Italian Lessons

Pairing: Sirius Black; Remus Lupin / OC

Rating: "M" – for language and sexual content.

Disclaimer: This story is fictional – that's F-I-C-T-I-O-N. It never happened, and is not real. It is the product of my own imagination. It contains descriptions of male slash (that's male/male homosexual relations). If you do not like this type of content, or if you find homosexuality or its practice offensive, please click the "Back" button or close your Internet browser NOW, and do not read any further. All characters and copyrights are owned by J.K Rowling and Warner Brothers™ (AOL Time Warner), but this story is owned by me and is all my own work.

Author's Notes: The characters Signor and Signora Basillo, and Luciàno Cicigòi are original characters of my own invention. Cittàmagica is a fictional town, and bears no intentional resemblance to any real settlement, past or present. Likewise, Caffè d'Anuzzio is entirely fictional.

The money left at Caffè d'Anuzzio is L.15,000 (Italian Lire), now a redundant currency since 2002 when Italy adopted the Euro as sole legal tender. Its value at the time of writing was GB £5.37, €7.75 and US $9.56.

Thanks greatly to Moretta for helping me with the Italian language content of this story. Italian is not my first, or even second, language. And no thanks to my fair acquaintance Krysztopf, who does not speak Italian as well as he claims to! (Sorry about the poor language content previously to those who are Italian-speaking!) - S.B

Italian glossary: For those who do not speak Italian. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

Stronzo – Bastard

Un espresso, perfavore – An espresso coffee, please

Grazzie tante – Thank you very much

Arrivaderci – Goodbye

Sì – Yes

Dear Diary, on the 14th day of the month of June, 1975...

Who'd have ever thought it, eh? Our quiet little studious Moony Lupin has a dirty little secret! Well, alright... Two dirty little secrets... He thinks that I don't know about him, but I, Sirius Black, Private Investigator Extraordinaire, have discovered the great truth about him!

So why does it just make me feel even more empty and miserable when I think about him now than I ever did before?

I don't fancy Moony. I don't. I really, really don't! Oh, what's the use? How can I lie to you, dear Diary? You are a journal of my thoughts and feelings, my hopes and my dreams. And if I lie to you, then I'm just lying to myself. So what's the point? So, okay, I do fancy him. Big time. He is my world and everything in it – are you satisfied now? It used to be so simple! Remus J. Lupin is the sex-object of my homo-erotic dreams, and if I don't shag him senseless soon, I'm going to explode! But now... Well, it's just gone off and made itself all complicated...

Perhaps it would be best to just tell you everything from the beginning, and maybe I might find myself writing down the solution to my troubles, as I so often end up doing when I talk to you about them...

Anyway. So, here I am in Cittàmagica, the picture-postcard perfect little wizarding village in the north-east of Italy, on which my parents have descended for their annual arse-licking, I mean "well-wishing", visit to some other rich and powerful wizarding family (who are inevitably richer and more powerful than the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black) overseas, to discuss politics, exchange money, and generally congratulate themselves on being the masters of the universe to whom everybody else bows down to.

I fucking hate these sorts of social events. It's always "sit up straight, Sirius", and "best behaviour, Sirius", and "none of your nonsense, Sirius"... Honestly, if I was such an embarrassing inconvenience, you'd wonder why the hell I was even dragged along in the bleeding first place! Well, the other families, you see, have to see that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black have produced two strapping, fertile, pure-blood heirs, of course!

Yes, that's right – I said "fertile". Honestly, dear Diary, nothing is fucking sacred when it comes to Mother's boasting! Last year, Mother started to tell the Thénardiers in Bordeaux all about how Kreacher had been finding fucking spunk-stains on my bed-sheets! Talk about emm-baaaarr-aaasss-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Remember?

Of course you remember. I told you all about Mother's proud proclamations of her first-born's verile and potent stallionesque genitals (yeah, I know - I wish! Nothing spectacular to see here, people, move along!). After all, I write everything down in you. It's great to have you to talk to, dear Diary. You're just like a friend who I could say anything to, and you'll always listen to me; never interrupting, never judging and, above all, never telling a soul of my most secret secrets that I ever dared to keep secret. After all, who would ever think of reading about my innermost thoughts and secrets in a plain, old, Muggle Diary-book?

And anyway, who else could I trust with even half of your contents? Regulus? He'd shop me straight in to Mother and Father for sure! He'd do anything for a few brownie points, him. Prongs? He wouldn't listen to anything than isn't quidditch-related. Wormtail? D'you honestly think that he'd actually understand most of the stuff in here! And that just leaves Moony. But most of this Diary seems to be about him of late, and whilst I secretly hoped to tell him some of it one day, well... after what just happened earlier, I don't know if I could ever tell him now...

It just wouldn't be fair on him...

Anyway. Mother, Father, Regulus and I had gone to visit the Basillo family, which for the most part consisted of me sitting next to Father (as the heir, of course) and drinking firewhisky with Signor Basillo. I hate firewhisky! It's nasty, oily taste seems to linger for hours, whilst the damned stuff practically burns the lining off of my gullet! Oh, yeah, and all the while Father and Signor Basillo natter away at ten to the dozen in Italian, which I can't understand a single word of, whilst I just smile and nod like some gormless, demented turkey. Like any good member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, I can of course speak French, German and Russian fluently - all the languages through which you can perform some seriously evil magic. I guess that, somewhere along the line, my parents must have fallen out of favour with the Benito Mussolini school of thought, because they neglected to give me even the most basic technical knowledge of the language.

I had to get out of there. After Father and Signor Basillo finally finish a particularly heated discussion about Dumbledore, in which the word "stronzo" featured heavily (I don't know what it means, but you don't have to be a genius like me to work out that it wasn't very nice!), I make my move. I complain that the firewhisky has gone right to my head, and that I wanted to go outside for a walk. Signor and Signora Basillo agree - in fact, Signora Basillo even recommends a little café to get a drink in – and so Mother reluctantly gives her blessing for me to go and explore the village for a few hours.

So I escape. Thanks to the encouragement of Signora Basillo, and after promising to be "on my utmost best behaviour", I find myself walking amongst the small, narrow streets of the quaint little village in the Italian Alps. At least this is a wizarding village, so I don't have to hide my wand or anything. As for my strange looks and my complete inability to speak Italian... I decide to explain away any questions by saying that I'm from Austria and, just having gotten my Apparition license, Apparated around the Alps for a walk. I may only be fifteen, dear Diary, but I often have no problems whatsoever in passing for seventeen. Let's just call it my raw, seductive animal magnetism, shall we?

So I walk, and I walk and, eventually, find myself outside a small café tucked away down a side-street. It's just a house, identical to all the others in the village save for a sign on the wall which reads, simply, 'Caffè d'Anuzzio', with a little seating area outside, covered with a dark green awning. On such a lovely day like this, I think that the outside seating area would be packed with people enjoying a refreshing mid-afternoon pick-me-up. But the tables and chairs outside were deserted, so I guess that the locals are maybe not as used to the conditions of inner city London as I am, and perhaps take the fine weather more for granted than I do. Inside, in the shade, you couldn't get a seat! Well, I suppose that the locals don't need much of a break from the traffic, exhaust fumes and noise which London supplies in abundance.

So I sit down, occupying one of only two of the twenty or so tables to have people sit at them. The other, the table next to mine, hosts two teenage boys, sharing a half-eaten ice-cream sundae whilst engaged in rapt conversation in rapid Italian. They look familiar somehow, one of them especially so, but I can't for the life of me place where I've seen them before. After a few minutes a waitress walks over to me, so I use one of the only two Italian phrases I know (courtesy of Signora Basillo), and ask her for "un espresso, perfavore." She nods, and a few moments later returns with a nice, hot black coffee. When she smiles after I say "grazzie tante", I begin to think that maybe I'm not so hopeless at the Italian language after all, when a voice calling my name shakes me back to my senses. I look over at the two boys to my left, and suddenly it hits me.

The boy, the more familiar one who is calling me, is Moony! His skin is tanned to an olive colour most unlike his usually pasty complexion and his rusty, auburn hair is bleached almost blonde by the sun, but it's definitely Moony. In my annoyance and frustration at being dragged here for my parents' "business meeting", I'd completely forgotten that Moony lived in Cittàmagica during the school holidays! His family moved here shortly after he was bitten, because this village has a famously high lycanthropy rate (i.e. more than two werewolves from different households).

Moony introduces me to his companion - the other boy's name is Luciàno Cicigòi, and is Moony's next-door neighbour and best friend outside school - and suddenly it starts to dawn on me where I've seen Luciàno before: I'd seen dozens of photographs of him after each school holiday, when Moony would show us all the latest additions to his copious photo albums of his family and friends from Italy. He goes to a wizarding school somewhere in Switzerland, and is Italy's first recorded incidence of a werewolf having a lycanthropy-free child. Like Moony, Luciàno's father was bitten as a little boy. Luciàno, of course, doesn't speak a word of English, so he tells me all this through Moony, who translates for him.

Wow! I'll tell you something for nothing, dear Diary. I always thought that French was the language of love and lust... but that was before I heard Moony speaking Italian! Normally, he speaks English with a slightly nasal Oxfordshire accent, so it's quite surprising when he changes languages and his voice swiftly drops to a silky-sweet, husky baritone. His vocal cords seem to caress and massage each syllable before his mouth floats them out and, God! That voice does things to me that I never thought a voice could do on its own!

But there is something about the whole exchange that I don't quite understand. Moony and Luciàno invited me to join them, but I keep getting the impression that I'm not entirely welcome at their table right now. And the thought stirs that they are actually having a private conversation, with Moony pretending to act as interpreter, rather than actually talking with me, y'know? And I'm sure that the tones in which Luciàno is speaking is not entirely proper for a conversation line about how boring History of Magic is, regardless of which language it's taught in. For one thing, the Marauders discussing Professor Binns doesn't usually make Moony squirm in his chair like he was doing right then...

Suddenly, Luciàno says something in a very husky tone that makes Moony blush a deep crimson colour and look at his watch. "Goodness me," he exclaims. "It's four o'clock! I've got to get home and help Mum start getting dinner ready! We'll have to meet up again tomorrow, Padfoot, yeah?" and, scribbling down an address and time on an unused serviette, promises to meet me the next morning. Luciàno shakes my hand, and says "arrivederci", and the two friends walk away at record speed, leaving me at an empty table, with a ten-thousand and a five-thousand Lira note to 'cover the bill'.

Something was extremely fishy about all of this, so I decided to do a bit of investigating and follow them. In retrospect, maybe that wasn't one of my best ideas, because now, dear Diary, I most sincerely wish that I hadn't seen what happened a few minutes later.

Perhaps if I hadn't, things wouldn't be nearly as messy and complicated as they are now...

So I followed them, at a short distance, along the quiet streets of the sleepy little village until they turn down a small side-street. Just in time, I duck behind a small row of bushes, as they look around. Satisfied that they are alone, they embrace into a deep, slow kiss.

This is not the sort of kiss shared by two good friends. This is the tender, trusting, urgent kiss of two long-term lovers. It was Luciàno who broke the kiss – pausing only to draw breath and reach down to fumble with Moony's belt and trouser-fly. And then I knew; Moony and Luciàno were more than the "just best friends" which Moony had described them as time and time again.

Moony was gay!

Moony likes boys!

And that meant, well... I was in with a chance, wasn't I! I could finally tell him that I was sexually obsessed with him, knowing that he wouldn't take it completely the wrong way!

After much fumbling and giggling, Luciàno and Moony finally succeed in getting each other's trousers and boxer-shorts down around their ankles. Now, I have seen Moony naked countless times before, but never... pleased to see me, shall we say. And I swear on all things Holy (and all things unholy too), dear Diary, that that sight is anything but disappointing! Moony is a very big boy! Okay, so I don't have much of a basis for comparison, and the only other erection I have ever seen is my own, but Moony's cock, it has to be said, is the best ever! Luciàno packs some serious meat himself, but not even he compares to my Moony.

I pull my own cock out of my jeans and start stroking it, thinking about how wonderful it would be to be Luciàno right now, when a high-pitched whine jerks me back to reality. I look up to see that Luciàno has taken Moony's cock into his mouth. He bobs his head up and down, ever so slowly, and all Moony can do is gasp as his eyes roll back in their sockets, lost in a world of pure, physical pleasure.

Abruptly, Luciàno stops his ministrations; a whispered conversation reaches my ears. I don't understand what they're saying, but Moony's cry of "sì, sì!" suggests that they don't plan to form a chorus of singing nuns. They kiss one more time, before Luciàno bends over, and Moony slowly starts to push himself into his companion. Luciàno moans, low and huskily, as Moony sighs with pleasure.

I only fancy Moony, honest, but at that moment, dear Diary; I think that I hate Signor Luciàno Cicigòi.

The whole thing lasts all of five minutes before Luciàno furiously climaxes all over the floor, to the accompaniment of Moony's gasps and grunts, before Moony stiffens up and half-collapses on top of him. It's all too much for me and, at the thought of Moony feeling so good, I deposit my own little present into the bush that I am hiding behind; biting down on my forearm to mute the scream threatening to escape from my throat and betray my new hobby of sexual voyeurism.

Three hours later, I can still see the teeth-marks on my arm.

Giggling and kissing once more, they dress themselves and start walking away down the side-street. Again, I follow, after making myself modest, and they lead me to the gate of a stone cottage on the outskirts of the village. Its twin lies two or three yards away, and is the address which Moony wrote down for me. The two boys hug and, as a plump, middle-aged witch who I assume to be Luciàno's mother raps at the front window of the house in a summons, they share a chaste peck on the lips. As Luciàno turns to walk towards his cottage, I hear Moony call to him two single words; two innocent, beautiful words which make my blood run icy old and my heart plunge down towards my spleen.

Although my working knowledge of the Italian language leaves a lot to be desired, I didn't need a dictionary to translate Moony's parting words as he, too, started walking towards his own house, because they were the very same words which I wanted to whisper into Moony's ear over and over again, even though it has taken me the best part of a year to realize it.

And now, I never could.

"Me amore...

"I love you..."

I used to think that the worst thing in the world was to want something you thought you could never have. But now, dear Diary, I know now that that's not true. The worst thing in the world, in fact, is to want something, want it so badly that your entire soul weeps and your body aches and your heart bleeds, yet you know that you can never have it. But this much I do know: I shan't be writing in you ever again. As I have said so many times before, you were a journal of my hopes and dreams and now, dear Diary, I have none.

I was unreasonable earlier. Moony doesn't have a dirty little secret. He's just got a part of his life which he chooses not to disclose to anybody. I suppose that it does a lad good to have a little secret, something that nobody else knows. And God knows that Moony could do with something to make him feel good about himself. And when I look back on things, Moony did tell us, in his own subtle way. All of those photographs he shows us; nearly all of them are of him and Luciàno. And although their glossy images may behave in a reverent and dignified manner, hiding what they'd really like to be doing with each other, nothing can hide the look in their eyes. Those looks of pure adoration and worship that I saw repeated today so many times. I was completely oblivious to it, but only because I never thought to look at it for what it actually was.

No - the only person around here with a dirty little secret is me; for I'm far too spineless and gutless to have told Moony how I truly felt towards him. And now I never can, for Moony could never hope to give me what I crave, because he's already got it with Luciàno.

The one thing I want more than anything in the world; more than riches, more than glory, or fame, or anything I have known. I want Moony. And above all, I want the one thing which I have never, ever seen, known or felt in my entire life.

I want to love someone… and to be loved in return.