A/N: Look at me, updating two days in a row! I have no clue where this story is going, but I'm having fun writing it. Please review if you have anything to say, as always!

I forgot to Disclaim on the last chapter, so I'll make sure to Disclaim on this one: apart from Helena Miller and her family, no characters, places, etc. belong to me, and all rights go to J.K Rowling. Enjoy!

'One day left in this shithole.'

The conversation had grown drier over the last week - six weeks of their constantly being together had taken its toll, yet Remus would have gladly spent another six weeks, six months, six years with just Helena Miller, and nobody else. This had been the first time he had remained in Manchester for the entire summer in five years, and he didn't regret a moment spent with the girl.

'Then we can leave forever. Where should we go?' She turns her head so that her eyes are on him, and her cheek digs into the dewy grass of the park.

Remus glances over her face - today she's serene, she's tranquil, and the waves don't have a chance to grow wild and crash over him: instead the water laps quietly around his feet, lulling him into security and allowing him to stay close. He knows this won't last long, so he leans backwards until he's lying beside her on the grass. It's only then that he thinks about her question.

'Where should we go?' He smiles inwardly at the thought of doing whatever they would together; the idea that she thinks of him as a definite figure in her future. We. As if there was no question about it.

'I like Sheffield,' he finally says. He's only been to the city once, but he liked the houses.

Apparently to Helena, though, this isn't an acceptable answer: her nose wrinkles and she kicks him lightly on the leg.

'That's practically across the road. That's boring. We've got to go somewhere far away. Somewhere interesting, and new.'

Remus is silent for another moment. 'London.'

Again, Helena shakes her head: 'Boring. We've been there plenty. Everybody lives in London! That's everyone's ambition! Pick somewhere else.'

Remus is beginning to become irritated - Helena asked him a question, and refused his answer twice. However, he kept going, on the sole reason that he partially agreed with her arguments.

'I don't know where else. I've never been anywhere else.'

'You don't have to have been there. Use your imagination. You've seen films, you've read loads of books. There must be loads of places to choose from!'

'Paris?'

'Now you're talking! Paris, and we can be all French, and live in a fancy-arse flat and eat pastries from boulangeries and listen to Jacques Brel. Excellent idea.' Her head turns back to stare at the sky and Remus is somehow glad about her pickiness, if it meant she could have such an excited response to something he'd said.

'I've got a picture of Francoise Hardy in my room. Johnny gave it me. She's French, en't she?' she says after a long pause. Remus is surprised by this. Helena was the type of person who left a topic after a minute, choosing to move onto a wildly different subject. She never returned to a conversation, never seamlessly moved into another: it was always a jarring transition between two entirely dissimilar topics - and yet here she is, continuing to talk about France.

'Yeah, she is.'

Another pause.

'Jean-Jacques Burnel,' Helena says.

'Who?'

'Bassist of the Stranglers. He's cool. French, I think. His name is, anyway.'

'Alright. Catherine Deneuve is French.' Remus felt the pull to contribute to the list, and Helena nodded.

'She's pretty, en't she? Same as Francoise Dorléac. I cried when she died.'

'I remember that. My mother was in hysterics. Erm… Edith Piaf.'

'I like her. According to Johnny, I cried when she died, too.'

'You cry at everyone who dies. I spent a week consoling you about Elvis, don't you remember?' Remus immediately feels bad about bringing this up, but Helena smiles wryly.

'Don't remind me. The wound's still fresh.'

The conversation ends here, and Helena screws her eyes shut, still facing the sky. Remus turns on his side and takes the opportunity to gaze at her. She has some grass stuck to her cheek, and sunburn shines bright, shining red on the side of her neck, but, in Remus' opinion, this makes her look all the more beautiful. He can't say why; he can't say the reasons behind any of the feelings he has towards Helena, he just knows that they're there, and very real.

She's prettier than Catherine Deneuve, and Francoise Dorléac, and every French movie star ever to live, he decides. She's Helena Miller, an English rose. In the depth of Remus' mind he may care to refer to her as his English rose, but he tries his best to keep that part of his brain under control.

They remain that way until it starts to get cold, when they reluctantly stand up and make their way out of the park, away from their moment of serenity, and towards the estate, ready to waste the remainder of the day before the next inevitably arrived, bringing along with it the end of the summertime.

'Mother, I just need my socks -'

'Remus, darling, you'll run out of underwear in an instant, trust me! I don't want to have to send off packages to you, please just take -'

'Hope, you heard the boy. Just give him his socks!'

It's surprising, the fact that even in the smallest of houses, so many things can get lost in the space of six weeks. This was the thought that kept returning to Remus' mind - any item he thought of that he would need to pack somehow managed to disappear from the place he thought he'd seen it five minutes ago.

By half past ten, he's managed to find everything he had the energy to, and even convinced his mother to give him just his socks, rather than the pile of underwear she had been thrusting upon him.

Finally, he stands with his trunk at the front door, receiving final words of concern from his parents.

'Are you sure you want to go alone?'

Remus nods, bored already. He had received his apparition licence the last school year and was planning on taking Helena with him to the station, saying their goodbyes to their families in Manchester in lieu of dragging them all to King's Cross.

'I would feel much more comfortable dropping you off myself, Remus. There - there isn't anything going on between you and Helena, is there?'

Suddenly, Hope beams widely and Remus is shocked into speech.

'No! There's nothing - I mean - we're just friends. Nothing more - I - I promise.'

Lyall looks disapprovingly at his son, and Hope seems almost delirious.

'Leave them alone, Lyall,' she manages to squeak. 'Oh, to be young and in love! Remember when we first started going out?'

Remus shakes his head. 'There's nothing at all - romantic, or - or - or sexual between me and Helena. I mean it.'

Hope rolls her eyes. 'Denial. You'll snap out of it soon enough - oh, you're so sweet together!'

Rather than remaining in the awkward situation, wherein his mother gushes about his non-existent girlfriend and his father acts disapproving about the same phantom, Remus turns around and opens the door, muttering 'I love you's and slamming the door slightly too hard in their faces. He winces as soon as he does it, promising himself that he'll send an owl apologising from Hogwarts.

When he turns, Helena is loitering in her doorway across the street. She catches his eye and smiles, stepping forward and dragging her suitcase behind her.

Remus debates in his head whether to tell her about his parents' bickering, worried about something close to the truth leaving his mouth. He eventually decides that it's safe - he can keep his emotions under control for that long, can't he?

'My parents think we're together.' Shit. He didn't mean to sound that blunt - he wanted a comedic anecdote, not what sounds like a confrontation. 'I mean - they're behind the front door there, my mother squealing about how sweet we look together.' He's digging a grave for himself. 'It's quite funny. You should see them.'

Should he just die now? His attempt at relaying a somewhat funny story turned into a - he didn't know, but it certainly wasn't that.

Helena looks up at him, squinting slightly in the sunlight. 'Maybe we should be together.'

His eyes immediately grow as wide as dinner plates, and his muscles tense up. He can hear his heart beating in his ears, feel it in his throat - did he hear her correctly?

But she laughs, and rests her hand on his arm. 'Your face, Jesus Christ! I'm only joking. The thought of going out with me isn't that disgusting, is it?'

Remus heart slows down, but he can't help the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Being together is just a funny thought to her, clearly. A joke. He grabs his trunk and holds it tightly, his knuckles turning almost white.

'Hold on.'

Helena just has time to grab her case in her other hand before they turn on the spot, disappearing into thin air.

If Remus had looked properly, he might have seen the flicker of disappointment on Helena's face at his expression, the doubt before she made her joke.

In a similar vein, if Helena had paid attention, she may have noticed the lump in Remus' throat when her warm hand was resting on his arm, the hitch in his breath at the idea of their being together.

But, as teenagers often do, they missed these signs - just as they had all summer.

Nothing much had changed.