[He gives a half-shake of his head, distracted, frowning. He doesn't like being advised by a stranger, ordered about. But he says nothing straight away. Taking stock of his physical state might be useful, or even crucial to his survival. Though considering what seems to be happening -- he doesn't really want to.

It's like witnessing a particularly bone-shattering crash over a Quidditch field, however. Hard to look away.

Blood still coating fingertips he reaches to gingerly prod his mouth. 'Pushed my old teeth right out'...sure enough, his canines and the sharper pre-molars are loose. He pulls his hand back but it's too late, that little touch was enough: he's coughing again, they're falling into the open palm of his hand, and long fangs are sliding through his pained gums like knives as they sprout.

Standing there talking to an undead child-sized thing with antlers while holding a handful of his own teeth is not the strangest thing he's ever done in his life. But it does happen to be near the top of the list.]

...What are you? I can tell you aren't human. You smell dead. If you really aren't responsible, then how do you know so much about all of this?