A/N: Alas alack, I have left you all completely hanging here – I do appreciate you, I just have a short attention span! James has become a bad influence on me. But hopefully I'll be back for a while now.

I also hope you all found my misspelling of vicious in the last chapter as amusing as I did. My (v cool, idealized-form-of-myself) friends and I were imagining a viscous James all week. It was v amusing.

I have enclosed a lovely glossary at the end, in case there's anything that confuses you.

Aaaand action!

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Chapter Five: When in Rome

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I realized that my room was closer to the library than Evans' was. I was still angry, concerned, and on some as-yet-unfamiliar level, guilty. It was supposed to be out first tutoring session, and she was not there.

One warm summer afternoon, in an attempt to wile away the scary pre-exam hours of fifth year, my friends and I devised a minimal-effort method of measuring our steps. We test-flew it by first walking from the boys' dormitory to the library, from my bed; then managing to make our way up the vestal virgin of the girls' staircase, and compared the distance between the two. We traveled from Evans' bed, and it was fifteen steps farther than mine, plus length of legs, plus speed in steps per minute, which we worked into an equation and decided that it would take her, on average, three minutes and forty-two seconds longer to reach the library than I.

This of course all theoretical, and the long and short of it being, that even taking into consideration that I had grown roughly seven inches more than she had since then, and allowing her to be walking very, very slowly, she was late. I could understand her not wanting to wait for me, especially after my cruel bidonata of her time. But after three hours of imaging the terrible mutilations and kidnappings she was probably going through to get to me, I decided to give it up and get back to the tower.

I expected her to come charging through the library doors, dripping with blood and water and waiting to be held by a saving pair of arms (mine) on my way out. I really didn't think that after our little understanding, and all my studying up on common phrases all'amore her, she would tirare un bidone a qualcuno. Maybe she had an excuse. Maybe she had misread her day planner and thought it was still Wednesday. She would be huddled, terrified (unnecessarily, of course), awaiting my wrath at her disobedience, and I would take her into my arms and avere rapporti sessuali con her.

Hm. I was starting to get kind of excited.

When I got to the Common Room she was curled by the fireplace, reading a trashy Italian novel and smirking like she owned the world. She had done it on purpose, the little donnaccia! Well, I was going to march right over there and tell her that, volente o nolente, she was going to tutor me or die a zitellona.

I marched up to her, folded my arms, and said, "Volente o nolente, you little donnaccia, you're going to die or tutor me a zitellona." I stopped. I thought about what I had said, and how she was laughing at me for calling myself an old maid. But I had managed to call her a little hussy and threaten her life, so the sentence wasn't lost entirely.

"It sounds like you need a tutor after all," she said, her sultry voice a beacon of promise. "And there I heard you were fluent."

"You stood me up," I said, falling back on my original theory, though not wanting to risk another attempt at Italian.

"Al contrario, Signor, I slept in on the job. It's just that I was so sfatto, I only woke up a few minutes ago." She batted her eyelashes at me, obviously enjoying watching me sweat at the thought of her exhausted after a night of debauchery. Where had she learned that kind of talk? She was supposed to be a vestal virgin.

"I am allupato because of you! I have tried so hard, while you –"

She was smirking at me again. "Yes, Potter, you've been about as celibate as I am a donnaccia. Why so shocked? Didn't think I'd catch your drift?"

"You weren't supposed to understand," I muttered.

"Mhmm. And were you planning on teaching me some edgy swear words during our private sessions, or just throw crude phrases at me in the hopes of seducing me with the mere sound of your voice when, for once, I didn't know that what you were saying wouldn't interest me in the slightest?"

"But you do know what I said," I said.

"Too bad for you." She opened her book.

"And I know," I went on, "that you, self-proclaimed cacasentenze, are reading trash, whatever language you hide it with, and also that you let Snape feel you up." I said this last in a low hiss, because I really didn't want anyone to find out. For one thing, it would ruin any hopes of blackmailing her if anyone overheard us. "How do you plan on upholding the prude exterior when everyone hears about that one, eh?"

She was furious. I had the sneaking suspicion that I had pushed her too far. "I have already told you, Potter, that I did not let Snape feel me up, he was absolutely taking advantage of me when I was distracted by you. It was your fault, and how he's stalking me, and it's creepy and all my friends know about it anyway so you don't hold anything over me and I do not moralize."

She glared. I cringed. I was ready to huddle, terrified, against her wrath, but fortunately my manly exterior held up.

"And I'm not going to tutor you."

"Well I don't need it anyway."

"Obviously not. Calling me moralizing, you disgusting cretin."

"Okay, maybe I do," I wheedled. "It's just that everything I know is crude."

"I've noticed."

I went down on my knees in front of her. That gets them every time. I tried to hold her hand, but she refused to let go of her trashy romance. "Evans," I said. "I mean Lily."

"Please," she said, "let's keep things formal."

"Miss Evans," I said. "Will you do me the honour of tutoring me? I need you."

"Non me ne importa un cavolo," she said sweetly, "particularly after that display. Now get up, fuck off, and don't try to blackmail me again, or you will not be bearing anyone's children."

"But don't you want any?"

"Potter," she said, in a voice that brooked no argument. I got up, fucked off, and promised myself not to cross her again.

Clearly, my next attempt would have to be very, very subtle.

--

The next day I made sure to brush against her three times, at regular intervals. Each time I murmured sweet nothings in her ear, and each time I made sure to slip up a little in my Italian. The idea was that this would, firstly, get her going, secondly, have her waiting for me if she kind of knew when it was coming (between classes one and two, after lunch, and before dinner), and thirdly convince her that if she was going to have accurate sweet nothings murmured in her ear, she was going to have to tutor me.

She did catch on to when I did it, if nothing else, and made good and sure to be as far away from me as possible during those times. Although that may have been purely accidental.

I left her alone for the rest of the week, and then started it up again the next Friday. Perhaps every day was too much too soon, and once a week would be up to her speed. I slipped a note into her hand after our first class, knowing that she would understand the scrawl of Ế stato amore a prima vista. The rest of the morning I spent composing a lovely message for her. I slipped it into her hand after lunch, and was rewarded with a note slipped right back.

I was wild with excitement. I ran up to the guys, forced my way between Padfoot and Remus, and said, "She responded!"

"To your sexual advances?"

"No, to my note!"

Padfoot shook his head and said, "Lui ha davvero un chiodo fisso in testa."

I punched him in the arm. He could be so unkind. And I was not fixated.

Remus shrugged. "Ế stato amore a prima vista," he said, no doubt enjoying rubbing it in that he had to help me with my first note. I'd never had to tell a girl I loved her before, usually they submitted more easily than that. Most of my knowledge was picked up as strangers screamed obscenities at me in the streets. Or girls screamed obscenities at me after I had broken their hearts and left them to rot in some fishing village off the coast of nowhere.

It wasn't my fault; I loved Evans. I am not a man divided in my emotions. It would be like trying to eat mushrooms and chocolate at the same time.

"Okay, so don't you want to know what it says?"

"Not really," Padfoot said, then, catching my eye, finished hastily, "but go ahead, we're dying to know."

I unfolded the paper with trembling hands, and squinted at her writing. It was practically unintelligible. I scratched my head and said, "Well, I almost think she's telling me to get stuffed, more or less, but that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"Maybe she realizes that you need to get laid," Padfoot put in helpfully. "She might be offering her services."

"Here, look." I handed it to him. "What does that look like to you?"

"Va…fan…ooh. Um, it could be a q. Or an s."

"I think it's a c. I think it says vaffanculo."

"Is that what you were telling me to do all those times?" Padfoot said, sounding mildly offended. "I thought you were complimenting my hair."

"It looks stupid."

"Stick to Italian, will you? At least then it's up to interpretation."

Peter had been grabbing for the paper, so I took it from Padfoot and handed it over. "Don't wreck it, it's a handwriting sample. We might need it later."

"I think Padfoot's right, that looks like a q."

"Then where's the u?"

"Doesn't apply in Italian."

"What do you know about it?"

Peter shook his head and handed it back. "Whatever you want to think, Prongs."

I sighed. "I just don't know anymore. I think we might need to brainstorm tonight for another Plan, this one hasn't worked so far. Unless you're all tired of this, of course."

I knew by their eager expressions that they just couldn't wait.

--

The subtle approach having proved ineffective, I strode up to Evans on Monday, planted myself in the seat next to her, and smiled winningly.

"Hello," I said. "How have you been?"

"Awful, not that you care."

"Oh, but I do," I said. "What's been going wrong?"

"It's mostly been the CSG."

"The what, sorry?"

"The Creepy Stalker Gang," she said. "I've decided to categorize my fans."

"And who would fall under that?"

"Just you and Snape at the mo."

I was a tad taken aback at that, I'm not ashamed to admit. "You put me in a Gang with Snivellus?"

"You better believe it."

"And this doesn't disgust you at all? Aren't you concerned that his slime might touch me?"

"You mean the metaphorical slime."

"Yes."

"In the tiny box I placed you both in."

"Yes."

"Doesn't bother me, no."

Crap. There I had thought we were getting onto the same wavelength. "Time for a new topic," I said. "Your turn."

"How are you?" she said, rolling her eyes.

"Just spiffing."

I waited.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm sitting next to the love of my life, and conversing with her."

"Really."

"And we have yet to insult or curse one another."

"Gee."

"Well, aside from a mild slip on your part, but I'm willing to let it slide."

"You're so kind."

"I know."

I waited for a response, then decided that mine had been lacking.

"I mean, am I really?"

"Do you actually want me to expound on just how kind you are, or can I stop being sarcastic yet?"

"Any time is a good time."

"Could you do me a favour in return?"

"Of course, my darling. Anything for you."

"Vaffanculo," she said, leaning right up close to me and trying to stare me down.

I couldn't resist, not with so much temptation laid out in front of me. I kissed her, and then got up, squeezed her hand, and whispered, "Realmente ho goduto la bacio."

I have really enjoyed the kiss.

And then I left.

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Thanks v much to my wonderful Italian reviewers who have offered their help so willingly.

Reviews please! I wish to know that I didn't lose you on my non-sabbatical, and whether or not this up to scratch.

The lovely glossary:

bidonata – swindle, trick

all'amore – to make love to

tirare un bidone a qualcuno – to stand someone up on a date or appointment; literally, to throw a trash can at someone

avere rapporti sessuali con – to have sex with

donnaccia – slut, hussy

volente o nolente – like it or not; literally, willing or unwilling

zitellona – old maid

al contrario, Signor – on the contrary, sir

sfatto – worn out after a night of debauchery

allupato – hungry for sex, especially after a long period of celibacy

cacasentenze – who likes to moralize, one who acts like he/she is very smart, a smart ass; literally, one who shits sentences.

non me ne importa un cavolo – I don't give a damn about it

é stato amore a prima vista – It was love at first sight

lui ha davvero un chiodo fisso in testa – He's truly fixated on her

vaffanculo – contraction of the expression "Va' a fare in culo" up your buttocks

And of course Realmente ho goduto la bacio – I have really enjoyed the kiss