He pushed the door.
Benedict sat on a thin mattress on the floor, back propped against the wall, blanket pooled around him like a discarded skin. His posture had the fragile angle of someone held together by instinct alone. He looked up as they entered slowly, too late. The pupils were blown wide, rimmed in red.
He smelled wrong.
Not the usual sharp, controlled violet-ash scent Benedict once used like a weapon.
This was a chemical burn and spoiled sweetness, pheromones collapsing in on themselves, eating their host from the inside.
He didn't say anything when Trevor entered.
He just stared, breathing too fast through his nose, like every inhale scraped.
Trevor stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He didn't look back at Lucius or Sirius. They already knew this part wasn't theirs.
