Ford hadn't recognized him, most likely because he'd been too distracted by the commotion of the falling painting, but he recognized the name immediately. "Oh, hullo," he said, taking the proffered hand and giving it a firm but pleasant shake. "Ford Greengrass. Your brother was in my dorm at Hogwarts," he explained. He had been at least passingly aware of Dorian Fisk while they'd been at school, but not intimately; he was a few years older, in a different house, and had a whole different vibe from the one Ford had had in school (and, to be honest, had still). He was the sort who cracked jokes and played Quidditch; Ford was the sort who daydreamed during classes and occasionally spent his lunch break chatting with one of the resident ghosts instead of with his fellow classmates.

Ford shifted his attention back to the fallen painting, which still seemed to be intact despite having fallen from quite a height. He then glanced up at the place it had occupied, now a conspicuous blank space on the wall. "Do you suppose we should try and put it back? They must have staff for that," he said uncertainly; aside from the ticket-takers at the entrance, he had seen no one who appeared to be here in an official capacity. He was hesitant to take on the job himself and potentially be responsible for another disaster in an hour or two if the painting fell again, but he didn't think they ought to just leave it in the middle of the floor, and given the density of the other art it wasn't as though there was an inconspicuous place to lean it up somewhere, or anything.