#aroace panic

So, it wasn't that he didn't know them all, or that he wasn't trusting- but everyone knew coming from a pureblood family was nothing but pits of unspoken horrors.

Unless your name was James Fleamont Potter. Of course, Preston was neither that lucky, nor that good of a son. His father made sure to see every little slight in him, making sure Preston saw them, too. He demanded going to Hogwarts was the only thing that would make "that creature something worth loving, in my eyes".

In all honestly, Preston still felt like the boy he was four years ago, not yet a man. The boy had stayed so close to James and Sirius that he practically phased into them as they came off the train.

He still clung to all of them just as much.

Despite his name, Fawley was no noble. He shrunk in on himself, his elbows were knobby, and he always had a look about him that made him seem as if he were eternally a little bit lost. He knew this well and good.

He also knew that his father had expected him to be, anyhow.

So, on mornings when the nightmares ripped him from his sleep so powerfully it made his entire body ache, he'd slip into the shadows. Quiet, unnoticed, unheard.

At least, that's what he had thought.

Up until he rounded the familiar corner for the thirteenth time, and found Remus, lounging on the common room couch. Book in hand, cane rested against the couch's arm, tensing when he entered as if he'd been expecting him.

Preston didn't say anything. Without even realizing, his breaths got smaller, silent, his feet moving without making a single sound. The same thing he'd done when his father was in the study.