If brooding were a sport, Remus thought, Sirius would have been a champion of it. Perhaps it was the way his eyelids purpled after a few nights without sleep, or the fist he was leaning on, jammed perfectly into his face? No, Remus decided, these would have added up to a mere boyish pout if it weren't for the perfect scowl pulling down his features and warding off all potential sympathizers. It really was all about the scowl.
Sirius took up his quill and dipped it into his inkwell, completing the image of angry, consumptive poet. He scrawled a few words before stopping suddenly to throw down the quill. He stared at the parchment for a moment on the brink of decision then ripped it into two, four, eight, a million pieces that fell like confetti before being vanished. Remus heard Sirius mutter something like "Fuck them anyway," before standing and asking "You know where James is? What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing, nothing," Remus hated his amusement at Sirius' plight, but sympathy had never helped either. He gestured vaguely "He's out there, somewhere," and turned back to his book.