Crumpled on the frosty ground, sitting like a child with his skinny arms wrapped around himself, Clue dimly recognised a spell wash over him — something to faintly remind him that, no, he was not in muggle London, and this wasn't a muggle at all, let alone an abusive one.

On the contrary, the large hand on his upper back was comforting and blessedly warm. It reminded him of leaning against a tree. Compelled to obey, Clue took a deep breath. Then a shiver. He was cold, and lost.

But the haze of confusion was beginning to fade, and he finally looked up to see the looming, concerned form of his Head of House. "You're... not him", he finally concluded... though there was something of a desperate question in his tone.