“Professor McGonagall heard it from Tonks, who saw him herself,” Molly said. She sighed. “A Squib on the street called in a tip to the Ministry. They’ve found him,” she clarified, stepping fully into the kitchen where her family was waiting. They were all eating wedding leftovers.

“What? Who?” Ron questioned, ignoring the errant bits of pasta salad that were stuck to his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Who do you think, Ron?”

Harry, meanwhile, had pushed up from the table, upsetting a glass of leftover punch. Red splashed across the table. “Where is he?” the young man asked. “I want to see him. I want to-”

“Harry,” Ginny said, standing. She placed a hand on his arm. Harry flinched. Hermione saw her withdraw her hand immediately. Internally, she winced. The wedding had been strange for all of them, not least Harry and Ginny, who looked desperately uncomfortable and pained while watching Bill and Fleur declare their undying love for each other—battle scars and all. The house itself was still festooned in Fleur’s strange bridal color scheme: white, petal pink, and deep teal. Ribbons and crepe hung from seemingly every surface, and the burn marks from several celebratory Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs remained on cupboard doors and furniture.

“Harry, we all know how you feel about…Professor Snape,” Arthur Weasley said slowly. “But the wizarding world doesn’t believe in vigilantism.” He swallowed his punch. “More to the point, this could be a trap set by the Dark Lord himself, to tempt you out of hiding.”

“Where was he found?” Hermione asked, hoping to divert the subject.

“Professor McGonagall says he is in a Muggle hospital,” Molly answered, her confusion plain. “Of all places…”

“Why a Muggle hospital?” Ginny asked. “Death Eaters hate Muggles.”

“He probably wants to poison their medicine,” Harry said bitterly.

Molly sighed. “Apparently he’s very ill,” she said. “A Muggle found him in a place for people without homes.”

“A homeless shelter?” Harry asked.

“Yes, homeless, that’s the word,” Molly said, as though remembering something. “Of course, Professor Snape does have a home-”

“Not anymore, he doesn’t,” Ron interjected.

“Be that as it may-”

“You mean he was just wandering out on the street?” Hermione asked frowning. “In broad daylight? With the entire wizarding world on his trail, and his face all over the Daily Prophet?”

“Well,” Molly said, seemingly happy to get a word in edgewise, “he seems to have forgotten himself, a little.”

“A little?” Arthur asked.

“A great deal,” she added. “He can’t remember his own name.” She turned to Harry. “He has no idea who he is.”

∆

There was a great deal of pain.

It seemed to radiate from his left arm and through his entire body, as though some particularly nasty plant (he remembered stretches of ivy, on official-looking buildings) had burrowed down inside his skin and grown there. Worse, he could not move, and thus could not scratch, which made the pain unbearable. Not to be outdone, the solid ache inside his jaw throbbed insistently. He ran his tongue over the raw places in his gums, where the teeth were missing. They were excruciatingly tender; sharp knives of pain sliced through his face, and his tongue darted away immediately.

“They think you might have an abscess, Professor,” said a voice to his left. His eyes slitted open. There was a girl in a nurses’ uniform, holding a chart in one hand and a thin, polished stick in the other. Her posture was tense, as though she were warning off a stray dog with a rolled-up newspaper. She had pale pink hair. “I think that means the nerves in your jaw are infected.”

He blinked, and tried to speak. It was enormously difficult—opening his mouth felt like prying rusty hinges. He almost expected a creaking sound. “D-Do we know each other?” he managed. Sweat broke out across his brow.

Her hair did a strange thing—the pink deepened, went purple. “You mean you don’t know me?” She raised the stick at him. His heart began hammering; he had the sense he had done something very bad, and she was going to hurt him for it. Brilliant little stars danced within his vision. It hurt to breathe.

“Your hair…how…?” The world blackened, and he heard his own question die on his lips.

∆

Tonks’ arrival at the Burrow wakened everyone there; she crashed through the fireplace in a sooty ball of tearful curse words. The whole Burrow seemed to rock on its foundation; pots and pans rattled in the kitchen. Expecting Death Eaters, Hermione thundered down the stairs, wand in hand. She arrived just in time to watch Tonks’ tantrum. “Damn you, Severus!” she said clearly, before throwing the nearest object—an errant Gnome who had sneaked inside—squarely at the opposite wall. This, in turn, dislodged two commemorative saucers on the plate rail, and they crashed to the floor. “Fuck!”

Molly was hot on Hermione’s heels, and rushed to the young Auror. Hermione paused to repair the two saucers and restore them to their proper places while sorting thoughts—what had Professor Snape done? Behind her, Harry said: “What’s going on? Has he woken up? Has he hurt you?”

Tonks shook her head. Her hair went red, like the surrounding Weasley ginger but darker. “No,” she said, and sniffed.

“You sound disappointed,” Hermione said. “Did you want him to hurt you?”

“I wanted him to be himself!” Tonks wailed. “Then I could have hurt him!”

“What’s this, then?” Arthur said. He was belting an unfortunately bright plaid robe.

“Severus seems to have awakened,” Molly said. “Tonks, did he say anything?”

The Auror’s lower lip trembled. “He… He asked me if we knew each other,” she said. “And then, before I could think, my hair changed, and he saw, and he started to ask me how I’d done it.”

“Then what happened?”

Tonks shrugged. “He fainted, I think. He just passed out.” Her hands went up to her face, and she shook her head. “Molly, there must be something wrong, if Severus Snape faints.”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to know that he’s Severus Snape, dear,” Molly said. “That’s the first problem.”

Ron shook his head. He was already making his way to the kitchen. “I think he’s faking it,” he called, while opening cupboard doors. “He’ll get all kinds of privileges in Azkaban, if they think he’s ill. In fact, they probably won’t send him at all—I bet he winds up in one of those, what do you call it, P-sike units, only in St. Mungo’s.”

“It’s psych unit, Ron,” Hermione corrected. “The P is silent. And how can you be thinking of food at a time like this?”

“Need to keep up our strength to go on fighting evil, you know,” he said, taking down a box of cereal and opening it up. The cereal crunched, as his fist plumbed the box. After bringing his hand out, he held the box toward her. “Want any?”

“No, thank you,” she muttered, and turned back to Tonks, whose head currently rested on Molly’s shoulder.

“Could that really happen?” Harry asked. His voice was quiet. “Could they really…let him off…if he can prove he’s sick?”

“He’s already sick, Harry,” Tonks said. She shook her head, and pointed to the side of her neck. “They’ve put these tubes in him…”

“IV’s?” Hermione asked. “Did he need a blood transfusion?”

Arthur turned to her. He blinked. Hermione had a sudden urge to back away slowly. “A what?” he asked.

“A blood transfusion,” she said. At the puzzled looks surrounding her—Harry seemed lost in thought and paid no attention—she realized an explanation was in order. She wondered if there was a way to phrase it without making things too complicated. She resisted the urge to speak as though talking to a four-year-old. “In Muggle hospital, if someone’s had a major accident or injury and they lose a lot of blood, the doctor has to put in more blood, of the same type. Without that blood, the patient would die. That’s a blood transfusion.”

A small line appeared between Molly’s brows. “But, where do they get the blood, dear?”

“People donate it.”

Behind her, Ron made an exaggerated gagging sound. Molly’s hand clapped over her mouth. Arthur wiped his hands on his robe, as though he’d touched something dirty. “That’s just awful,” Tonks said, and her hair went momentarily green.

“It’s so unsanitary,” Molly said.

“Do people just cut themselves open, Hermione?” Ginny asked.

Yes. We Muggles just hang ourselves on a hook, open up the vein, and let the drain bucket take care of the rest. Hermione took a deep breath. “No, they don’t,” she said. “First, the nurse sterilizes the skin, then she inserts a needle in the vein” the Weasleys and Tonks shuddered, “and that needle helps divert blood into a tube, which leads to a little plastic bag. When a certain amount has been taken, the blood goes to a Muggle hospital, where it’s tested for disease. Only when it’s been cleared does it go into another person.” At the skeptical looks surrounding her, she added: “I’ve donated blood.”

Ron marched up behind her, and swung her around. “You have? When?”

“During Christmas holidays,” she said. “There are always a lot of drunken driving accidents at New Year’s. So, it’s only right that the hospitals should have extra blood.”

“So these other people are just walking around with your blood in them?” When she nodded, Ron shook his head. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “No offense to you, of course.”

She snorted. “None taken.”

“What about the magic?” Arthur asked. His voice had turned thoughtful. “If a witch like you shares her blood with a Muggle, does anything happen?”

“Considering that Muggles and wizards manage to reproduce together on a fairly consistent basis, I doubt it,” Hermione replied, testily, and watched Arthur blush. “It’s not like we’re allergic to each other. My mother and I occasionally shared the same drinking glass, but she never ‘caught’ my magic from me.” She made quotation marks in the air, with her fingers.

“Arthur’s just trying to understand, dear,” Molly said.

Hermione sighed. “I know.” It’s just that explaining the Muggle world to you is just as frustrating as explaining the wizarding one to my own parents. “Anyway, all I meant was that there shouldn’t be a change. The ‘wizarding gene,’ if there is one, would only be transmitted during cellular mitosis, perhaps in metaphase. And even then, whether that gene expresses itself is dependent on other factors.” At the blank looks around her, she said: “You can’t get it from blood.”

Arthur nodded. “Oh, I see.” He gave her a look from the corner of his eye. “Well, that’s decided it. Hermione, will you come with me?”

She frowned. “Come with you where?”

“To the hospital,” Arthur said. “Someone has to report to the Order on how he’s doing, otherwise we can’t formulate a plan. We need someone who knows how Muggle hospitals operate—someone You-Know-Who isn’t trying to trap. Tonks only managed to get a glimpse of Severus because she posed as a nurse. Unless I miss my guess, she won’t be able to keep up that cover for very long.”

Tonks nodded. “One of the other nurses already asked me who I was—apparently they wear these badges with their names and a picture…”

“Right,” Hermione said. “And you would have to steal someone else’s identity to enter the room, later, which poses a whole new set of problems.” She bit her lower lip. “Of course, we can’t just march in there and claim him, either…”

“Claim him?” Harry asked, having awakened from his distraction. “You don’t mean to bring him back here, do you?”

“Well, no…”

“Hermione, he’s a murderer!”

“That hasn’t been proven!” Immediately upon uttering the words, Hermione wished to take them back. She saw surprise, hurt, and rage cycle over Harry’s face. His jaw dropped open. “Harry, all I meant was…the Wizengamot will have to try him, like any other criminal, and…”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Harry, you said Dumbledore was doing badly, that he drank something terrible that made him very sick, and we all know what his hand looked like…” She saw Harry’s wrath burn the brighter in his eyes, and felt tears coming. “Harry, you know I believe what you said you saw, but you might not have seen everything—”

“Fine!” he shouted. “Go visit him! Go and get yourself killed! But the Boy Who Lived won’t be there to save you!”

And with that he turned, and stomped upstairs to the room he and Ron shared. Ginny made to follow him, and then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she sat down on the stairs, and sighed. She hung her head, and didn’t meet Hermione’s gaze. Hermione flicked her glance to Ron, who shook his head. “Maybe you’d better go with Dad,” he said heavily. “The two of you can figure this out, together.” He set the box of cereal on an end table, and trudged up the stairs.

“Ron!”

“Just be careful,” he said, without looking at her. A moment later, she heard the door to his room creaking open. Then it shut with a soft click.

Do not cry, she thought. Do not explode. The Order needs you. With that thought, she took a deep breath and turned to Arthur. At the moment, focusing on Order business was a good distraction. Whatever Professor Snape had done, she firmly believed he deserved a fair trial. Letting the legal system fail now would only be a triumph for the other side. She squared her shoulders. “I think I need my wallet and passport,” she said. “I believe we may need some documents forged, later on.”

Arthur blanched. “Forgery?”

Hermione nodded. She turned to Tonks. “What was the name of that hospital? I have an idea.”

∆

Despite his distinct Muggle-philia, Arthur Weasley still had not quite figured out the “fellytone,” much less the ones encased in telephone boxes. Hermione tried to ignore his complete lack of comprehension when she cursed under her breath, having forgotten Muggle money and thus the change necessary to make a phone call. She rather doubted hospitals accepted reversed-charge calls, and was reduced to hunting about for random coins. Luckily the proper coinage was taped to a glossy flyer offering the services of a scantily-clad young woman named “Kandi,” as though the woman in question—or perhaps her pimp—had thoughtfully decided to eliminate at least one step in the shopping process. She ripped the coins free from the flyer, and watched it flutter to the floor. She paged through a telephone book, until finding the proper ARU desk.

“Whipps Cross University Hospital,” the voice said, brusquely. “How may I help you?”

“Hello,” Hermione said, nodding at Arthur. “I’m looking for unidentified patients—I’ve been calling all the hospitals—and I think my uncle may be at your hospital.”

“What’s the name?”

“Well, that’s just it, you see…he’s quite forgotten himself.” She felt herself warming to the lie, and continued: “You see he’s been off his meds for a few weeks, now. He went missing in Scotland, and we have reason to believe he’s here in London. His friends mentioned seeing him, but they don’t know where he is. We’re all very concerned for him, and we’d just like to find him. His physician in Scotland was good enough to send down another prescription—if we could just find him, make sure he’s safe, and start the therapy again…” She realized with a start how insulted Professor Snape would likely be to hear himself described as an escaped mental patient. Probably less insulted than he would be to hear you call him “uncle,” I imagine.

“Physical description?”

Bat-like, with greasy hair and a poor attitude. “Well, he’s tall, thin, with long-ish black hair. There’s a m…. He has a tattoo, on his left arm.”

“Tattoo? What kind?”

“It’s of a snake, and a skull,” she said, suddenly wondering why Voldemort’s chosen insignia was so blatantly cliché and unoriginal—there were probably bikers all over England with tattoos more creative than that. This thought bolstered her confidence; she was able to think about the Dark Mark without letting the receiver tremble in her hand.

“We may have the man you’re looking for,” the voice said, cautiously.

“Oh! That’s wonderful news! May we please visit him?”

“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid.”

“Well, it’s just that my dad—my uncle’s brother—and I have been searching for weeks, almost a month, now…We’d really like to see if it’s him or not. If it’s not, then we need to know, so that we can look somewhere else.”

“Have you filed a missing persons report on your uncle?”

Shit. “Er…only in Scotland,” Hermione said. “That’s where his clinic is-”

“Whittingham? GPMH? Is he out-patient, or in?”

“The name escapes me; all I know is that it’s private, so our family pays a great deal for it,” Hermione snapped, annoyed that she had not this through better. It occurred to her that her current snappishness was thoroughly Snape-like—at least they would seem related, in that regard.

“Well, you’re welcome to come in, but I make no promises,” the voice said, and there was an abrupt click. It took Hermione a moment to understand that she’d been hung up on.

“Well?” Arthur asked. “What did they say?”

Hermione hung up with more force than was strictly necessary. “They admitted to having him,” she said. “But I’m not sure that we’ll be able to visit. Visiting hours have finished, they said.”

Arthur made a fist, and tapped his dry palm with it. “Hermione, we have to try,” he said. “If the other side finds Severus before we do, we’ll lose what he knows.” He frowned. “Or, doesn’t know, as it seems… Either way,” he cleared his throat, “Albus would want us to find him.”

Hermione nodded, slowly. “Harry said that the Headmaster seemed to want to protect Malfoy,” she said. “Do you think Professor Snape knows where Malfoy is?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

∆

Whipps Cross University Hospital spanned over 40 acres of land, and it was only thanks to the color-bar system that they eventually found the ARU. There they learned that Snape had been stabilized—although they gave his name as Saul McGann. At the proper moment, Hermione brandished her Transfigured passport, which had been a tricky bit of business. She’d created Snape’s picture from last year’s school photo—thankfully he was one of the few in the photo not smiling or waving--and Molly supplied the other details, like his birthday. They apologized that it was all they had—he had his driver’s license with him when he left, although no one had any clue where it was now, and no, they would not be giving out his NHS number without first identifying him, thank you.

Before setting foot inside the hospital, Hermione had momentarily panicked about what color their hair should be. Would the hospital readily believe two people who looked so thoroughly unlike Professor Snape? Would it be better if they both possessed his inky black hair? Arthur put his foot down, insisting in a mock-stern voice that all of his daughters had red hair—at which point he Transfigured her himself.

Now they were in an elevator, and Hermione felt herself growing more nervous with every floor they passed. Thankfully Snape was not very high up. She reasoned that he had to be kept close to the ARU, or at least an operating theatre. Upon exiting, they wound their way to Snape’s wing, and his room. “Keep your eyes open,” Arthur warned. “We don’t know who else is watching his room.”

“Right,” Hermione agreed, and a distant part of her wondered when and how to explain security cameras to him. She palmed her wand when they saw the door. She saw Arthur do the same.

“Ready?” Arthur asked. For the first time, Hermione saw a conspiratorial flicker in his eyes, and realized where Fred and George’s instinct for mischief came from. The recognition made her feel oddly at home, and less afraid. She nodded, and Arthur opened the door.

The room smelled of alcohol and unwashed flesh, like the back of a veterinary clinic where Hermione had once volunteered. Snape was in the dark. Arthur cast a faint Lumos to help them see, and Hermione followed suit. Throwing the light switch at this juncture might wake Snape up, and even in the dim light she could tell that he needed his rest. “Good Merlin,” Arthur breathed, staring at the prone figure. His hand met his lips.

Hermione could understand why: for a moment he was Sirius, back from the dead. There was the same haggard face, wasted limbs, and hollow frame. Yellowing bruises gathered at his hairline—what was left of it. He drooled. The Dark Mark was wrapped in gauze; she saw where blood had leaked through. Snape was asleep, lying vulnerable on his hospital bed, his wrists and nose connected to a variety of tubes. Hermione noticed a triple-IV connected to his throat; the needles carefully hidden under one large square of gauze. The three sacs were labeled “saline,” “nutrients,” and “lipids.” He must be terribly malnourished, if he needs liquid food. Is he having trouble swallowing? His heartbeat appeared normal, Hermione noticed. In all it was quite a plain hospital scene—there were other people, in other rooms, she knew, who were much worse off. But for a witch or wizard with little experience in Muggle hospitals, the sight was probably grotesque.

For her, the most disconcerting was that they had shaved his head.

She had not understood until this moment how much she identified Snape by his twin curtains of black hair. That greasy, lanky length had always looked a little too adolescent to her, like a Muggle teenager trying out a rebellious haircut. Now, she understood why he kept it chin-length—without it framing his face, he was all nose and chin. For the first time, she noticed his Adam’s apple, and how sharp it looked. Everything about him looked sharp, now, starved—from the rod-like clavicle to his rough, reddened knuckles.

This man is Public Enemy Number One? This husk of a human being was once my teacher? Was I really afraid of this person—did I really cry, because of something he once said?

“He looks so…” Arthur faltered.

“Small,” Hermione said. Her voice sounded clipped, in her ears.

Arthur pointed. She noticed his hand shaking slightly. “What are those…things…in his throat?”

“Food,” Hermione said. “He’s lucky they didn’t go in through his stomach.” Arthur shuddered. Eager to look away, Hermione picked up Snape’s chart. She scanned the top page once, and flipped to the back. “He’s lost some teeth,” she said. “The wounds have abscessed. That must be why he can’t eat. It probably hurts too much. He needs a periodontist.”

Arthur stared. His skin had taken on a greenish tinge. “What else does it say?”

“He’s got pneumonia. They’ve got him on some antibiotics. They’re hoping that helps with the skin fungus—it looks like scrofula, or eczema. His skin is flaking away.” She wondered briefly if that had to do with the Dark Mark. Could Snape be having an allergic reaction to his own tattoo? “He also has some broken ribs. And he had lice. That’s why they shaved his head.”

“Severus had lice?”

“He’s lucky it wasn’t fleas.” She replaced the chart. “Those are just the physical problems, though. The chart says his mind’s a mess. He doesn’t remember anything.”

As if on cue, Snape stirred. His left hand groped for something, but it seemed impossible for him to make a fist. His eyes fluttered open, and Hermione quickly doused her wand’s light. She heard Arthur do the same. “Who’s there?” Snape croaked. He sounded afraid. His voice was a shadow of its former self. It had lost all of its former silkiness and power—Hermione realized that it wouldn’t intimidate even the most skittish first-year.

Reaching for the dimmer switch, Hermione gently eased the lights up to a dim glow. Snape fixed her with a glare—he looked for a moment like those paranoid conspiracy theorists one sometimes saw on late-night television. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice was wet and sluggish but precise, as though he had to think about each syllable but was making a valiant effort in the process. That’s the morphine, and maybe the missing teeth, too. “Why are you here?”

“Do you not recognize us?” Arthur asked.

Snape’s gaze flicked to him, and then back to Hermione. His eyes narrowed. “Are you my family?” Again, his gaze rounded on Arthur. “We look nothing alike, you know.”

Arthur blinked. “Do you mean you truly don’t remember?”

Snape’s gaze rolled to the ceiling. “Why must you all keep asking questions to which I have already provided the answer?”

Something about his words was so very Snape-like that Hermione found herself warming. Even if he remembered nothing at all, Snape was still Snape—and that meant he could be reasoned with. He could be cruel, he could be secretive, and he was probably a murderer, but he still looked out for himself—and that made him predictable. She sneaked a glance at Arthur, and saw that his color had improved. He had recognized Snape within the wasted amnesiac, too. Hermione took a deep breath.

“We’ve come here to help you,” she said. “We want to move you somewhere else—somewhere you’ll get better care.”

Snape pointed his nose heavenward. Hermione saw him begin sweating. “I’m not going anywhere with you, until you tell me who the hell you are.” He swallowed audibly. “If you don’t, I’ll push the emergency button—the nurses will come.” His knuckles had gone white on the sheets.

“The nurses know we’re here,” Hermione said. She picked up a small remote control which sprouted from another clear sac marked “morphine drip.” It was attached to an IV running to Snape’s left wrist. “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked.

Snape watched the remote in her hand. “Yes,” he said.

“You know how this works, don’t you? You’re only supposed to squeeze it if it really hurts.”

“Yes, I fucking well know that, thank you,” Snape said, and snatched it away. He held tight to the remote, but did not squeeze it.

“You can trust us,” Hermione said. “Go ahead. I know your jaw must hurt, with all this talking.”

Snape seemed to shrink, at the mention of his pain. “Are you sure you’re not my family?” he asked.

“We’re the closest thing you’ve got,” Arthur said. He sounded embarrassed.

Snape blinked. “Oh,” he said. “They said family might come and collect me.”

For a moment, the disappointment on his face was so clear, and so reminiscent of Harry’s familial suffering, that Hermione wondered why the two had not gotten along better. She found a lump forming in her throat. “We’re going to get you out of here,” she said. “We’re going to take care of you.”

Snape arched an eyebrow. His face shifted, and a look of profound skepticism replaced his open disappointment. He almost looked like the snide professor she remembered. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said.

“Well, you can believe this,” she said, and brandished her wand. A moment later, Snape’s blanket was an exact reproduction of a Gryffindor dormitory bedspread, complete with gold tassels.

“Hermione!” Arthur said. “Change it back!”

She ignored him. Snape was blinking at the blanket. His right index finger slid off the sheets, and poked carefully at the blanket. One of the embroidered lions noticed his incursion, and offered a tiny roar. His hand jerked away. “Do you believe me now?” Hermione asked. “If I say I can get you out of here, do you believe me?”

“Yes,” he murmured, still staring at the blanket.

“And you’ll trust us, and play along?”

Snape turned to her. “I agree to the latter, if not the former,” he said placidly. “I still have no idea who you are, Hermione.”

“I’m someone who wants to help you,” she said. “That’s all you need to know, for now.”

“Afraid I’ll give the game away?”

His question hit so close to the larger matter that Hermione briefly wondered if he had been fooling them all along. It would be like Snape to make a joke at her expense, and listen to her promises of help only to laugh at her later for what a sop she’d been. If that were true, he’d have to know that we’ll report him. He’d have to know about his pictures in the Daily Prophet—he’d have to know we could send him to Azkaban. If he were himself, he wouldn’t have gotten caught.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m afraid that whoever took your teeth will find you again,” she said.

Snape’s eyes narrowed at that, and his gaze flicked to the door. “Are those them?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The men standing behind you.”

Hermione turned. Arthur was already standing at attention. Hermione felt her knees turn to jelly. That’s funny—I can carry on a perfectly decent conversation with Public Enemy Number One, but when- “Miss Granger, isn’t it?” Rufus Scrimgeour said, interrupting her train of thought. “Fancy meeting you here.”