He doesn't try to shake, either, but rather slides his hand around Albus's, feather-gentle, taking in another breath at the feel of the unmarred parchment skin, the bones that are fragile, but there. When he's sure, he slides a crooked half-smile up at him (he isn't wearing his classroom boots), and lets the hand go, saying, "Clayborn. Veris Clayborn." Before he can get the ubiquitous raised eyebrow for the name, he defends it with, "I had to be sure I'd turn when called on. Something of an open secret around here, but I shouldn't like to alert... outside forces."
Not something he's going to ever forget, either, unfortunately, however much besides that appalling night he squeezed out of himself like water from a sponge onto the filthy floor of the Shack for Potter to pick up, and he nods, eyes a little pinched. "How much briefing do you need? Were you going somewhere?"