"No hurry." As bonelessly as one could in such a defined space--and even after Azkaban and the veil, no one did boneless and gracelessly graceful quite like Sirius--he flopped onto the toilet seat and eyed him, politely and wordlessly moving his feet out of the way. Reminded of his own unkempt state by the sight of Remus's razor, he lifted his fingers distractedly to the shadow of stubble tracking across his own jaw. Sirius hadn't done much shaving the past few days. Or talking, or eating. He had found the engaging pasttime of pacing, furiously.

"Ah..." he said after a moment's pause, a pregnant, reluctant syllable. It was a grim harbinger of a sound. "Moony, what exactly... are we doing?"

"Doing" was what the words said. His voice said a dozen other things: waiting for, mostly. He shifted restlessly, a dog on the end of a chain. He was more dog than human some days, lately.