Ucciso sui monti di Trento dalla mitraglia -- killed on the mountains of Trento by a machine gun.
**
Sirius moves swiftly through the battlefield, his heavy cloak swishing around his ankles, his boots leaving no imprints on the frozen snow. The scene before his eyes is terrible, a veritable carnage: everywhere he looks he sees dead bodies, dozens of them, many mutilated beyond recognition. No trace of the Elder Wand or its master, at least not in plain sight, but that doesn't surprise Sirius – whoever was wielding it is long gone, leaving nothing more than the horrible stillness of death in their wake. Still, he must make sure that nothing has escaped his attention.
Something catches Sirius' eye, and he stops. The fallen soldier lies supine on a pile of snow, his handsome face unmarred, his eyes closed, a single drop of blood on his pale cheek the only clue of the horrors below. Sirius looks at the soldier's ruined chest, the green-grey fabric of the uniform riddled with bullet holes and tinged black with blood. It wasn't magic that killed him, then, but a machine gun. The notion is comforting to Sirius: the Muggle soldier died a Muggle death.
A sudden impulse seizes him, and he bends down to wipe the drop of blood from the poor soldier's face – he wants to do it before it has time to congeal fully. The body is still warm. Sirius stashes the stained handkerchief back into his pocket, straightens back up, and starts reciting a prayer for the soul of the man lying in front of him.
The dead man's eyes shoot open.
Sirius recoils in shock, almost tripping on the hem of his cloak. The soldier is desperately trying to talk, a horrible gurgling sound issuing instead from his wrecked lungs. Blood froths at the corner of his mouth, and he has an expression in his eyes like a trapped animal, and Sirius pities him terribly.
“Don't worry,” he says, soothingly, dropping to his knees next to the dying man. “Everything will be all right. I'm here with you. You'll be fine. Don't worry.”
The man stares back at him, uncomprehending, panicked. Sirius' fingers close around his wand – ending the man's suffering would take a second, and it would be the merciful thing to do. He can't bring himself to do it.
“Don't talk,” he says instead, taking the dying man's hand. “Just close your eyes, and it will all be over soon, I promise. No more pain. I'll stay with you until the end.”
The man goes quiet, either because he has grasped Sirius' meaning or because his forces are finally leaving him. His grip on Sirius' fingers is surprisingly strong, given the circumstances. Sirius waits.
**
The soldier doesn't die.
Sirius kneels by his side for an hour, half-frozen, his feet numb, his face raw from the cold mountain air – the man never stops holding his hand, even when his eyes close and he seems to drift in and out of cosciousness. By this point, the sun is about to set, and Sirius knows that he has to act.
“I hope you can forgive me if I end up making it even more painful for you,” he says, as he uses his knife to cut the man's uniform and expose his wounded chest. “But I really can't leave you like this.”
The man looks straight into Sirius' eyes. Sirius knows that he doesn't understand much, if anything, of what he's saying, but he thinks he sees tacit permission in his eyes. The thought steadies his hand.
“Right, so first of all – I have to vanish the bullets, I think,” he says, murmuring the appropriate incantation. Fresh, bright red blood gushes from one of the wounds on the man's chest, startling Sirius. He flicks his wand again: a healing spell, enough to stop the bleeding but not to heal the wound completely.
“I wish I was better at this,” he says, squeezing the man's fingers. The man squeezes back. Sirius performs the healing spell again and again, until there are no more wounds on the man's chest and his breathing eases slightly. The snow around him is scarlet with his blood.
Sirius takes off his cloak, gently drapes it over the soldier's body, and forces a vial of Blood Replenishing potion between his lips. With his last energies, just before he faints, the man swallows the thick liquid inside.
“I'll take you somewhere,” says Sirius, shivering in the bitter cold. “And we'll see how you fare. I don't know if I'll be able to help you anymore than this, but Merlin knows I don't want you dying alone up here. I hope I'm doing the right thing.”
**
Sirius Apparates in front of a small stone house, his knees buckling slightly under the weight of the unconscious soldier. He pounds on the front door.
The owner is an old man, short and grey. He has a shotgun and refuses to let Sirius in. Sirius flicks his wand – the old man gets a pleasant, slightly unfocused look in his eyes, and he helps Sirius carry the soldier to his bed. His wife watches from the corner of the room, scared out of her wits.
“Ich werde dir nicht weh tun,” says Sirius in German, I'm not going to hurt you.
The old woman takes a deep breath and raises the kitchen knife she's holding, a resolute expression on her lined face. Sirius has no choice.
**
“Danke, das war ausgezeichnet, thank you, that was excellent,” says Sirius, smiling at the old woman from across the breakfast table. “Es tut mir wirklich leid, dir das angetan zu haben. Ich werde es wiedergutmachen, bevor ich gehe, I'm really sorry about doing this to you. I will make it up to you before I leave.”
The woman, a mere puppet under Sirius' spell, doesn't say or do anything. Sirius sighs. In his haste to find a shelter, he has accidentally brought the wounded soldier across enemy lines – for all he knows, the woman's son might be up on the mountain, fighting against the comrades of the man who's now lying in her bed. As soon as the soldier dies, he decides, he will bury his body in the forest, come back, fix the stone house's leaky roof and drafty windows, replenish the stocks of dried meat and cereals, give the old couple all the gold he–
The soldier wakes up with a start.
“Quiet, quiet, don't try to talk,” says Sirius, rushing to his side. “Here, do you want some water? Drink slowly,” he cautions, holding a cup to the soldier's parched lips. The soldier – insensible to Sirius' admonishments – gulps the water down so fast that he almost chokes, making such a comical noise in the process that Sirius can't help but snort with laughter.
The soldier grins weakly, brushing a strand of curly hair away from his sweaty brow.
“I'm sorry, it was mean of me to laugh,” says Sirius, pouring more water from the pitcher into the soldier's cup. “Here, careful.”
This time the soldier approaches the task in a more sensible manner, slowly sipping his water until the cup is empty again. Sirius refills it once more, and the soldier raises it in Sirius' direction as if he were toasting him. He looks a lot better than he did last night, a tinge of colour in his drawn face.
“Grazie,” he croaks, reaching for Sirius' hand with his free one.
Sirius was right about the uniform, then. An Italian. That's a pity, given the fact that Sirius can speak German fairly well. He squeezes the soldier's hand, heartened by how warm it feels under his fingers.
“You don't speak English, right?” he says, on the off-chance that the soldier does.
The soldier shakes his head.
“Parles-tu français?”
The soldier smiles.
“Un peu,” he says, nodding, a little.
Sirius smiles back.
“C'est génial,” that's brilliant.
“Tu m'as sauvé, you saved me,” says the soldier, very seriously, “tu es un ange, you're an angel.”
Sirius shakes his head, softly.
“C'était un miracle, it was a miracle,” insists the soldier, “j'étais mort, et puis... I was dead, and then....”
Sirius shakes his head again.
“Tu n'étais pas mort,” you weren't dead.
The soldier holds Sirius' gaze.
“Je me souviens de tout. Tu es un ange,” he repeats, in a very final tone, I remember everything. You are an angel.
Sirius considers his options. Doing magic in front of a Muggle is definitely a mistake he would not have made if he had expected the soldier to live to tell the tale, especially considering the mission he's been tasked with. At the very least, he should modify the soldier's memories. He hesitates.
“Tu m'as sauvé la vie. Je ne te remercierai jamais assez,” says the soldier, once more, and then – to Sirius' enormous surprise – he brings Sirius' hand up to his lips and he kisses it, slowly, meaningfully, you saved my life. I cannot thank you enough.
Sirius studies the soldier's handsome face. He's smiling, a very peculiar light in his pretty dark eyes, his lips still brushing against the back of Sirius' hand. Sirius sighs, and he closes his eyes for a second - against his better judgment, he has already made up his mind.
“Je ne suis pas un ange, I am not an angel,” he says, very softly, leaning closer to the soldier. “Je suis sorcier, I am a wizard.”