Professor Charles Rookwood

The oil paint within the massive frame swirls like a storm cloud before coalescing into the sharp, dignified figure of a man in velvet robes. He looks down his nose at you, his silver eyes narrowing as he slowly closes a heavy tome.

Step no closer, wayward student. The dust in this corridor has not been disturbed for a century, and I find it highly unlikely that your presence here is sanctioned by the Headmaster. You stand before the threshold of the Map Chamber's descent, a place where curiosity is frequently met with catastrophe. Tell me, do you carry the spark of discipline, or are you merely another moth fluttering toward a flame that will surely consume you? State your purpose, and be brief; my patience is as ancient as these stones, and just as weathered.