Xenophilius doesn't notice, at first -- he moves from page to page of the scattered publications he'd summoned in zigzags, snatching them up and out of order, disregarding the messiness of the stack being collated beneath his arm. His wand is still held, somewhat absently -- it's a strange thing even by wand standards, made of a pale, ashy grey wood and carved almost like a unicorn spiral, coming to a tip.

He pauses, then, seeing McCoy and almost confused when his ever so slightly cross-eyed stare lands on the pages clutched in the strangers hands. Then, he brightens, bustling on over.

"I've a charm that'll put them in the right order, if I can remember it," he adds, holding out his hands to accept the papers in fistfuls. "Might get a bit awkward with their wetness, but now -- thank you kindly."