enter stage right

Sirius regards him mournfully. “Baby, that is not a righteous groove.”
“What in the name of all that is holy are you talking about?” asks Remus faintly.
“Moony,” says Sirius rather severely, “I am getting the distinct impression that you are not hip to my jive. Are you or are you not hip to my jive?”
“Something is wrong in your brain,” Remus says.
“I’m not the one going to the library to celebrate my last few precious hours before I am squeezed between the iron thighs of NEWT-cramming hell,” Sirius points out. “You dig, daddy-o?”
“I’m not the one who’s going to have to be squeezed between those thighs,” Remus returns. “You’re just going to have to be squeezed between those thighs without me.” He doesn’t look up from an enormous dusty tome, but does add, quietly, in between the flip of the musty crackling pages, “Hep cat.”
“No,” Sirius says. “It’s only funny when I do it.”
“Perhaps it’s not funny when either of us does it,” Remus offers.