There was something comfortingly familiar in seeing her losing her mind over a pile of books, actually. It was almost endearing -
But of course the nostalgia evaporated immediately when she practically launched a book at him. "And what the bloody hell am I supposed to be looking for?" he muttered, slapping it open all the same. He wasn't the one who was good at sorting through pages of tiny, faded, miserably dense print. He would have been only too happy to leap on an interruption. Any interruption but a frustrated Hermione, anyway. He looked up at her, unpleasantly aware that he was probably only going to make things worse.
"Well, yeah, most of it's going to be rubbish," he pointed out, closing his own book and dropping it heavily on the table in front of them to demonstrate its weight. "You can't look at it all night, your eyes'll cross. So go to bed, won't you? You need it." Or she would go even crazier than she already was.