'Sirius, may I ask what the fuck you're doing?' Remus enquires with a mixture of exasperation and resignation. He knows he won't like it, and he also knows he won't be able to stop it.
Sirius drops his sledgehammer to the ground and looks up at his friend with half a smile.
'What does it look like I'm doing?' he demands, surveying his own work proudly. And there's something else in his gaze that Remus doesn't quite recognise, and doesn't particularly like. Anger, he thinks, perhaps. Or something else.
'It looks awfully like you're smashing up a grand piano,' he replies slowly. And that is indeed what it looks like. From the splintered wood and broken ivory keys, and the sledgehammer leaning against Sirius' legs, there seems to be little doubt.
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter and Remus winces at the sound. Sirius never used to laugh like that. This harsh, sharp noise is nothing like the joyful, carefree sound of the youth Remus used to know. But then, Sirius isn't the youth Remus used to know. Except for rare flashes, he has become a completely different person. Grief and Azkaban have - Remus thinks the word harsh but can find no other - mangled him.
But now Sirius looks back up at him, and for a brief moment - in the rebellious jut of the jaw and the glint in his eyes - Remus can see the fifteen year old again.
'Call me Monsieur Piano Smasher,' he declares with a flourish and a French accent.
And then the teenager disappears.
'I've always hated this fucking piano,' Sirius says quietly.
End