16:20, empty; 16:25, empty; 16:30, empty.
Even when given the freedom to skip class and play with friends, none did. Of course, this wasn't always the case: in the first half of the first semester, trailing into the third quarter, Arthur would see deserters in the hallways regardless of what period it was, or what facility they were a part of. This demonstrated the psychological nature of humans to disobey; but when they are granted freedom, they will do wrong, but bore easily, and eventually be set back on the right path.
This behavioral pattern reflects another of the Headmaster's meticulous successes. He is a brilliant architect of human potential.
I anticipate conversing with that level of intellect again.
Approaching the Inferior Archives, he abruptly stopped at the entrance.
Forward.
He greeted the librarian and walked past five, ten rows of neatly arranged bookshelves, each column of a row being two-sided, and filled with books that he had fully run through.
Row 12, Column 6B. The search yields a zero percent success rate thus far, though the raw informational value here is statistically significant. Two-fifths of all major original texts reside in this inferior archive.
My focus on Monstrology has exhausted the immediate section. The probability of discovering novel data here approaches zero, and the cognitive understimulation is grating. However, precision is paramount; skipping a single tome could compromise the only existing thread.
A new Keeper of the Archives was designated prior to the semester's conclusion.
Their mana signature is palpable, yet visually unconfirmed. I must calculate that their awareness of me is currently null.
The density of their aura denotes significant power, but true omniscience is a myth. Methodical caution will suffice—
He peered past the visual obstruction of the book in his hands.
Auditory input. Footsteps. An anomaly during instructional hours.
He pushed the book in his hands into the nearest slot.
Coordinates locked: 12, 6B, 3R, 14. Retrieval postponed.
He took two large steps to the table he was using, and organized the pile of open books into three neatly organized stacks, before pulling himself to a complete stop, and pulling the seat out to sit down; exhaling the sudden influx of CO2, caused by the burst of movement, at a slow, continuous pace through his nostrils.
"Cedric?"
Arthur recognized that deep voice.
Ordain?
They stared awkwardly at each other, neither moving from their position.
He seems nervous. I'll play the innocent child and speak first.
"Good afternoon, sir. It is a pleasure to see you."
His head jolted back and he blinked once.
"Well, I feel fine, no good--I'm well. Well."
Arthur smiled. "You seem strained standing there, sir. Please, take a seat."
He gestured his hand at a chair to his right, on the end of the oval table.
"Would you care for some tea? I am quite familiar with the layout here and would be happy to prepare some," Arthur said as Ordain reached the chair, beginning to get up himself.
"Tea? No, no; I can make it myself–I'm not in the mood for tea right now. There's no need."
He was looking down now; he could not see the contempt in this arrogant adolescent's eyes.
"If I may ask, why are you not in class; Have you given up?" His eyes proceeded upwards with caution, and as he spoke his last word, Arthur found his eyes shocked down.
'Given up.' A pedestrian conclusion.
"Hmm, I would not say I have given up, sir... but the clinic's physician was quite strict about avoiding physical exertion for the time being."
"You're injured?!" Ordain roared, tensely examining him with his now fully-open hazel eyes. He was so close that Arthur could smell the herbal leaves in the tea Ordain drank before arriving.
Maybe by this, but more likely by the implication of his action, Arthur was stunned for a moment.
Possibly a genuine smile—who could tell—Arthur spoke: "Oh, no, please don't worry. It was merely a standard blood draw. Nothing to be alarmed about."
"I... see. My apologies." Seemingly acknowledging his own unusual actions, he retreated.
Remarkably simple.
"Sir Ordain... it was you, wasn't it?"
Arthur's hands gently slid across the smooth table, and clasped them together. He could not see it, but he knew Ordain was uncomfortable.
"You were the one who advocated for my placement in the Honor Class, despite my recent... shortcomings."
"And you saved me."
He looked down at his slightly opened hands.
"Heavens, I don't believe I ever properly thanked you for that, did I?"
Their eyes met.
"Thank you. Truly. I owe you my life."
"Oh—no, please, you mustn't say that. I was... I was merely performing my duty. I only wish—" He paused, and his expression faltered.
"No. Forgive me. I am entirely unworthy of your praise, Cedric, and there is certainly no debt. I am simply... I am here to ensure that such a tragedy never, ever occurs on these grounds again."
His eyes detached from the table, and he was reminded of his audience.
"I mean–"
He tried to find the words, but failed.
"I will be stationed here. In the archives. If you should ever require anything."
He pushed away from the table and hurriedly walked away.
Resignation from the Judicial Board confirmed.
His overwhelming guilt makes him highly susceptible to manipulation, yet his acute moral rigidity and physical proximity to my search radius present a statistical risk to acquiring the Necronomicon.
The optimal strategy to neutralize his interference while retaining him as an asset is to artificially inflate the interpersonal tension between us.
The current awkwardness is a baseline, but insufficient.
Should he become an obstacle, I will mercilessly exploit that guilt.