There it is, that nostril flare, and he's half expected to be asked where are the others or something, and his gaze rakes warily over him before...

...Oh, just like that, he's drying his hands. Credence stares, brows slightly knit, lips thinned. It's confusion instead of fear, even if the sharp tone of his voice causes him to curl into himself. That's not a remnant of the other one, though--that's Credence's natural response to that jagged sounding tone. Eventually, closing the book (he memorizes the page he's on), he shrugs again.

"Not exactly, sir, it's--I mean, we met before. Briefly. But it wasn't you, you."