Draco leaned on her, pathetically weak, going not by his own will but like a walker in a dream, animated by whatever powers inscribe the strange tales of night. Where his arm met Hermione's, her flesh crawled; his skin was damp, and bitterly cold to the touch. He pulled away a little; against his pale flesh a red weal showed, a flash of flame against grey cloud.
The books whispered. Far off in the stacks, there was the sound of covers opening and pages turning, and a soft thud.