Welcome to the dark side of my mind. We smoke pot and write shitty fanfiction. Grab a seat.
Remus edged closer, eyeing the enemy as he moved. They were small, black winged creatures, with bulging red eyes and a piercing stare, even in death.
"What are you doing?" Severus asked, scowling along the table.
"Nothing."
"Well, do nothing back where I told you to stay. This potion is in its delicate stages and I don't need you spoiling it."
He moved back, refusing to look away from the enemy, determined to win this one. It twitched. He narrowed his eyes. The stirring rod would work, he decided, and felt around the table for the glass stick. Something rolled and hit the floor, making what he decided was a twinkling sound. The same sound he imagined that Dumbledore's eyes would make if they could make sounds.
"Remus!"
He would poke the enemy and the enemy would retreat. He would be victorious! Surely Severus could sacrifice one stirring rod for the cause?
"That's it! I've had enough!" Severus roared, slapping his dragon hide gloves onto the work bench and rounding on Remus, who blinked innocently back at him. "Look at the state of you!"
Blast! He had lost.
"I was winning, Severus," he pouted. "Another few seconds and I would have had them."
"They are blowflies, Remus, and they are dead," Severus growled. "They are the magical equivalent of a common house fly and they do not hold staring competitions!"
"But I was winning!" he persisted, straining to turn his neck and stare at the enemy, while Severus pushed him from the lab.
"They are dead! They cannot have staring matches with you, Remus, even if they were alive." Severus shoved him into the corridor. "I've warned you about being around potion fumes, this happens every time! Go get lunch. You'll be craving shortly," he ordered and slammed the door.
Thanks for reading!