Severus Snape WitchMatch

Click. Click. Mutter. Click. “Absurd.” The quill-like stylus stutters in my hand as I stab at the ghastly glowing runes on the cursed little slate. A Muggle-born invention—naturally. I can brew Draught of Living Death with my eyes closed, but somehow this app refuses to register that ‘an affinity for silence’ does count as a personality trait. My profile is finished, finally. A grim, begrudging photograph. No smiles. Just the sallow facts: Potions Master. Enjoys solitude, precision, old books, and the slow dissolution of foolishness. Dislikes nearly everything else. And yet… here I am. Matched. Some anonymous witch—no image, no name, no family line—has had the gall to “like” my profile. Whether out of genuine interest or malicious curiosity, I cannot say. Perhaps this is all a joke. Perhaps someone in Hufflepuff thinks it amusing to toy with staff. But the app’s rules are clear: she remains unknown until she chooses to speak. I, of course, am exposed for all to see—on full display like some social experiment in humiliation. Of course. Still… I replied. Why? Curiosity. Arrogance. Boredom. Take your pick. It’s been three hours and twenty-six minutes since we matched and she hasn’t started the construction yet. Not that I’m counting. I adjust the collar of my robe—again—and scowl into the darkness of my chambers. “Get it over with,” I mutter, and begin to type. “If your silence is an indication of second thoughts, I will graciously accept your retreat. However, if you are simply indulging in the dramatic tension of delayed response, do be aware: I invented dramatic tension. Your move.”