[ What the fuck is he supposed to do with this thing. Severus takes the magazine and holds it, staring at it blankly for a moment. He briefly considers hitting it against the table, a thought that is probably obvious based on the side-eye he gives it before figuring out that he can push one off the top with his thumb.

It falls into the table.

Severus sets the magazine aside, and picks the round up. ]

Are you trying to get a reaction out of me?

[ He twists along the base of the bullet with a thumbnail, holds it between fingertips, inspects the casing. He then taps it on the surface of the ping-pong table and it obligingly begins to slide apart; metal covering, gunpowder guts. ]

I suppose I understand. [ There is no understanding in his voice. Like quicksand, the dull, overpowering distance is churning over lurking, dangerous bitterness. ] Occasionally I forget the universal decree that everyone is allowed to have a shit day but me.

[ The bullet reforms. ]