunately, and Celia had tried to hold him up and spin him in the right direction.

This had resulted in a clumsy tango, with all of Harry's weight on Celia and both of his arms wrapped around her. She'd lost her footing and they had tumbled to the sandy ground, with Harry on bottom. He'd hit with an oomph, followed by a strangled cry as her knee came down straight into his groin. She'd pushed herself up just enough to look at his face, quickly moving her knees and glancing down. "Oh, God, Harry. I'm so sorry. I didn' mean ta—oh, are ya all right?"

He had bitten his lip, trying hard not to reach down and make sure that everything was intact. "Yeah, I think so. Sorry 'bout that. I reckon I should've stopped drinkin' a few shots earlier, eh?" He'd stared up at her, barely able to keep her in focus. "I'm not a great drinker, y'know. Bit of a lightweight."

She had laughed softly, still leaning over him. "Yeah, well, we should be gettin' ya home. I think ya'd do better ta get some sleep."

He'd tried to nod, but wasn't sure he accomplished it. "Yeah, 's prob'ly not a bad idea. I'm feelin' a bit sick."

She hadn't moved though, just looked down at him with her beautiful brown eyes. "How old are ya', Harry?"

"Twenty," he'd lied, the same lie he'd told everyone else who asked.

She had nodded, smiling slightly. "Can I come home with ya, Harry?"

"You're walkin' me home aren't you?" he had asked, frowning.

"I mean," she'd said softly, leaning even closer to him so that their faces were separated only by a matter of centimeters. "Can I come in with ya'? Can I stay with ya?"

Harry had finally gotten it, although he wasn't sure how long it had actually taken him. "Oh—oh. You want to—stay."

"If you'll let me."

"I—yeah, of course. Yes, please do."

She'd giggled. "Thank you. Now, come on. Let's get ya home."

He couldn't remember the rest of the trip or, unfortunately, most of the night that followed. He recalled small flashes, mostly of feelings and sensations, but nothing definite, which was a huge shame. What should have been the best night of his life was nothing more than a drunken blur that Celia still giggled about to this day.

It served him right, he figured. After all, he should have known better than to drink anything that Enny had created.

Celia startled him out of his thoughts, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Dinner's almost ready."

He nodded, wishing he could brush her off, not daring to do it. "Okay."

She kissed his cheek gently. "What are you thinking about?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

She sighed, but nodded, her cheek brushing his, her long hair falling over his shoulder. "Well, come on in."

"Be there in a minute."

He waited until he heard her footsteps padding back across the loose sand before he glanced over his shoulder at her. It never ceased to amaze him that she put up with his moods, but she never complained about them. In fact, she rarely seemed to care what his mood was, as long as he was eventually curled up beside her in bed every night.

He sighed and glanced back at the ocean before standing and following her into the house. Whatever he'd expected from a relationship, it wasn't this.

Chapter 2 is with the beta right now. If you like it, let me know. If I don't hear anything, I'm holding the rest hostage. :D Review and I'll give you a cookie.