So it turns out he's right, and his eyes don't deceive him. There is familiarity in her voice, the tone of it, the emphasis, the word choice itself as well as the blame being placed on him which knits an exasperated line at his brow even when her wand rests beneath his chin. If it's a trick, it's a very good trick. He stays quite still while she still has a wand trained on him, for all of a few moments, before genuine indignance has him attempting to bat it away as if it were a fly and not a tool of immense power.

"I didn't know it was you," he objects, each syllable still coming out as if it had been ironed and pressed upon production, a lifelong ingrained habit of enunciation that even two wizarding wars can't get rid of.

A pause, a flicking glance over her features, wariness setting his jaw. "I still don't."