Hermione shivered as a tang of the creature’s magic washed over them. She drew in a sharp breath through her nose, the same smells she associated with the libraries she often haunted. Her fingers tightened over her folded knife as she twisted in her seat to take in the shelves upon shelves upon stacks of books on every available surface. The ceiling seemed too tall for the room they had entered. In fact, nothing about Mr. Cutterworthy’s home made much sense. And she loved it. 