No one wanted to listen to him or his "mad" ravings.
Milo should be used to being discredited. His rantings and ravings and unexpected tangents and moments of clarity had most people thinking he was odd and a little less likely to want to spend time with him because he was hard to keep up with or something like that. But really, what was it so hard to believe their murderer was a vampire or something similar born in 1858? Was it really so difficult to believe considering his fascination with blood, the fact most victims had been discovered in the morning, if they were ever fresh? Given their killer's desire to show his prowess, killing right under others' noses, wouldn't it make sense he would kill in broad daylight if he could? The fact he hadn't so far as Milo could gather at least strongly implied their killer was limited to the confines of darkness.
There had been questions, yes, even in his own mind. For instance, why wasn't he simply biting the necks? Why did he leave the blood alone? Why hadn't any of their victims been drained? Why didn't he have an army of undead sirelings? The amount of control it would take not to be enthralled by the blood could be attributed to the vampire's age, Milo had deduced, or--which this was more likely--he wasn't a vampire. Milo had done research, and there were creatures with long life spans who shared nocturnal restrictions to the point going out in daylight could be deadly.
But no, they kept to themselves, so clearly this wasn't one of them or something like that. Anything to brush him away, to pacify their own fears. And it didn't help that the game with the devil himself hadn't been nearly as frequently played nor interesting as Milo had anticipated. He'd taken to writing the government, but he could only assume they were ignoring him as well.
Milo sighed as he looked down at the pile of papers that surrounded him at his spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table. He supposed he'd better get this done. He wanted to actually get some sleep tonight.