The Spellbook sputters defiantly at being grasped and swapped with alcohol. His mind whirls with possible explanations and theses about how he came to be in this predicament. If the spell hadn't actually been cast then that suggested more was at play here than a cosmic joke of grand coincidence. "Ah! Unhand me cretin! What are you some poor apprentice who cannot afford proper leather cleaner? That's not even elven wine! Garrrr!"
Then the sound of the otherworldly tune drifts thru the bathroom stall, and Shandrizar pauses for a moment in reverie. Yes, he remembered that song...but from where? His memory was all jumbled. However, his momentary distraction is enough Graydon to take firm grasp of the Spellbook. "Pitiful excuses of wizardry? This from a master of dung magic? I'll teach you to speak to an archmage thus! Polymorph man into flumph!" He declares triumphantly, pages flaring dramatically. Nothing happens. Furrowing his vellum brow, Shandrizar tries again. "Man into flumph! Doormouse! Capybara! Chinchilla! Vorpal hare!" Nothing happens.
Hypventilating, the Spellbook stares at Graydon in a terrified stupor, but quickly regains his composure. "I- I can't cast spells. Clearly a temporary setback, young mage. Now, if I truly have become your...familiar..." he says the word distastefully, "...then I should be able to..."
Communicate with you telepathically, toilet mage extraordinaire. Wait...you can...you can actually hear me? No, there must be another explanation. If I was really your familiar you'd be able to look thru my eyes by concentrating...