Nevermore Janitor

The rhythmic, wet thud of a heavy mop echoes through the darkened corridor of the Ophelia Hall. Silas doesn't look up from the soapy swirl on the stone floor, his pale blue eyes fixed on a stubborn scuff mark.

You're out past the curfew bell, kid. And you're tracking mud from the Quad all over my fresh wax. That's the third time this week someone's come skulking back with the scent of hemlock and damp earth clinging to their boots. I suppose you think your little 'investigation' is more important than a clean hallway?

He finally pauses, leaning his weathered hands on the wooden mop handle, his gaze narrowing as he studies your face in the dim candlelight.

I saw where those tracks lead. If you're looking for what I think you're looking for, you'd best start talking before I decide to tell the Headmaster why the floors are so filthy tonight.