River: Presumed dead for months, you return to find Remus drowning in grief and guilt. You survived captivity; he survived losing you. Now you have to figure out how to survive each other.
James Potter
Sirius Black
Edmund Pevensie
A Whole New World: A princess destined for an arranged marriage meets a young king who offers her one night of freedom.
there is just something about the concept of Lily Evans x Black!reader having a dynamic that mirrors Elphaba x Glinda where Reg is Nessa, Remus is Boq, James is Fiyero and Sirius is just Sirius.
A while ago, in 2020, I created a playlist for Remus Lupin that you might have heard before (or not), and since it seems that we are in need of a Marauders fandom renaissance, I figured I should redo some of my early works (not that there are many). Regardless, here follows an updated playlist for 'falling in love with remus lupin'.
“Ever Since The Snow Ball: Chapter 3” Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader
Summary: After the horrors of November ’84, Dustin’s clueless older sister gets dragged into the chaos of Hawkins, grows too close to Steve Harrington, befriends Robin Buckley, and accidentally stumbles into the Starcourt Russian nightmare. She falls first. He falls harder.
Author’s Note: Masterlist done, guys! Please feel comfortable sending requests or maybe even suggestions on where this story should go.
Graduation in Hawkins wasn’t glamorous; it wasn’t even fashionable. The bright orange robes made everyone look like prison escapees. It wasn’t particularly organized either. The folding chairs on the football field wobbled in the grass, the PA system crackled like it had survived one too many pep rallies, and Principal Higgins mispronounced at least four names before reaching the H’s. The sun beat down on the seniors, hot enough to make the polyester gowns cling, and everyone looked like they’d rather be elsewhere, regardless of the anticipation that led to this moment.
The eldest Henderson sat in the front row, cap slipping every time the wind picked up, gown sticking to her legs. Dustin was somewhere in the bleachers with a weeping Claudia, waving a homemade sign that said ‘CONGRATS SIS!’ in glitter that was already shedding onto the people around him. She pretended not to see him. He pretended she wasn’t pretending.
When her name was called to approach the podium, Dustin and her mom cheered as if she’d just been awarded an AMA as runner‑up against Prince and Michael Jackson themselves.
She rolled her eyes in embarrassment, but her smile betrayed her.
She stepped up to the microphone, adjusted the stack of index cards she absolutely wasn’t going to use, and cleared her throat. The PA system squealed in protest.
“Good morning,” she began, voice steady despite the heat that increased with her nerves. “Today, I was given the privilege to stand here and give you something inspirational. Something about the future, or hard work, or how we’re all going to change the world. But honestly? Most of us are just trying not to melt in these robes.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.
“So instead, I want to talk about stories.”
She paused, letting the word settle.
“Because if Hawkins High taught me anything, it’s that everyone here lives on their own narrative. Some of us were cast as the geeks. Some are jocks and preppies. Others are the outcasts. And some were the ones who peaked too early.”
Her eyes flicked briefly, involuntarily, toward Steve Harrington — not with judgment, but with something softer. She hoped no one noticed.
“But the thing about stories is that they change and evolve. Characters grow. Narratives shift. Even the ones that start in small towns in the middle of Indiana.”
“Ray Bradbury once wrote that ‘we are cups, constantly and quietly being filled.’ And whether we liked it or not, these last four years filled us with something. Maybe not yet wisdom, but experience. The kind that molds our paths and perspectives.”
She let her gaze sweep the field. Taking in the bleachers, the teachers, and the rows of orange robes for what she took would be her last time.
“The late‑night cramming sessions. The cafeteria tables that were carved with endless couples' initials that most likely did not make it to today. The teachers who pushed us to be the very best versions of ourselves. The ones who didn’t. The friends we made along the way. And the ones we lost throughout this journey. The moments we thought were small until we realized how decisive and shaping they were.”
Her voice softened.
“We spent years wanting to get out. Out of Hawkins, out of high school, out of the same hallways and routines and people. And now that we’re finally here… it turns out endings feel a lot like beginnings.”
She closed her unused notes and stepped back.
“Congratulations, Class of ’85. Here is to whatever awaits us in our next chapter.”
The applause felt bigger than the field.
Steve Harrington crossed the stage a few minutes later, looking like he’d been personally insulted by the American academic system. He shook Higgins’ hand with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a parking ticket. Robin Buckley clapped politely from the bleachers, already plotting her escape from Hawkins the second she could afford gas money.
The brunette watched Steve walk back to his seat, observing how he tugged at his robe, how he tried to look bored and failed. She looked away before anyone could catch her staring.
And just like that, high school was over. The realization hit like a brick, leaving a bittersweet hurt. There were memories tucked into every corner of that field. Her first kiss happened right under the bleachers where her brother now sat, a memory she most definitely did not cherish. The countless times she lied in the name of her cramps to get excused from P.E. The evenings, she would sneak onto the field after rehearsals and bawl her eyes out from the aching loneliness that clogged her chest, dreaming of escaping a town too wired into its own ways. The time she fell in love from afar with the boy she’d spent years pretending not to look at, and that never quite looked at her.
Mostly, there was the quiet, aching truth that she’d spent so long wanting to leave. And yet, now that she finally could, she felt something unexpected. Not really regret. Nor sadness. Just a nostalgic feeling that started building ever since she walked up that stage.
She glanced back once again, at the rows of orange robes and the sea of families in the bleachers. Dustin was waving his glitter sign like a man possessed. Claudia was wiping her eyes. The teachers lined up in their mismatched regalia. At the field that had held football games, pep rallies, and the kind of small moments that didn’t feel important until they were gone.
Then she faced forward again.
Summer was waiting.
The days after graduation felt uncanny, as if the city itself were holding its breath. The school year had ended, but summer hadn’t fully begun. The air was warm, the cicadas were loud, yet none of it seemed to throw off the citizens of Hawkins. Their hearts and minds were too preoccupied with the thrill of something else entirely.
That “something” turned out to be Starcourt Mall.
It had opened with the kind of fanfare Hawkins had never seen before—banners, balloons, a ribbon‑cutting ceremony endorsed by Mayor Kline, and a marching band loud enough to rattle the windows of Melvald’s. But the mall was shiny and new and filled with the very best America could offer, and that alone was enough to make it the center of the universe, even if only for a single solstice.
Ever since she’d decided to apply for college in the next semester, the eldest Henderson had been looking forward to carving out her own small slice of independence. Motivated by that—and by the forty‑percent employee discount at Waldenbooks, the largest bookstore chain in the country—she applied for a job there.
Robin Buckley, meanwhile, had landed a summer job at Scoops Ahoy for her sins. She’d mentioned it once in passing, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. The sailor hat alone had been enough to make her swear vengeance on capitalism and poorly educated children.
Dustin, on the other hand, was too busy preparing for Camp Nowhere to care about anyone’s employment crisis. He packed like he was training for the next biggest thing since the Apollo missions.
The Henderson house the night before he left was a storm of motion—clothes draped over every surface, walkie‑talkies charging on the kitchen counter, Claudia hovering with sunscreen in hand, and Dustin insisting sunscreen was for “people who don’t understand the power of melanin.”
“Where did you say that friend of yours was working this summer?” he asked, shoving his jeans into his bag with the subtlety of a bulldozer.
His sister winced at the mistreatment of denim, plucked the jeans back out, and folded them herself.
“The new ice cream parlor. You know, the one with the Popeye knock‑off attire.”
“Oh! You’ve got to be shitting me—”
A sharp gasp cut him off. “Dustin!” Claudia’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Sorry!” he yelped, then added, sheepish but still buzzing with gossip, “It’s just that Steve’s working at Scoops Ahoy too. You know—King Steve. Former King Steve. Current… sailor Steve.”
She blinked. “That’s unfortunate.”
“For him or for the customers?”
“Robin. She’ll go mad. Like full‑on Eleanor Vance.”
Dustin paused, digging into his mind to find the right reference to this. “Yeah… she might haunt the place.”
“You little shit, I guess I really am managing to educate you.”
After a moment, he pointed at her dramatically. “You’re gonna miss me.”
“I’m going to enjoy my month of serene silence,” she said, though her smile gave her away.
He didn’t believe her.
Waldenbooks was quieter than she expected. The mall was loud with pop music from the food court, kids running around, the constant hum of the escalators adding to the overwhelming ambiance. However, inside the bookstore, everything softened. The lights buzzed faintly in stark contrast with the bright neon lights of the storefronts. The carpet muffled footsteps, enabling the classical music to fill the air.
She enjoyed shelving new arrivals the most, finding interest in keeping up with every literary work brought into the store.
One morning, Tom, a tall and humourless man who happened to be her manager, dropped a box onto the counter.
“Russian stuff,” he said. “Corporate wants it in the back.”
After he walked back without sparing her a single glance, she scrambled to it, curiosity getting the best of her.
Inside lay multiple copies of ‘The Oxford English–Russian Dictionary’, a few history books, and a paperback with a dramatic hammer and sickle. She flipped through the sample dictionary, tracing the Cyrillic letters with her finger.
A ring of the entrance bell tuned her out of her trance. Startled, she dropped the book back into the box so quickly it destabilized the whole stack, which toppled forward and landed squarely on her Converse‑covered toes. She hissed, straightened, and found a customer blinking at her politely.
They asked where the mystery novels were.
She meant to point them toward the back corner. She really did.
But then they added, “I’m trying to get into mysteries. Something… not too complicated, you know? Something light.”
Light.
That word offended her on a spiritual level, alerting some sort of sleeper cell spy in her.
“Oh, that’s actually such a misconception. You absolutely shouldn’t start light. That’s how you get bored, give up, and go partially illiterate. You need something that grabs you by the throat. Like, “ she snaps her finger excitedly as she picks up a book, “We Have Always Lived in the Castle. It’s not a mystery in the traditional sense, but it feels like one because the whole book is basically a psychological trap. Fun, I know. You think you know what’s happening, but you don’t. You trust Merricat, but you shouldn’t. You think the danger is outside the house, but it’s not. And the best part? Jackson never tells you anything directly. She just lets you sit there, stewing in dread, waiting for the other shoe to drop—except the shoe never drops, it just sort of… hovers.”
The customer blinked.
She kept going and shoved the book into their grasp.
“And that’s the point! The tension comes from the fact that you’re complicit. You’re solving a mystery that doesn’t want to be solved and can’t be. It’s brilliant. Horrifying. Life‑changing.”
The customer nodded slowly, clutching the book.
“Right,” they said. “I’ll… think about it.”
They backed away, then set the book into the nearest shelf as he walked very quickly toward the opposite end of the store.
She was still thinking about the Cyrillic alphabet when her break rolled around, and the mall swallowed her whole again—bright lights, loud music, the smell of pretzels and perfume mixing into something uniquely commercial.
Scoops Ahoy sat wedged between the arcade and the record store, its blue‑and‑white façade cheerfully aggressive. Robin was already leaning over the counter when she walked in, chin propped on her hand, eyes glazed with the kind of existential despair only minimum‑wage labor could inspire.
“Oh, thank God,” Robin said, straightening. “A human being with a functioning brain. Save me.”
“You’ve been here for two hours,” she said.
“Two hours too long.”
Steve Harrington appeared from the back, adjusting his hat like it personally offended him.
It probably did, after all, his voluminous hair had always been his one and only pride and joy.
“Oh,” he said, trying for casualness and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Hey.”
She hadn’t meant to look at him. Not when, instead of looking as if he just ate pounds after pounds of spinach and had a chronic issue with sea sickness, he looked as if he had just stumbled out of the newest edition of ‘Tiger Beat’. And yet, for her demise, she did. His flushed cheeks, the faint crease between his brows, the way the sailor hat sat crooked like it was losing a fight with gravity – it all knocked the air right out of her lungs.
And before her brain and mouth went on agreement on what she was to speak, she heard herself say, quietly, stupidly:
“You look… good.”
Her heart stopped. Her brain screamed. She scrambled and stuttered.
“I mean—good for someone being languidly degraded by labour.”
She winced at her unfortunate choice of wording, hoping her near brain aneurysm outshone her near love confession.
Robin snorted so loudly it echoed.
“He’s dramatic because he can’t help but suck,” she said, delighted.
Steve shot her a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He was, so far, not enjoying his coworker.
Steve’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
“Jesus Christ, Buckley,” Steve muttered, rubbing his face. “You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, perking up at his clear discomfort, moving on from it in triumph. “But anyway, how’s the glamorous life of literature?”
“I lectured a man about psychological traps in Shirley Jackson’s work until he fled the store.”
Robin slapped the counter. “Yes. Weaponize your education. It’s not your fault, people here seem not to ever have working synapses.”
Steve was still glaring at Robin, jaw tight, sailor hat crooked. He adjusted it again, futilely, as if the universe might suddenly reward him with dignity. His hair now sat flattened beneath the blue polyester. He looked as if he was mourning it and everything it had once done for him.
“You know,” Robin said, leaning forward with the kind of casual cruelty only a bored teenager could master, “if you keep terrorizing customers like that, Waldenbooks is going to start charging you for emotional damages.”
“I didn’t terrorize him,” she said, though she absolutely had. “I just… assisted him.”
“Assisted?” Robin repeated, nodding slowly. “I envisioned it more like a psychotic break.”
Steve snorted under his breath.
Robin’s head snapped toward him. “What are you laughing at, dingus?”
Steve immediately straightened, clearing his throat. “I was just, uh—”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” she cut in, waving a hand, her voice softening the moment. “She’s just giving you shit.”
Robin narrowed her eyes at her, but the girl only shrugged, casual and unbothered. The tension dissolved into something lighter, something that made the corners of her mouth twitch upward despite herself.
It was ridiculous—this whole scene, this whole summer job, this whole strange orbit she’d fallen into, especially with two people who couldn’t stand each other. And somehow it made her feel less alone than she had in years. She wondered if they felt that way, too. She was aware that Robin had never been much of the social scene; she had barely noticed her at all until the auditions. She wondered what her summer would look like now if the School Band hadn’t been forced to join the production, but thanks to Principal Higgins, that wasn’t a thought worth entertaining.
And regarding Steve Harrington, she did not want to be wishful and get her hopes up; after all, she was most likely just his best friend’s lame sister who argued with teachers during her free time. But she couldn’t help but hope that he might, eventually, see her as someone worth knowing—someone he could actually call a friend.
And if that came to be true, maybe Hawkins wasn’t that much of a hellhole.
Robin hopped off the counter with a dramatic flair. “Come on,” she said. “Mall lap. I need to move before my brain liquefies.”
“I have to get back soon,” she said, though she didn’t move.
Steve scoffed. “Please. Go. Leave me here to die.”
“Gladly,” Robin said, already rounding the counter. “Try not to cry into the waffle cones.”
“Go to hell,” Steve called after her.
“Already there,” Robin shot back, pushing through the swinging door.
The mall swallowed them whole again—bright lights, loud music, the smell of pretzels and perfume mixing into something uniquely commercial. The air was warmer out here, buzzing with the kind of energy only early summer and euphoric stage capitalism could provide.
They hadn’t made it ten steps before a familiar chorus of voices rose from the escalator.
“Hey!”
“Yo!”
“Is that—?”
“Oh my God, it is.”
Lucas, Mike, Will, and Max approached in a loose cluster, mischief surrounding them. Lucas, sporting a cobalt tank paired with bright red nylon shorts, had his arm slung around his girlfriend’s shoulder. Max, her fiery red hair tied loosely into a ponytail, wore a faded band tee and denim shorts, her red zip‑up hoodie knotted at her waist, and scuffed skate shoes carrying her forward like she was ready for trouble.
Robin groaned. “Oh, great. Pre‑adolescents.”
“They’re good kids,” the girl said automatically. “My brother’s friends.”
Robin blinked at her like this somehow made it worse. “Should that soothe me?”
Mike trailed just behind the couple in a striped polo and slightly too‑long shorts, his battered sneakers making it painfully clear he hadn’t dressed himself. Will, earnest as ever, followed close behind in a soft plaid button‑down tucked neatly into simple jeans.
Max flipped Robin off without breaking stride.
Mike ignored the gesture entirely. “We were just on our way to pay Steve a visit.”
Robin raised a brow. “Why would anyone ever do that?”
Lucas grinned. “We’re asking him for a favor.”
“A big one,” Will added, trying—and failing—to look innocent.
The eldest Henderson blinked. “What kind of favor?”
Mike leaned in conspiratorially. “We want him to sneak us into a movie.”
“Through the back room,” Lucas clarified.
Robin stared at them. “You want him to commit a fireable offense… for you?”
Mike shrugged. “He likes us.”
Will nodded. “And we’re very persuasive.”
A spark of amusement flickered across Robin’s face, delighted. “Huh. Wouldn’t mind seeing how that plays out.”
The girl’s stomach dropped. “No. No way, guys, he needs this job.”
Robin just lifted a shoulder. The girl groaned softly. She could already imagine Steve’s reaction to them. The dramatic sigh, the eye roll, and the way he would dig his own grave because he was incapable of saying no to them.
“Good luck,” she said.
“We don’t need luck,” Lucas replied confidently. “We have baby faces.”
“Not Max, though, she has the angriest zit ever right now,” added Mike.
“Fuck you,” she moved and slapped his arm, moving Lucas’ embrace away from her.
“That’s exactly why you need luck; they don’t tend to last after the hormones kick in,” Robin muttered.
The Party waved and continued toward Scoops, already arguing about which movie they wanted to see. Lucas and Max immediately fell into an argument—something about how he wasn’t being gentlemanly and that he should’ve been the one to silence Mike, and how Mike was a shithead.
Mike, well aware of the chaos he’d erupted, drifted with Will a little behind them, talking in low voices. Mike gestured animatedly toward the theater marquee, rattling off titles; Will listened with that soft, focused look he saved for very few people, offering quiet counterpoints, nudging Mike’s shoulder when he got too dramatic. They didn’t argue. They didn’t need to. Mike would watch whatever Will wanted anyway—he always did, even if he pretended it was his idea.
She and Robin resumed walking, weaving through the crowd. Robin narrated every passerby like she was hosting a nature documentary. The girl listened, absorbing, letting the noise of the mall wash over her like warm static.
And somewhere behind them, in Scoops Ahoy, Steve Harrington was probably being ambushed by four children demanding illegal movie access.
'Ever Since The Snow Ball'
Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: After the horrors of November ’84, Dustin’s clueless older sister gets dragged into the chaos of Hawkins, grows too close to Steve Harrington, befriends Robin Buckley, and accidentally stumbles into the Starcourt Russian nightmare. She falls first. He falls harder.
Playlist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
“Ever Since The Snow Ball: Chapter 2” Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader
Summary: After the horrors of November ’84, Dustin’s clueless older sister gets dragged into the chaos of Hawkins, grows too close to Steve Harrington, befriends Robin Buckley, and accidentally stumbles into the Starcourt Russian nightmare. She falls first. He falls harder.
Author’s Note: I am attempting to work on a masterlist. Send help.
Word Count: 5k
——————————————————————————
Winter break had passed in a blink. The streets of Hawkins, once buried under thick snow, were softening into slush and shy patches of green, a quiet warning that winter was slipping away.
Inside Hawkins High, nothing had changed. Tommy H. and Carol Perkins were still swallowing each other in the middle of the hallway. Steve Harrington was still scrambling to catch up on the schoolwork he’d ignored for three years. The Hawkins High Marching Band remained as socially invisible as ever. And the Drama Club—its seniors moments away from their final auditions—buzzed with nervous, chaotic energy.
The eldest Henderson paced backstage, script clutched in her hands, heart pounding so loudly she was sure someone could hear it. She’d always dreamed of landing a lead role. And with this year’s production of Grease; fresh off the blockbuster movie with America’s new heartthrob, John Travolta; she was convinced this was her chance.
She whispered her lines under her breath, trying to steady her nerves, “Oh, Rydell seems real nice. I was going to go to Immaculata, but my father had a fight with the Mother Superior over my patent leather shoes. She said boys could see up my dress in the reflection…”
“…you make a habit out of talking to yourself like that?”
You froze.
A girl stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. lo
“No,” you said quickly.
“Yet you were.”
“I was rehearsing.”
She tilted her head. “That looked like a breakdown.”
“…thank you,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “Are you auditioning too?”
The girl blinked, genuinely surprised you’d asked.
“Little old me? No.” She shook her head, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m here with the Band. Apparently we’re ‘needed’ in the production this year. Something about limiting the budget, using school resources, blah blah blah.” She rolled her eyes. “But according to them it’s to ‘encourage bonding between students’ who, by the way, clearly want absolutely nothing to do with each other.”
Her delivery was so dry you almost laughed. Almost.
She studied you again, arms crossing loosely. “So. Sandy, huh?”
“Sandy.”
She looked you up and down, slow and deliberate.
“I don’t think Olivia Newton-John looked like she was about to throw up in the movie.”
“I am not—”
“You are.”
A beat passed.
“But you’ll probably get it,” she added casually. “Everyone else here sucks.”
You blinked. “...thanks? Some people would argue I’m not the best singer, though. I guess I don’t have the right pitch or something. At least that’s what Mrs. Darbus said—”
“Oh yeah, you’re lucky Tammy Thompson isn’t into theater.”
You stared at her.
She panicked slightly. “She has a great voice, that’s all!”
“Okay…” you mumbled, spiraling. If Tammy sings nicely, I must sound like Cyndi freaking Lauper.
The cast list went up the next day, right after Dustin wrapped up A.V. Club. A crowd had already gathered around the bulletin board, buzzing with anticipation. Dustin hovered behind them, practically vibrating with excitement, while his sister sat on the floor across the hall, knees pulled up, back pressed against the wall like she was bracing for impact.
“Oh, sis, you just have to see this,” Dustin said, and the grin in his voice was unmistakable.
She shook her head violently.
“I can’t do it. I’m not looking. I physically can’t!”
Her stomach twisted as she buried her face in her hands. “Why don’t you just tell me? Just rip the band‑aid off, y’know?”
Instead of answering, Dustin reached down, grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet with surprising determination.
“Just look.”
The Henderson girl swallowed hard, legs suddenly unsteady, and stepped toward the board. The pages were crowded with names, roles, and ensemble assignments. Her eyes darted across them, searching, scanning. And then she saw it. Her name sat in neat cursive, right beside Sandy.
“…oh.”
“YOU GOT IT!” Dustin exploded.
“I got it.”
“YOU GOT IT!”
“STOP yelling.”
Relief washed over the Henderson girl so quickly it made her dizzy. Excitement followed right behind it, warm and bright and impossible to hide.
Rehearsal dragged late into afternoon, the auditorium lights buzzed faintly and cast everything in a tired yellow glow. The piano was, as always, slightly off‑key, and half the cast had forgotten their lines at least twice trying to get through Summer Nights.
During the break, the Henderson girl slipped away from the chaos and sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, script resting beside her. She exhaled, letting the quiet settle around her.
“Hi there,” Robin said awkwardly.
The Henderson girl jumped so hard she nearly fell off the stage.
“Jesus—!”
Robin raised her hands in surrender. “Geez, I was just going to congratulate you, but I guess I’ll just—”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, pressing a hand to her chest. “You just… sneaked up on me.”
Robin nodded once. “Okay. Just—wow. That was very Janet Leigh of you.”
The girl blinked. “Janet Leigh?”
“You know,” Robin said, gesturing vaguely, “Psycho. The scream. The whole shower scene. You jump like that.”
“That’s unsettling to think about”
Robin ignored her completely and hopped onto the stage beside her, sitting with casual ease.
“Actually… I’ve seen you before.”
The girl frowned. “Have you?”
“Lit class,” Robin said. “Front row. You and Mr. Allison? Bloodbath.”
Her face heated. “Oh God. Am I really this obnoxious”, she mumbled to herself.
“Which is why I’m confused,” Robin continued.
The girl braced herself. “About what?”
Robin tilted her head. “How does the girl who verbally shredded Mr. Allison for saying West Side Story lacked emotional depth… almost passed out because she thought she wouldn’t get the part of a character who changes herself for a guy?”
The girl’s jaw dropped. “That is— okay, first of all, Mr. Allison deserved it. He said Maria was ‘too passive’ and Juliet was ‘too dramatic,’ and that both stories would’ve been better if the girls had just stayed home and behaved.” She threw her hands up. “Behaved! As if the entire point of tragedy is… I don’t know, obedience?”
Robin snorted.
“And second,” she continued, warming up, “Sandy doesn’t change for Danny. People always say that, but it’s not that simple. She’s exploring a different version of herself. She’s choosing it. It’s not— it’s not submission, it’s—”
“Rebellion?” Robin offered.
The girl blinked. “…yes.”
Robin shrugged. “See? You don’t always have to say it in ten paragraphs.”
“I like ten paragraphs.”
“I can tell.”
Rehearsal finally wrapped for the night. The auditorium lights dimmed one by one, leaving the stage washed in a tired amber glow. The girl and Robin gathered the last of the sheet music, tossed stray costume pieces into a bin, and stepped out into the hallway together.
The building felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that settles after too many hours of teenagers singing off‑key.
Robin slung her backpack over one shoulder.
“Well. I’m walking home.”
The girl blinked. “Walking? It’s dark.”
Robin shrugged. “Yeah, but I do it all the time. Builds character.”
“That’s not— no. You’re not walking.”
She shook her head firmly. “My mom’s picking me up. You’re getting a ride.”
Robin stared at her. “A ride? With strangers? Have you ever seen literally any horror movie?”
The girl blinked. “My mom is not a horror movie villain. She spends her afternoons cuddling my cat and my brother.”
“Yeah, that’s what they always say before the dramatic music kicks in.”
“Robin.”
Robin sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if this turns into The Twilight Zone, I’m blaming you.”
They stepped outside into the cool evening air. A few cars idled in the parking lot, headlights cutting through the dark. The girl spotted Claudia’s station wagon pulling in, the familiar rattle of the engine unmistakable.
“There she is,” she said, waving.
Claudia Henderson rolled down the window, smiling wide.
“Hey, sweetheart! Oh— and hello! You must be Robin.”
Robin blinked. “How did you—?”
“She talks about everyone, I almost feel like I go to school with you guys!” Claudia said cheerfully. “Get in, girls.”
The girl’s face went red. “Mom.”
They climbed into the backseat. The car smelled faintly of peppermint gum and Dustin’s science projects. Robin buckled in, glancing around.
“Girls, how was rehearsal?
The girl groaned. “Chaotic.”
Robin nodded. “The piano is a war crime.”
Claudia laughed. “Sounds about right.”
A beat passed before Robin turned to the girl.
“So why don’t you have a license yet? You seem like the type who’d have the handbook memorized.”
The girl made a face. “I panic. Like… a lot. You saw me jump earlier.”
“Yeah, that was very Janet Leigh of you.”
“Please stop saying that.”
Claudia glanced at them in the rearview mirror, amused.
“Sweetheart, you panicked when I tried to teach you how to parallel park.”
“It was a tight space!”
“It was an empty parking lot.”
Robin snorted.
The girl crossed her arms. “Okay, well, some of us don’t have nerves of steel.”
Robin shrugged. “I don’t have nerves of steel. I just pretend I do. It’s a survival tactic.”
The girl looked at her, surprised by the honesty.
Claudia smiled softly. “Well, you two seem to get along.”
Both girls immediately looked away as Claudia pulled into the driveway, the station wagon rattling like it always did. Robin unbuckled, still half‑smiling from the banter.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “And for not murdering me.”
Claudia laughed.
“Oh honey, the only things I murder are dust bunnies and overdue library books.”
The girl groaned. “Please don’t encourage her.”
Claudia winked. “See you at the show, sweetheart.”
Spring had finally settled over Hawkins, melting away the stale memories of the past year. With flowers blossoming and trees budding, the season felt like the town itself was stretching after a long slumber — shaking off frost, shaking off heaviness, waking up.
The Hendersons’ home, however, was the opposite of peaceful.
Dustin was talking at a speed that defied physics, words tumbling out of him like he was auditioning for the role of “Exposition Fairy.” Claudia’s station wagon sat in the middle of the driveway, hood open, engine steaming like it was performing a tragic death scene in Act II. Claudia sighed, hands on her hips.
Steve’s car rolled up the Henderson driveway with the enthusiasm of a man who had been tricked into responsibility. He honked once, sharp, impatient, and absolutely unnecessary.
Dustin burst out the front door like a gremlin escaping captivity.
“Finally! Took you long enough.”
Steve leaned across the passenger seat and glared.
“I’m doing you a favor, Henderson. You don’t get to insult the chauffeur.”
Claudia followed at a gentler pace, purse in hand.
“Oh, Steve, thank you for driving us,” she said warmly as she slid into the backseat.
Steve shrugged, trying to look like this wasn’t the nicest thing he’d done all week.
“Yeah, well… someone’s gotta get you two to the big… uh… singing thing.”
“Play,” Dustin corrected.
“Whatever,” Steve said. “The Drama Club thing.”
Claudia smiled.
“She’s very excited. Opening night is such a big moment.”
Steve blinked.
“Is it? I thought rehearsal was the big thing.”
Dustin stared at him like he’d just confessed he didn’t know what a sandwich was.
“…no. That’s why it’s called rehearsal.”
Steve waved a hand.
“Okay, well, I don’t know how theater works. I didn’t take… drama class. Or whatever class teaches you to pretend to be other people.”
“I think you mean acting," Dustin said.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t take that either.”
Claudia leaned forward between the seats, eyes bright.
“She’s the lead, you know.”
Steve scoffed.
“Yeah, Dustin said that. I still don’t get it. Lead of what? The singing? The dancing? The… grease?”Dustin groaned.
“She’s SANDY, Steve. SANDY. The main character.”
Steve blinked again, slower this time.
“Oh. Like… Olivia Newton‑John one. Got it. She’s ho–” he looked at Mrs. Henderson, “ —nice looking.” he grimaced.
“And hot,” Dustin said, exasperated.
Claudia gasped. “Dustin Henderson!”
“What? I’m just saying!”
Claudia, ignoring both of them, added sweetly,
“Well, then I gotta admit. John Travolta was very handsome in that movie.”
By the time they pulled into the school lot, Hawkins High had transformed into a theatrical wonderland. Costumes were spilled out of garment bags and hairspray fogged the air like industrial smog. Someone was crying could be heard from one bathroom stall for reasons that were dramatic but not life‑threatening. The auditorium doors flapped open and shut like frantic wings.
Steve parked, arms crossed like he was bracing for impact.
“Alright,” he said. “Have fun.”
Dustin didn’t move.
“…what?”
“You’re coming.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I DROVE you. That was the deal!”
“There was no deal.”
Claudia leaned forward, gentle but firm. “She has an extra ticket.”
Steve blinked.
“…why?”
“They give three. Family packet.”
Steve nodded slowly.
“Oh.”
Dustin leaned in, eyebrows wiggling like a gremlin.
“You’re wasting a ticket if you don’t go.”
“That’s not how that works.”
Claudia added softly, “It would mean a lot.”
Steve sighed. Theatrically long, and deeply pained. He looked at the school. Then at Dustin. Then at Mrs. Henderson. Shutting Dustin out was one thing, but ignoring his mom? Steve Harrington wasn’t built for that kind of cruelty.
“…how long is it?”
“Two hours.”
Steve groaned and shoved the door open. “Unbelievable.”
The truth was, Steve’s ideal Friday night did not involve sitting through a two‑hour musical. But ever since things blew up with Tommy H. and Nancy Wheeler, his social calendar had become… sparse. With another heavy sigh, he muttered, “Fine. I’m not sitting in the front.”
After all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.
Inside, backstage was a blooming mess of nerves and glitter. A chaotic garden of half‑zipped costumes, misplaced props, and actors whispering their lines like prayers. The girl sat cross‑legged on the floor of the green room, script trembling slightly in her hands. Her hair had been straightened into Sandy‑approved perfection.
Robin dropped beside her like gravity had yanked her down. She was in her Hawkins High marching band uniform: a stiff, forest‑green jacket with brass buttons, the exact shade of “institutional green” that looked like it had been chosen by someone who hated joy. Her tie was crooked. Her hair was escaping its ponytail. She looked like she’d fought the uniform and lost.
“You look like you’re about to be executed,” Robin said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m FINE.”
Robin eyed her.
“Okay, Janet Leigh.”
The girl groaned.
“Stop calling me that.”
“I said it once. You’re the one who keeps reacting.”
They held a staring contest — the kind only theater kids have, where both parties are too stubborn to blink and too dramatic to lose.
The girl broke first.
“Can I tell you something?”
Robin perked up instantly.
“Oh, this really has got to be an execution. I’m even getting a confession.”
“It’s not— it’s just— I have a crush.”
Robin froze.
“On who?”
The girl’s face flushed.
“My brother knows him.”
Robin recoiled like she’d been slapped with a wet towel.
“Oh god. Isn’t your brother like twelve? I didn’t take you for a creep. I don’t think our friendship can overcome this—”
“Ew. No. Not them,” she snapped, horrified.
Robin exhaled dramatically, hand to her chest.
“Thank God.”
“It’s… an older friend.”
Robin narrowed her eyes.
“How much older?”
Before she could answer—
Dustin burst through the curtain like a caffeinated raccoon who’d been given a backstage pass.
“STEVE’S HERE!”
Robin’s head snapped toward the girl, her face twisting like she’d just smelled spoiled milk.
“…Harrington?”
The girl covered her face.
“I hate everything.”
Robin blinked, then gagged theatrically.
“You have a crush on Steve Harrington?”
“I didn’t SAY that!”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said it. Your soul said it. The universe said it.”
“Robin—”
“Oh my god,” Robin continued, delighted and disgusted in equal measure. “Steve Harrington? Really? The human hair commercial? The guy who thinks Jaws is a documentary? The guy who—”
“ROBIN.”
Dustin, oblivious, kept going:
“Mom’s car broke down so Steve had to pick us up and he—”
“DUSTIN,” she hissed, mortified.
“You know, for someone who can give a ten‑paragraph lecture on character agency, you sure picked the least intellectually evolved guy in Hawkins.” Robin leaned back, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
Out in the auditorium, Steve followed Claudia to their seats, keeping pace for Dustin, who had sprinted off to deliver “urgent news” to his sister. According to Dustin, it was a code red. According to Steve, he was being intrusive.
Once Dustin returned, Steve dropped into his seat, arms crossed.
“Okay. I’m here. This counts.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Dustin said.
“How long is this again?”
“Two hours.”
Steve leaned back, muttering,
“…this is insane. What do they even do for so long…”
The curtain rose with a soft mechanical groan. The opening set glowed under warm amber lights: cardboard lockers painted in slightly mismatched reds, a banner reading WELCOME BACK STUDENTS! in glitter that shed every time someone breathed near it, and a paper‑mâché Rydell High crest that leaned just a little to the left.
The Hawkins High marching band launched into the opening number with the enthusiasm of teenagers who had been bribed with extra credit. The trumpets were too loud, the clarinets were fighting for their lives, and the percussion section was treating the score like a personal vendetta. Up in the sound booth, Robin adjusted knobs with the intensity of someone trying to keep a spaceship from exploding.
The ensemble burst onto the stage, all bright smiles and synchronized chaos — poodle skirts twirling, leather jackets squeaking, hair sprayed into immovable shapes.
Steve clapped a second too late.
“So… everyone sings?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Dustin said.
“…all the time?”
She entered from stage left, stepping into a soft pool of light. The Sandy wiggle skirt, the pastel cardigan, and the soft curls made her look like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s postcard.
Steve squinted, “…wait.”
“Yeah”, Dustin didn’t even look at him.
“That’s your sister?”
“Yeah.”
Steve leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“Huh.”
The moment she stepped into the light, something in his posture changed. He leaned forward a little, elbows resting on his knees, eyes narrowing as if he were trying to make sense of what he was seeing. He watched her puzzled, his expression still neutral but his gaze steady, fixed on her as though the scene had caught him off guard and he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
Claudia clasped her hands together, eyes shining.
“Oh, she looks beautiful.”
Steve shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, uh… she looks… different. Like… very… Sandy.”
Claudia beamed.
“She’s glowing.”
Steve stared harder at the stage, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.
“Yeah. Sure. Glowing. That’s… a thing.”
Between scenes, she paced backstage, hands shaking slightly. The green room buzzed with frantic costume changes and whispered cues. The chronogram on the wall showcased that they were already halfway through the first act, Sandy’s emotional ballad approaching.
She smoothed the front of her costume — a simple white nightgown that brushed her knees, soft and old‑fashioned, the kind that made her look like she’d stepped straight out of a 1950s sleepover. Under the harsh backstage lights it felt too bright, too honest, leaving her feeling exposed in a way the script never warned her about.
Rushing down from the sound booth, Robin grabbed her shoulders.
“You’re up next. The big one. The heartbreak ballad. Everyone in the audience cries except the emotionally constipated men’ song.”
“That’s not helping.”
Robin smirked, “Good. Fear sharpens the performance.”
She groaned, “Robin—”
“Hey.” Robin softened, just a little. “You’ve got this. And if you don’t, I’ll unplug the sound system and blame the trombone section.”
“That’s worse.”
“Exactly.”
The lights dimmed to a soft, dreamy blue. A single spotlight bloomed at center stage as she stepped into it. The set behind her was a white picket fence, a painted backdrop of a suburban yard, and a kiddie‑pool‑sized “reflection pond” made of aluminum foil and hope. But under the lights, it shimmered.
The music began. A gentle, wavering instrumental courtesy of the marching band, who were doing their absolute best to sound romantic. She lifted her chin, took a breath, and sang.
Her voice floated out, clear and warm, filling the auditorium with something tender and aching. The audience leaned in. Even the restless kids in the back row went still.
Claudia pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, listen to her…”
Steve shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t name. “Wow. She’s… loud.”
Her voice rose, soft but strong, carrying the emotion of the scene. The spotlight caught the shimmer in her eyes, the way her hands trembled just slightly, the way she poured herself into the moment.
“…she’s really into this, huh?”Steve swallowed.
“She’s talented, my little songbird,” Claudia whispered proudly.
“Yeah,” Steve murmured, almost to himself. “Guess she is.”
He didn’t look away once.
An hour later, the fading chorus of “We Go Together” bounced off the auditorium walls, the cast belting the last nonsense syllables with the kind of exhausted joy only teenagers can muster. The final note hit, the lights snapped to gold, and the audience surged to their feet in a tidal wave of applause. Parents, siblings, friends — all of them spilling into the aisles, shouting names, waving flowers, trying to push toward the stage before the curtain even finished closing.
Steve sat frozen in his seat.
He’d gone into this expecting… what? Boredom? Secondhand embarrassment? A night of Dustin elbowing him in the ribs every time someone hit a high note?
He hadn’t expected to have fun. And he definitely hadn’t expected to be moved.
But somewhere between her trembling first note and the finale’s chaotic dance break, something had shifted. He’d laughed, he’d cheered. And when she sang, really sang, he felt something twist in his chest in a way he didn’t have a name for.
He clapped, hard, louder than he meant to, earning a smug look from Dustin.
“Told you.”
Steve didn’t answer. He was still staring at the stage, like the curtain might lift again if he waited long enough.
The backstage was still vibrating with post‑show adrenaline. Kids laughed too loudly, hugging too tightly, smearing eyeliner onto each other’s costumes. When she spotted him behind Dustin. Steve stood there like he wasn’t sure he was allowed in the chaos, hands tucked into his pockets, hair pushed back in a way that made him look unfairly good under fluorescent lighting. The second their eyes met, something in her chest jolted. She tried to play it cool, but her body betrayed her instantly: her shoulders straightened, her breath hitched, and she suddenly became hyper‑aware of the black off‑the‑shoulder top hugging her frame, the fitted pants, the heels she could barely balance in, the red lipstick she was terrified had smudged. She adjusted the top without thinking, then immediately wished she hadn’t drawn attention to it. Okay… breathe. You’re fine. Totally fine.
“Hi,” she said — too soft, too breathy, like the word had tripped on its way out.
Steve blinked, a little startled by her intensity. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to her face and then away again, like he wasn’t sure where to look. “Hey. You were… really good.”
Heat rushed up her neck. She nodded too quickly, the motion jerky, like her head wasn’t entirely under her control. “Thanks— I mean— thank you— yeah.” She tried to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, forgetting it had been sprayed into place for the finale, and her fingers just… hovered there before giving up entirely. She shifted her weight, the heel wobbling beneath her, and she nearly stepped backward into a rolling costume rack. She caught herself at the last second, pretending it was intentional, which only made it worse.
“Cool,” she blurted, because her brain had apparently abandoned her.
Steve gave a small, confused smile. Dustin stared at her like she’d been replaced by a glitching animatronic.
Dustin blinked at her, head tilting like he was examining a malfunctioning robot. “Are you—uh—experiencing some kind of—”
He didn’t get to finish.
Robin swooped in, grabbed her elbow, and announced, “The Costume department needs you. Urgently. Before you eat dirt it in those heels.”
Steve stepped back automatically. “Oh—yeah. Sure.”
He left, Dustin trailing after him.
The second they were gone, Robin let go of her and exhaled sharply. “Jesus. That was painful to watch.”
She groaned. “Please don’t.”
“Oh, I’m not judging you,” Robin said, even though she absolutely was. “I’m judging him. Harrington walks in here like he’s God’s gift to fluorescent lighting and suddenly you forget how ankles work.”
“Robin.”
“What? I’m being supportive.”
She covered her face. “Thank you for saving me. Seriously. But can we just… never talk about that again.”
Robin snorted. “Oh, we’re talking about it. I’m just deciding how often.”
“Robin.”
“Relax,” she said, nudging her. “I’m not gonna announce it over the PA system. But I am gonna roast him. Because, come on. Harrington? Really?”
She glared weakly. “I don’t need commentary.”
“You do,” Robin said. “You need a whole intervention.”
Robin nudged her again, softer this time. “Come on. Before Dustin starts honking like a goose.”
She let out a shaky breath and finally lowered her hands. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her warm, embarrassed, and painfully aware of how ridiculous she must’ve looked. “Thanks,” she muttered. “For… you know. Saving me.”
Robin shrugged like it was nothing. “Please. I wasn’t about to watch you short‑circuit in front of King Hair‑rington.” She made a face. “Ugh. Even saying his name makes me feel like I need a tetanus shot.”
She attempted not to smile.
Robin noticed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. Don’t get all soft and dreamy. He’s not worth a single neuron.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Robin said, already walking toward the exit. “But whatever. It’s your funeral.”
She followed, heels clicking unevenly on the linoleum. The hallway was quieter now, the chaos fading into distant echoes. Dustin was waiting by the doors, arms crossed dramatically.
Robin rolled her eyes. “See? Goose.”
She laughed under her breath and pushed open the door. The cool night air hit her skin, carrying the faint smell of summer creeping in early. The kind of summer that felt like it was promising something, even if she didn’t know what.
Robin shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “So. Waldenbooks, huh? If you get that job, I’m expecting free bookmarks. And maybe a discount on whatever Cold War conspiracy books they’re gonna stock. I heard it’s really gonna be the summer craze.”
She snorted. “That will scare customers away. I won’t do that!”
“You absolutely are,” Robin said. “You’re gonna start talking about psychological deterioration in Thinner or whatever and they’re gonna run screaming.”
Dustin called from ahead, “Hurry up! Steve’s already in the car!”
Robin smirked. “Your boyfriend awaits.”
“He’s not—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robin said. “Tell it to literally anyone else.”
They stepped into the parking lot lights, the pavement still warm from the day. Steve was leaning against the car, keys in hand, not looking at her, not thinking about her, not even aware of the hurricane she’d turned into because of him.
And somehow, that made her chest tighten even more.
Robin bumped her shoulder lightly. “Hey. Don’t worry. You’ll get better at talking to him.”
She swallowed. “You think so?”
“No,” Robin said. “But I’ll enjoy watching you try.”
She groaned, but she was smiling now.
She climbed into the backseat, the door shutting with a soft thud. Dustin was rambling about the show, Robin was muttering insults under her breath, and Steve was adjusting the rearview mirror without sparing her a glance.
It wasn’t until she slid into the backseat —heels off, lipstick smudged, adrenaline finally fading — that she realized Steve still hadn’t looked at her again. Not once.
And weirdly… that didn’t sting the way she thought it would.
If anything, it made everything feel a little more possible. Like she hadn’t ruined anything yet. Like she still had time to figure out how to talk to him without glitching like a broken animatronic.
Outside the window, the school parking lot blurred past. The night air was warm, streetlights humming, the kind of early‑summer breeze that made everything feel like it was shifting, even if nothing had changed yet.
"Ever Since The Snow Ball: Chapter 1" Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader
Summary: After the horrors of November ’84, Dustin’s clueless older sister gets dragged into the chaos of Hawkins, grows too close to Steve Harrington, befriends Robin Buckley, and accidentally stumbles into the Starcourt Russian nightmare. She falls first. He falls harder.
Author's Note: This was originally meant to be a one-shot, mainly because I do not know how to do the link and masterlist stuff. Any help is welcome! However, after starting it, it occurred to me that it would take an absurd amount of time to wrap it all up. So, please, enjoy the first chapter, and feel free to give me feedback or suggestions. Also, not proofread.
As the sorrows of November softened beneath a slow, steady fall of snow, Hawkins seemed to settle into something gentler and quieter. The streets were lined with white. Tire tracks faded into stillness. The cold carried a sharp, clean silence found only in an Indiana winter.
Inside the Henderson household, warmth clung to everything. It lived in the covers scattered over the sofa. The lingering smell of something toasted hours ago drifted through the air. The windows fogged slightly at the corners. The living room felt familiar, with wooden floors worn just enough. A sage green carpet, softened by years of careless footsteps, covered them. Comic books lay open and abandoned. Cassette tapes were scattered like small relics of interrupted afternoons—the quiet chaos of a house always in use.
And right in the middle of it, as if he belonged there, sat Steve Harrington.
King Steve, who was now reduced, or perhaps elevated, to babysitter, was hunched slightly forward, brows drawn together in concentration as he fumbled with the knot of the younger boy’s tie. The fabric refused to cooperate beneath his fingers, twisting unevenly as Dustin sat far too comfortably, offering absolutely no help.
“Dude, you’re making it worse,” Dustin muttered, not even looking up from his new edition of the ‘Uncanny X-Men’ comic spread across his lap.
Steve scoffed under his breath, tugging at the tie again, loosening it only to try once more.
“I know how to do this,” he insisted, even as it was very clearly wrong.
The room, despite the low-level bickering, held a kind of calm. Until it didn’t.
From somewhere down the hall came the uneven rhythm of hurried footsteps, the soft thud of something dropped, followed by a muffled, frustrated sigh.
Not so much entering the room as colliding with it, the eldest Henderson stumbled slightly as she crossed the threshold, balancing awkwardly as she tried to fasten one heel while already halfway to her next step. The fabric of her deep bottle-green dress shifted with her, puffy sleeves slipping dangerously off her shoulders as she tugged them back into place without really looking. Her eye makeup was incomplete as she looked for her eyeliner, which the boys had borrowed to dress up for their last campaign.
“Dustin, have you seen my—”
Her voice came quickly, distracted—already halfway to the next thought.
“—oh.”
The word softened, catching as her gaze finally lifted. Because the room was not the same as she was used to.
Steve looked up at the exact same moment, fingers still caught in the failed knot of his tie.
“Hi,” he said, a little unsure, as he’d walked into the wrong scene.
“Hi,” she said, but it came out as a rather strangled sound.
Dustin looked between the two of them slowly, carefully. And then, a Cheshire-esque grin took over his face, which meant that his sister’s late-night confessions over the shared cookie dough stolen from the freezer did not slip his mind.
“Oh yeah,” he said, almost as an afterthought, wiggling his brows, “that’s my sister.”
“I got that,” Steve replied, glancing at him briefly before his eyes flicked back. Lingering, just a moment too long.
She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of everything at once. The heel was still not fully on, the sleeve slipping again, the fact that she was very much standing there, smudged and unfinished.
“I’m just—going to school early,” she started, words tripping lightly over each other, “I’m helping with the… stuff, so—”
Her hands moved as she spoke, small, unnecessary gestures like they could organize the sentence for her.
Steve blinked, tilting his head slightly as if trying to place something half-remembered. His gaze drifted to Dustin for a second, then back to her, curiosity settling in more comfortably now.
“I’m sorry, do we… wait—” he hesitated, squinting just a little, “are you the girl who sits in the front in lit class?”
She blinked, confused not only by the specificity of the information but also by the simple fact that her presence was known. “…yes?”
Dustin straightened immediately, energy snapping into place like he’d been waiting for his cue.
“She’s the one who argues with Mr. Allison.”
“I don’t argue, I—”
“You corrected him about symbolism.”
“Because he said the green light in The Great Gatsby just meant hope,” she said, words coming faster now, more certain, “and that’s not—”
She stopped, the thought crashing in: she was arguing symbolism with Dustin, while Steve Harrington was sitting three feet away, watching.
“…the what?”
A small laugh slipped out of him, awkward but not unkind.
“Did you know that she once started a whole discussion about Kant’s Formula of Humanity during fucking dinner,” Dustin added, far too pleased with himself. “She went on for, like… ten minutes.”
“…it was relevant, and by the way, language,” she insisted, quieter now, but firm.
Dustin leaned back slightly, grin widening into something dangerous.
“She always practices what she is going to say beforehand.”
“I do not—”
“She does. In her room. Out loud. Arguing with herself.”
She didn’t hesitate this time.
Her hand closed around the nearest object, a pillow, and she threw it at him with just enough force to make her point.
“I hate you.”
The pillow hit him square in the chest, knocking the comic from his hands.
“I hate you.”
Steve let out a small laugh, shaking his head, while Dustin leaned back with exaggerated ease, watching her like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“She was nervous you were coming,” the thirteen-year-old announced, fake carelessness painted across his face, but eyes sharp, knowing.
Steve, who had been content as a quiet observer, suddenly felt dragged into the spotlight. His gaze flicked between the siblings, confusion settling in.
“…about me?”
“No,” she cut in quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks.
“Yes,” Dustin countered, smug.
“I was nervous about the event,” she insisted, words tumbling too fast.
“You asked me three times if Steve Harrington was ever going to be since I mentioned it to you.”
Steve raised his eyebrows slightly, caught between amusement and uncertainty, unsure if he should engage or retreat.
“…full name?”
“I’m leaving.”
Steve could only laugh again, pure entertainment and confusion painted across his face.
She turned toward the door, trying to salvage dignity, “Good luck, Dustin… and Steve.”
The door shut behind her, leaving the room quieter than before. Honestly, she’d rather spend her money on a new eyeliner than whatever scraps of dignity she had left.
For a moment, neither boy spoke.
Dustin blinked down at the pillow still in his lap, then at the door, then at Steve—who was staring after her like he was trying to replay the last thirty seconds in slow motion.
“…so,” Dustin said finally, drawing out the word like he was narrating a nature documentary, “that was her being normal.”
Steve let out a breathy laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. “Normal?”
“Oh yeah,” Dustin said, nodding with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no shame. “That was her calm. You should see her when she’s actually stressed.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t stressed?”
“Nope. That was, like… mild panic. Cute panic.”
Steve’s ears went a little pink. “Okay, well—maybe don’t call your sister cute.”
“I didn’t say she was cute,” Dustin corrected, smirking. “I said the panic was cute. Totally different.”
Steve opened his mouth, closed it again, then pointed at the tie still hanging loose around Dustin’s neck. “Can you—just—hold still?”
But Dustin wasn’t even pretending to cooperate anymore. His eyes flicked toward the door again, then back to Steve, grin widening.
“You know she’s catching the bus, right?”
Steve froze mid‑knot. “The bus?”
“Yep. In the snow. In heels. With her sleeves falling off. Like a tragic Victorian ghost.”
Steve stared at him. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I did,” Dustin said, shrugging. “You were too busy having a moment.”
Steve’s hands dropped from the tie. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Dustin repeated, already hopping off the couch and heading for the door. “Come on, Romeo. Before she breaks an ankle.”
Steve hesitated only a second before following, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. The cold rushed in as they stepped outside, the snow crunching under their shoes as they hurried down the steps.
She was already halfway down the street, coat pulled tight, shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Hey—wait!” Steve called out, voice carrying across the quiet morning.
She turned, startled, her brown curls whipping slightly in the breeze.
As they climbed into the Beamer—Dustin claiming the passenger seat and his sister slipping into the back—Steve switched on the heater. Warm air hummed through the vents, slowly melting the thin crust of snow clinging to the windshield as they pulled away from the curb.
For a moment, the car settled into a fragile quiet. The only sounds were the soft crunch of tires over fresh snow and the faint rustle of movement from the backseat, where she sank lower into the upholstery, doing everything she could to disappear into it.
Then— A click.
The radio flickered on—courtesy of the younger Henderson—static dissolving into the unmistakable Bowie swell of a piano intro. The slow, melodramatic rhythm filled the car, rich enough to be instantly recognizable. Life on Mars? Of course it would be. She could’ve picked Hunky Dory out of a lineup blindfolded, but this was absolutely the worst possible moment for it. Not when she was already painfully aware of the nerdy, over‑analytical image Steve Harrington probably had of her.
She inhaled slowly, forcing her expression into something neutral, something that definitely wasn’t oh God, I could combust. Pretending indifference took every ounce of mental strength she had.
Dustin, naturally, caught the microscopic shift in her face. He turned just enough to see her in the rearview mirror’s corner, and the grin that spread across his mouth was instant, wicked, and far too knowing.
“Oh—turn it up.”
Steve glanced over, confused. “Why?”
“Because,” he looked at her through the rearview mirror again, “my sister loves this song.”
Her eyes widened. “Dustin, don’t—”
But, Steve, clueless Steve, was already altruistically turning up the volume knob. As the music filled the car, Dustin inhaled like he’d been preparing his whole life for this performance.
“IT’S A GOD‑AWFUL SMALL AFFAIR—”
“Stop.”
“TO THE GIRL WITH THE MOUSEY HAIR—”
“I’m serious, stop,” said the girl, surely just thoughts away from jumping out of the car window.
He twisted in his seat to face her, pointing like he was presenting evidence to a jury.
“She sings it exactly like this. Full performance. Hand gestures and everything.”
She sank lower in her seat, mortified, “You are actually the worst person alive.”
Steve’s laugh was soft, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, eyes warm, amused.
“It does sound like you.”
She sat up a little, defensive. “…what does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging lightly. “It’s just kinda dramatic, I guess.”
Her posture straightened, indignation rising, “It’s not dramatic, it’s commentary. It’s about disillusionment and—”. She was doing it again.
Dustin threw his hands up triumphantly, “See? She does that.”
Steve huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”
Dustin leaned toward him, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that was absolutely not quiet.
“Did you know that she has a crush on someone who definitely doesn’t understand symbolism?”
She kicked the back of his seat as she screamed out, “DUSTIN!”
Steve blinked, startled. “…on who?”
“That’s it. I’m getting out of the car.”
Steve nearly swerved. “No—don’t do that.”
Dustin just grinned, victorious, basking in the chaos he’d created.
She slid down in her seat, covering her face.
Dustin’s grin sharpened, the kind that meant he was about to ruin her life on purpose.
“And,” he added, like he was delivering the final blow, “she asked if you were going to the dance.”
Silence dropped into the car like a stone.
She sat up straighter. “I asked generally.”
Dustin twisted in his seat, eyebrows raised, with a mockingly high-pitched feminine voice, “You said, ‘Is Steve Harrington going?’”
Steve’s eyebrows lifted again, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching hers.
“…full government name and everything?”
She groaned, sinking back into the seat. “I’m sewing my mouth shut. I’m never speaking again."
They rounded the corner toward the gymnasium. The song shifted. Bowie giving way to the driving beat of I Want to Break Free, filling the warm, steamy car as if the universe itself had decided to mock her.
Dustin, casual and deadly, added, “She cried, belting to this one once.”
“DUSTIN.”
Steve laughed, shaking his head. “You guys are weird,” he glanced at her again.
She pretended not to notice, fixing a loose strand of hair using the faint reflection in the window. The glass was fogged at the edges, but it was enough. Dustin was still inspecting her closely with hawk eyes.
“You’re still nervous,” he concluded, folding his arms over his chest.
She snapped upright. “You little shi–.”
“She changed her outfit twice—”
“Goodbye.”
She opened the door before he could finish, stepping out into the cold with the speed of someone escaping a burning building.
“Have fun chaperoning!” Dustin called after her, far too loud.
She shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame and walked away quickly, heels clicking against the pavement, breath fogging in the air.
Silence settled inside the car.
Steve watched her through the windshield for a moment. Then he exhaled, shifted in his seat, and turned fully toward Dustin. He reached over and adjusted Dustin’s collar, brushing invisible dust off his shoulders as a parent would.
“Alright. Listen to me.”
Dustin blinked up at him, shoulders pulled tight, eyes wide behind his curls.
“When you walk in there, you’re gonna be nervous. That’s normal.”
Steve straightened the tie he’d been wrestling with earlier, smoothing it down with a practiced flick of his fingers.
“But you just gotta be yourself, okay?”
Dustin swallowed and nodded.
“And if they don’t like you—” Steve shrugged, easy and sincere, “who cares?”
Dustin hesitated. “What if I do?”
“Then you find the ones who don’t.”
Steve leaned back slightly, giving him a small, lopsided smile. “You look great, okay? You look like a million bucks.”
Dustin squinted. “That sounds like something she would say.”
Steve frowned. “…your sister?”
“Yeah.”
A beat of silence passed before Steve huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well… don’t tell her I said that.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the familiar can of Farrah Fawcett spray.
“Alright,” he said, tapping the lid. “This is important.”
Dustin straightened immediately.
“You want confidence, right?”
“Right.”
“It’s all about presentation,” Steve said, gesturing vaguely. “Effortless. Like you didn’t even try.”
Dustin nodded as if he were receiving ancient wisdom.
Steve finished fixing his hair, leaned back, and studied him.
“You ready?”
Dustin hesitated. “No. Can I show you my pearls?”
Steve blinked. “Your pearls?”
Dustin purred, “I heard the chicks dig it.”
“I don’t think that’s really the move. But hey—keep the spirit, man.”
Silence settled in the car as Dustin opened the passenger door, letting a sharp rush of winter air slice through the warmth before he shut it again. Steve leaned back slightly, hands resting on the steering wheel, letting the quiet stretch for a moment.
Then he looked up.
Through the windshield, inside the gym, he saw her.
Nancy stood at the entrance, checking tickets, talking to someone, soft and familiar under the glow of the string lights. Steve’s expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Everything else faded a little. The memories from Tina’s Halloween party, and from that night a month ago when everything cracked open, drifted back into his mind like ghosts he hadn’t invited.
He watched her, still and quiet, something like longing tightening in his chest.
Nancy finished with a student, glanced toward the dance floor, then stepped away from the table.
And someone else stepped into her place.
A brunette girl with pinned‑up curls.
She moved with the same purpose Nancy had, but with a different kind of energy—earnest, warm, a little scattered around the edges. She adjusted the ticket box, brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, and smiled at the next kid in line, cheeks flushed from the cold or the nerves, most likely both.
Steve stared.
For the first time that night, he wasn’t looking at the entrance.
He was looking at her.
Not at Nancy. Not at the memories still clinging to his chest like smoke that wouldn't clear. Just her. Cheeks flushed, hair coming loose at the edges, completely unaware she was being watched. And damn it, Dustin was right. She really was cute.
Okayy, soo I have been plagued by the intrusive thought of writing a slowburn, long-ass, she fell first and he fell harder, Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader. The reader is a theater kid, and its set in between the end of season two to season three. I have no experience whatsoever in writing for Steve, however I have consumed an alarming amount of Stranger Things content since 2018, so here we are. I’ve started it already, but it’ll probably take some time!
And no, I did not forget about River pt. 2, I’m just too lazy and kind of in a creative slump.
Summary: A princess destined for an arranged marriage meets a young king who offers her one night of freedom.
Word Count: A little over 2k (I think)
Author's Note: Hey, so this is another rewrite from a project of mine that I posted in Wattpad back in 2020 when I was going through a very intense Narnia fase. Feel free to send request, or not. But if you do, keep in mind that I am normally open to writing for Steve Harrington, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Sirius Black, Edmund Pevensie, Peter Parker, and Klaus Baudelaire. PSA: English is not my first language.
The sun was setting beautifully in the west. A thread of pinkish light slipped through the glass of the princess’ chamber, waltzing delicately across the room.
Princess Y/N of Archenland lay gracefully upon her bed, her gaze drifting toward the carved ceiling as thoughts of the evening’s grand ball fluttered through her mind — the very ball at which she was expected to choose her future husband. Her hair had been swept into a flawless, regal bun; her golden gown cascaded around her like a pool of sunlight; and her hands rested delicately over her corseted bodice.
From the music and the gowns, to the enchantment of dancing beneath glittering chandeliers – she had always adored balls. Yet tonight her heart felt strangely heavy. This was her final chance to choose a suitor of her own before her parents chose one for her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock. The door opened slowly, and her maid’s soft voice followed.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Your Highness, Her Majesty requests your presence in the Main Ballroom. The ball has begun, and the guests are waiting,” Molly announced with a respectful bow.
“Thank you, Molly. I’m on my way.”
Y/N offered her a gracious smile, smoothing her gown as she rose and gently setting her worries aside.
The walk to the ballroom felt impossibly long. At the top of the grand staircase, she paused, drawing in a steadying breath before stepping forward. As always, the moment she appeared, the room shifted — heads turned, whispers fluttered, admiration and judgment mingling in the air like perfume. No matter how many balls she attended, she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to being watched so closely.
She approached her parents, who stood in conversation with four unfamiliar figures. Siblings, she guessed. The eldest was a tall young man with sandy blond hair and striking blue eyes. Beside him stood two girls — one small and bright‑eyed with caramel-colored hair, clearly the youngest; the other taller, elegant, with long ebony hair and vivid agate‑blue eyes. And just behind them lingered another boy, dark‑haired, freckled, and noticeably less engaged than the rest.
“Oh, dear, there you are,” her father said warmly, his arm wrapped around the queen. “What took you so long?”
“Just thinking, Papa.”
Her mother stepped forward, cupping her cheek with gentle pride. “Darling, you look absolutely divine.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Oh! How rude of me.” The queen straightened with a graceful smile. “Y/N, these are the Kings and Queens of Narnia.”
“Peter the Magnificent,” the blond boy introduced himself with a courtly bow, lifting her hand to his lips.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied with practiced elegance.
“I’m Lucy the Valiant,” the youngest chimed in brightly. “But you don’t have to remember that. I’m not nearly as fond of titles as Peter is.”
She leaned in, lowering her voice playfully. “And I’m not fond of handshakes. May I hug you?”
Y/N’s expression softened. “I would be delighted.”
Lucy beamed and wrapped her in a warm, earnest embrace that made the princess laugh.
“She’s always like this,” the older sister teased gently. “I’m Susan. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Edmund the Just,” the dark‑haired boy said last, offering a subtle, flirtatious tilt of his head before kissing her knuckles with surprising tenderness — more intimate than his brother’s, though equally polite.
Soon after, her parents drifted away to greet other guests. The girls fell into lively conversation, Edmund vanished into the crowd, and Peter remained at her side, quietly observing the dancers.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked, offering his arm with princely poise.
“I would love to,” she answered, placing her hand in his.
They waltzed in comfortable silence for a moment before she finally spoke.
“Do you enjoy dancing, Your Majesty?”
“Very much. Though I’m not particularly skilled. You should see my brother Edmund — he’s far better.”
“If you say so…”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Peter added with a chuckle, “you dance wonderfully. You should dance with someone more capable than me.”
“I would love to, but I can’t seem to find him.”
“Well, crowds don't tend to be his favorite, Your Royal Highness.”
“Please, call me Y/N, I–” She was interrupted by a round of applause, signalizing the end of the dance.
“Would you mind if I returned to my sisters? I promised Lucy a dance,” Peter said with a gentle smile, nodding toward the small queen who was clapping enthusiastically at the dancers.
“Not at all,” Y/N replied. “I could use a bit of fresh air.”
She slipped out onto the moonlit porch. The night stretched before her in a tapestry of stars, the constellations gleaming with perfect clarity. The cool air brushed against her skin, and for a moment, the weight of the ballroom lifted. Marriage, duty, expectations — all of it felt suddenly distant, tangled and senseless. Shouldn’t love matter? Was she selfish for wanting it?
“Shouldn’t you be at the ball, Your Highness?” a familiar voice asked behind her.
She turned sharply, bowing slightly. “Oh! King Edmund — you startled me.”
“My apologies,” he said, stepping beside her with a quiet ease. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I only wondered what had you thinking so deeply. If it’s too personal, you needn’t answer.”
A soft silence settled between them, broken only by the distant music drifting from the ballroom.
“It’s the ball,” she said at last.
“What about it?” he asked gently.
“It’s my final chance to choose a suitor. If I don’t… my parents will choose one for me.”
Edmund studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable in the moonlight.
“Shouldn’t you be inside, then?” he asked, though his tone held no judgment — only curiosity, and something like concern.
“Indeed, my King—”
“Edmund,” he corrected softly. “Call me Edmund, please.”
“Indeed… Edmund.”
He smiled softly at the way she spoke his name, as though it were something rare.
“I should be inside,” she continued, “but I can’t. I want to marry for love — not politics, not wealth. Love. Everyone deserves that… maid, king, soldier, faun, dwarf, princess. No one should be asked to live without a soulmate.”
Edmund looked at her, genuinely struck by her honesty.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You probably don’t wish to hear my hopelessly romantic notions. I just… want to forget it all, even if for one night only.”
“I can help with that,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
“Do you trust me?” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous warmth.
She hesitated, breath catching. “Edmund… I just met you.”
He stepped a little closer, voice low but steady. “Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Her resolve softened. “I… suppose.”
“Then follow me.”
He took her hand — warm, steady, certain — and guided her down a quiet corridor. From within his robes, he produced a small flask filled with shimmering golden powder.
“This was given to me by Aslan,” he explained. “It renders anyone who uses it unrecognizable. I meant to save it for battle… but this feels far more urgent.”
“That is far too kind, I couldn’t possibly—”
“Please,” he said gently. “Accept it as a gift. For your hospitality, and for trusting me at all.”
“If you’re sure… then yes.”
“May I?” he asked, and when she nodded, he sprinkled the powder over her. Her bun loosened instantly, her hair cascading down her shoulders.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful as ever, Your Highness,” Edmund said smoothly — though there was a softness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
Her cheeks warmed, but before she could respond, he cleared his throat.
“There’s just one problem,” he added. “The clothes.”
“Follow me.”
She led him through a side corridor to a modest room lined with neatly folded uniforms — aprons, tunics, simple dresses, and worn boots. “These belonged to my maid Molly and her husband,” she explained. “They won’t mind lending them for the night.”
Moments later, dressed in plain village attire and hidden beneath Aslan’s magic, they slipped out of the castle unnoticed and passed through the city gates.
The village beyond was alive.
Music spilled from open windows. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze. Children darted between stalls, laughing. Couples danced clumsily in the street, spinning with joy rather than technique. Everything was warm, imperfect, and real. Nothing like the polished, breathless perfection of the palace.
For the first time in her life, no one stared.
No one bowed.
No one whispered behind gloved hands.
She felt… normal.
And she loved it.
“It’s… wonderful,” she breathed, turning to Edmund with wide, astonished eyes. “How have I never noticed any of this before?”
“Perhaps,” he said softly, watching her more than the scenery, “you simply needed to see it from another point of view.”
They walked in companionable silence, letting the world unfold around them — the laughter, the music, the glow of lanterns, the warmth of people who had no idea they were royalty. It felt like stepping into another life entirely.
A life where she could choose her own path and be free. One where she could fall in love.
“Dance with me?” she asked suddenly, remembering Peter’s earlier words. Edmund looked at her, meeting her hopeful gaze.
“Sure, my Princess.”
“Call me Y/N,” she corrected gently, her smile so sweet it made his heart stumble. He murmured her name under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
He offered his hand, and she took it. They joined the crowd, letting the joyful rhythm guide them. Peter hadn’t lied — Edmund was an excellent dancer.
“Your brother told me we should have danced tonight,” she said, a little breathless. “He said you were talented. He wasn’t lying.”
A faint blush crept up Edmund’s cheeks. “Thank you. So are you, Y/N.”
They danced for what felt like hours — spinning through lantern‑lit streets, laughing breathlessly, speaking with cheerful villagers, and letting children tug at their sleeves as if they had known them forever. It was imperfect, chaotic, wonderfully alive.
And she adored it.
“You’re really pretty,” a tiny voice piped up behind her.
Y/N turned to find a four‑year‑old girl tugging shyly at her borrowed skirt. Kneeling, she cupped the child’s rosy cheeks.
“So are you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the girl giggled, delighted.
Y/N glanced around, searching for Edmund. When she spotted him, her smile bloomed without permission. He stood beside an elderly florist couple, listening intently as they spoke, complimenting their flowers with genuine warmth.
“Are you two in love?” the little girl squeaked.
“Oh—no. We… we just met,” Y/N stammered, heat rising to her cheeks. Were they?
“Who cares?” the girl insisted with the blunt wisdom only children possess. “If it’s true love, it doesn’t matter. Or at least that what mommy tells me”
Y/N laughed softly, flustered. The child beamed up at her, then spotted a group of other children playing nearby.
“I have to go!” she announced, already skipping away. “Bye, pretty lady!”
Y/N waved after her, still smiling — and when she turned back, a gentle nudge at her shoulder made her look up.
Edmund stood there, suddenly shy, holding a bouquet of hyacinths.
“These,” he said, voice unsteady, “are for you.”
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered, taking the flowers with reverence and inhaling their sweet scent.
“A beautiful flower for a beautiful woman,” he murmured, selecting one bloom and tucking it carefully into her hair.
Her breath caught. “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispered. “Why are you being so sweet? We just met…”
He stepped closer, eyes flicking to hers. “Because I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
Her heart fluttered wildly.
“Thank you,” she breathed, “for sharing this whole new world with me.”
And before doubt could steal the moment, she leaned in and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
The music, the laughter, the glow of lanterns — all of it faded into a distant hum as their lips met. The kiss was gentle, tentative, as though both feared the magic might vanish if they moved too quickly.
Edmund’s hand hovered near her cheek, uncertain. When she didn’t pull away, he let his fingers graze her jaw, feather‑light, as though she were something precious.
When they finally parted, their foreheads remained close, breaths mingling in the cool night air.
“Y/N…” he whispered, her name sounding like a secret he wasn’t meant to speak aloud.
She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips tingling. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, shaking his head softly. “Please don’t.”
Her heart fluttered again.
Around them, the village continued its joyful chaos. Children darting past, couples spinning clumsily, lanterns swaying overhead — yet it all felt distant, as though they stood in their own little pocket of magic.
Edmund cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I’ve never… done that before. Not like that.”
She smiled, warm and genuine. “Neither have I.”
He let out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m glad it was with you.”
Her chest tightened in the sweetest way.
Before she could respond, the little girl from earlier peeked out from behind a stall, grinning mischievously.
“I knew it!” she squealed before scampering away.
Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing. Edmund laughed too — a real, unguarded laugh that made her stomach flip.
When she lowered her hands, he was still looking at her. Not with flirtation. Not with royal charm. With something softer. Something real.
“Come on,” he said gently, offering his hand once more. “There’s still so much I want to show you.”
Summary: Presumed dead for months, you return to find Remus drowning in grief and guilt. You survived captivity; he survived losing you. Now you have to figure out how to survive each other
Word Count: A little less than 4k
Author's Note: Upon seeing the drought of Remus Lupin fanfiction, I figured I should take the matter into my own hands. This is actually a rewrite from a very old porject of mine and it is inspired by one of my favorite christmas songs, River, by Joni Mitchell. So, yeah, feel free to send request, or not. PSA: English is not my first language.
——————————————————————————
Christmas drifted through people’s lives in its own quiet way, offering a different kind of magic to every heart it touched. For some, it meant hope—renewal, prosperity, the promise of gentler days. For others, it meant the warmth of family, the laughter of friends, or the sweetness of a lover’s presence. Some even felt the thrill of a romance waiting just around the corner.
But for Remus John Lupin, this year, it carried none of that light.
For him, it was just a sharp and ruthless reminder that he stood alone in the world. He no longer had any family, nor friends, and especially, no lover. He was only accompanied by the silence that followed loss.
A year had passed since October 31 of 1981, the fatal day where he lost everything he ever knew and loved. They had won the war, but at what cost? That was a thought he wouldn't linger on for long. There were no more mass murders staining the streets of England, or Death Eaters terrorizing from the sky. The world was finally at peace. And wizards and muggles could finally leave their homes without feeling a lump on their throat or the quiet dread that they might never make it back.
However, Remus couldn't help but wonder whether the weight of his loss was too steep, even for peace.
Throughout his teenage years, having grown up surrounded by the quiet, untouched magic of the Welsh countryside during the holidays, Remus had learned to adore Christmas. He cherished the fairy lights that glowed softly against frosted windows, the food he used to help his mother, Hope, prepare, the joyful carols that once filled their small home, and—above all—choosing and decorating the pine tree with his parents. Those moments had been his sanctuary, the rare times when the world felt gentle and whole.
But now, with the war behind him, it only deepened the void in his soul. Neither the fairy lights nor the music fluttered even a speck of joy. He tried wandering past the pine trees for sale, flipping through Christmas vinyl records, but each attempt seemed to drag him to the nights he shared with his parents choosing the perfect tree, or to the songs he used to belt out to with James and Sirius in their dorm while they arranged a tiny, lopsided tree. Every path led back to the familiar unstaunched wound. What was the point of happiness if he had no one left to share it with.
It was almost Christmas Eve, and Remus found himself in his small flat, grumbling as another Christmas' A Cappellas, stopped by his door singing songs about joy and peace,—words he had no strength left to hear.
"It should only get worse." complained the scarred brunette while closing the door impatiently.
His flat was a mess. Dishes were piled in the sink, begging to be washed; the furniture laid under a thick layer of dust– Merlin only knew how he hadn't had an allergic attackyet–, and a mountain of clothes waited to be washed. But Remus himself was in worse shape than the flat surrounding him. The dark circles beneath his eyes were deeper than the ones he varied throughout his Hogwarts days. Fading bruises of the last full moon mottled his skin, poorly cleaned and hastily bandaged. His beard had grown bushy and his hair was way too tangled and overgrown that even he couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to comb through it.
Automatically, he mopped towards his kitchen cabinet, looking for something to soothe his torment; chocolate. It was a vicious cycle. Sadness, pity, anger, chocolate, and eventually, liquor.
But to his dismay,the shelf where he kept his stack was empty. He’d eaten every last piece. Which meant only one thing, he would have to go out, and face the blindfull brightness of Christmas in Norwood.
With a sigh, he grabbed his mousy colored coat and pulled it over his worn out jumper.
As he opened the door the cold air and the faint smell of what seemed to be gingerbread cookies enveloped him. Perhaps, years ago he would have smiled dumbly at the scent and breathed out "I love Christmas" earning a round of laughter from his friends.
But there was no one left to hear.
The streets of London weren't nearly as cheerful as the Hogwarts grounds had been. During the holidays, Hogwarts transformed beneath a blanket of snow, its joy radiated so strongly it was as if it could be sensed from miles away. London wasn't the opposite, not exactly. It had his own charm, its own kind of magic – just far less of it than Remus would’ve liked, and much less snow.
He kept walking, trying to ignore everyone and everything, focusing only on slipping through the frantic crowd of last minute shoppers. All he wanted was to reach the small shop he always visited when he needed to buy something, preferably without having to endure the chaos of the season.
Upon entering the store, which was surprisingly empty considering the time of the year, he started his hunt for the sweet treat. Once he found it, he walked straight to the only cashier available. A moody cashier stood there, far more interested in chatting with a guy with glasses and messy hair. The sight made Remus’ chest tighten. The boy painfully resembled James, and the cashier, with tattoos peaking out of his long sleeve, reminded him of Sirius.
The familiar pain and anger entangled in his throat, and for a moment he felt the overwhelming urge to cry.
"Just buy the chocolate and get it over with." he mumbled to himself as he took a deep breath.
Leaving the store he no longer cared about the crowd, there was only one thing on his mind; he was never to visit that shop again.
Turning into an empty alley, entangled in his thoughts, he didn't notice someone walking toward him. Before he could register the person, he collided with her, sending both of them – and the bag with the chocolate – crashing to the ground.
"Oh my, I'm so sorry, sir." started a feminine, familiar voice, "I wasn't looking where I was going—"
"It's alright..." said the boy trying to recognize the voice in his tired state.
"Here, allow me," she extended her hand for him after she kneeled to the ground and grabbed his bag, extending it for him to retrieve it. As he stood up, he brushed off the dust from his coat and glanced at her – first quickly, and then, again, slower. His gaze traveled up until it met her eyes. Those eyes.
Eyes he would have recognized anywhere.
Eyes that haunted him during every sleepless night.
Eyes, that the mere hope of seeing them again, was the fragile thread holding him together during his darkest days since the war.
"Remus, is that you?" whispered the girl, uncertainty trembling in her voice.
She had been a fellow Hufflepuff—the girl he’d quietly adored through all his Hogwarts years. They had never dated. Remus was far too afraid to ruin their so‑called friendship. But he admired her from afar, which only fueled the Marauders’ relentless teasing. She was sweet, understanding, caring, delicate, clever, funny, brave, charming—Remus had always thought of her as something close to an angel.
In her fifth year, Y/N and Remus had even created a small book club together, bonded by their shared devotion to literature, especially classic Muggle novels. After Hogwarts, she joined the Order, and that was when she learned about his “condition.” From then on, she waited for him after every full moon, tending to his wounds and comforting him through the pain.
It was during those quiet, vulnerable nights that Remus finally admitted the truth to himself: he was in love with her. He always had been.
Y/N and Remus became inseparable. She never knew he loved her, but the truth was she had been in love with a boy since her third year—and the Marauders knew it. Oh, they knew. And when they finally convinced Remus to ask her out, she was called to an extremely dangerous mission in one of the most perilous places in Britain during the war: Malfoy Manor.
He waited days, then weeks, then months. But she never came back.
And now here she was, standing before him, looking at him with those same mesmerizing eyes.
“Y/N?” he breathed, the word escaping him more as a stunned confession than a question.
"I thought you were dead?" he blurted, worried with disbelief in his voice.
"I-" she began, but he cut her off.
"Where have you been? The war has been over for nearly a year!" his expression that was once worried, now melted into something sharper, angrier, "James, Lily, and Peter were murdered, did you know that?" he said with a hollow, almost hysterical laugh, tears pricking the corner of his eyes, "Oh, and it was Sirius' fault. He is in Azkaban now. Did you know that?"
"Rem, I'm sorry, I—"
"No!” His voice cracked, “You don’t get to be sorry. While you were in –Merlin knows where– I was here. Alone. Do you know what that feels like?"
She opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak.
"No, you don't." His lips trembled as tears spilled before he could stop them, "I lost Peter, James, Lily, and Sirius all in one night. And even before that, you made believe I’d lost you. I just needed somebody Y/N! Someone to hear me, a shoulder to cry on. But until now, everyone I could think of was dead."
He collapsed into her arms, and she caught him instantly, holding him tight as he sobbed into the crook of her neck. Her scent—warm, familiar, achingly safe—wrapped around him like a memory he’d been starving for.
“Rem,” she whispered, voice soft but steady, “I’m so sorry you went through all of that alone. I truly am.”
He swallowed hard, jaw tight, eyes still shining with the remnants of his breakdown.
She hesitated, then added, “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving again.”
Remus shook his head slightly, like he didn’t dare believe it yet. “I… I don’t want to do this out here,” he murmured, voice rough. “Not in the cold. Not in the middle of a street where you could—” He cut himself off, breath trembling. “Come with me. Please. Let’s go home.”
She nodded, relief flickering across her face.
They walked a few steps before she spoke again, quieter, almost like she was afraid the words themselves might break something.
“Remus… I didn’t stay away because I wanted to,” she said. “I was trying to get back to you. Every day. I just… couldn’t.”
He stopped walking, breath catching. “Y/N—did they—”
She shook her head quickly, not in denial but in fear of the question. “Not now,” she whispered. “Please. I’ll explain later. I just need you to know I never chose to disappear. I never stopped trying to come back.”
Her voice wavered, and for a moment she looked like she might shatter.
Remus dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. The edge in him softened, but the ache stayed, deep and raw.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Home. Then you tell me everything you can.”
When they reached his building, Remus unlocked the door with a shaky breath and stepped aside, giving her a small nod for her to go in first.
She hesitated for a heartbeat before crossing the threshold.
Her eyes swept over the flat — the cluttered books, the unwashed mugs, the blankets thrown carelessly over the sofa. It wasn’t dirty, just… lived in. Lived in by someone who had stopped expecting company. Someone who had been grieving alone.
A quiet ache bloomed in her chest.
She felt guilty. Not because she hadn’t tried — she had, desperately — but because this was the life he’d been forced into without her. A life she never meant to leave him to face alone.
"I know, it's compact, but it's closer to what I can call home."
She nodded as she waltzed around the house.
"I would ask you if you would like tea, but I don't really have—" he said, his voice husky.
"Don't bother." she responded and smiled simply at him.
She took in the piles of clothing, the thick dust settled on shelves and furniture, the quiet signs of a life lived in grief and solitude. But in the middle of all that mess, something else caught her eye — a shelf overflowing with photographs and old polaroids.
Drawn to it, she walked over slowly.
There were pictures of him and the Marauders in their first year, all gangly limbs and too‑big smiles. Another after a Quidditch match, James hoists his broom triumphantly while Sirius makes a ridiculous face behind him. One from James and Lily’s wedding — Remus hugging Lily tightly, Sirius clinging to James with tears in his eyes (tears he would deny until his dying breath).
Another showed Remus and Sirius hunched over textbooks, clearly meant to be studying for their N.E.W.T.s but looking suspiciously like they were plotting something instead.
And then the one that stopped her breath.
A photo of her and Remus sitting under a tree by the Black Lake, a book open between them, sunlight filtering through the branches. She lifted her hand, fingertips ghosting over the image as the memory washed over her.
It had been mid‑autumn — her favorite season. The air crisp, the leaves golden, the world soft around the edges. They had just started a new book for their little book club: Romeo and Juliet.
Remus adored those afternoons. Listening to her read, watching her act out scenes with dramatic flair, pretending to be unimpressed while secretly loving every second of it. Especially the overly dramatic parts, where he could shout lines at the sky while she giggled beside him.
“Hear me out,” she’d said that day, popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth and licking her fingers. “Mercutio is in love with Benvolio.”
Remus had laughed, shaking his head. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Rem, look at them! They’re totally in love. Utterly, hopelessly, head‑over‑heels. You can’t tell me otherwise.”
He’d raised an eyebrow. “You do realize Shakespeare didn’t write it that way.”
“Shakespeare was wrong sometimes,” she declared, as if delivering a universal truth.
He snorted. “You say that about every author who doesn’t make your ships canon.”
She pointed at him. “Because I’m right.”
He’d leaned back against the tree, smirking. “Of course you are.”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Back to the book.”
He’d cleared his throat dramatically, lifted the page, and recited in an overly theatrical voice, “Love is a fire that burns without flame, a wound that aches without bleeding…”
She had laughed so hard she nearly dropped the book.
And then, when the laughter faded, they’d fallen into one of those quiet moments — the kind that felt too intimate for two teenagers who weren’t technically dating. Her head rested lightly against his shoulder. His fingers brushing the edge of the page but not turning it, because he was too busy listening to her breathe. The lake shimmering in front of them. The world is soft and golden around them.
And now, standing in his dusty flat, staring at the frozen moment of that day, she felt her chest tighten with a mix of longing and guilt — because he had kept this memory alive while she had been fighting just to survive.
"Y/N, where have you been?" his voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Where they sent me, The Malfoy Manor." she said, not daring to look at him, fearing she would break down.
"B-but you were supposed to come back a week later?" he stuttered, walking up to her, "And some members even sneaked into the manor to look for you, but you weren't there..."
“They kept me locked in one of the attics,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “I tried to escape — I swear I did — but their security was so tight I still don’t understand how I even got inside in the first place.” Her breath trembled. “Two months ago, after they lost the war, they decided I wasn’t useful anymore. I… I can’t explain why they didn’t kill me.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
“Did they…” Remus’s voice cracked, the question barely forming.
She shook her head quickly. “Not now,” she whispered. “Please. I’ll tell you later. Just… not tonight.”
He looked devastated — guilt, anger, relief, and fear all fighting for space on his face.
“It’s my fault,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I never should’ve let you go on that mission.”
“This wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly, stepping closer. “There was nothing you could’ve done. I volunteered, Remus. I chose it.”
She took his hands gently, interlocking their fingers. His were cold, trembling slightly.
“How about this,” she said softly. “I stay here. I help you clean up this chaos. And you go get some sleep — something you clearly haven’t done in a long time. You look like death, Mr. Lupin.”
A small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “So do you, Ms. L/N.”
He squeezed her hands, stubbornness flickering through the exhaustion. “Which is exactly why I’m not letting you clean this alone. That wouldn’t be fair. Let me help.”
He gave her the softest, most ridiculous puppy‑dog eyes.
She sighed, defeated. “Fine. You can wash the dishes and the clothes.”
His smile brightened just a little — the first real one she’d seen in years.
“But only because I know I’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”
They moved around the flat slowly, almost cautiously, as if afraid that any sudden movement might break the fragile reality of being together again.
Remus gathered the dishes with a tired sigh, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes. She watched him for a moment — the way his shoulders slumped, the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin — and her chest tightened.
He shouldn’t have had to carry all this alone.
She turned away before the guilt swallowed her whole and began picking up clothes from the floor, folding what could be saved, setting aside what needed washing. Every now and then, their eyes met across the room — small, fleeting glances that said everything they weren’t ready to speak aloud.
At one point, Remus dropped a mug into the sink a little too hard. It didn’t break, but the sound echoed sharply.
He froze.
She looked up.
Their eyes locked.
And for a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then he looked away, jaw tightening, and continued washing.
She didn’t push. She was familiar with that look, the one he wore after full moons, when he was trying to hold himself together with a fraying thread.
So she kept cleaning, quietly, gently, giving him space while staying close enough that he could feel she was there.
After nearly an hour, the flat looked… not perfect, but better. Lived‑in, not abandoned.
Remus leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I think that’s enough for tonight,” he murmured, voice rough.
She nodded. “You should sleep.”
He opened his mouth to argue. She saw it coming, but the fight drained out of him before he could speak. His shoulders sagged.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he admitted quietly.
Her heart cracked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He swallowed hard, as if the reassurance hurt.
“Alright,” he whispered.
He led her to the small bedroom, hesitating at the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he should let her in. She stepped inside first, giving him the choice to follow.
He did.
The bed was messy, sheets tangled, blankets half‑on the floor. She helped straighten them without a word. He watched her, eyes softening with something like disbelief.
When he finally lay down, he looked smaller somehow. Younger. Fragile in a way she had never seen before.
She pulled the blanket over him gently.
“Stay?” he whispered, barely audible.
She sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course.”
“Y/N, not like this.” he whispered, louder this time.
She hesitated when he patted the space beside him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because the closeness felt like stepping into a memory she wasn’t sure she deserved anymore.
But his eyes… Merlin, his eyes.
They held that same quiet plea she remembered from full‑moon nights, when he was too exhausted to pretend he didn’t need someone.
So she nodded.
Slowly, she slipped under the blanket, lying on her side facing him. The mattress dipped under her weight, and for a moment neither of them moved. The room felt impossibly still, like even the air was holding its breath.
Remus exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible.
He shifted closer — not touching her, not yet, just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know if he was allowed.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges.
She swallowed. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do,” he murmured, eyes fluttering half‑shut. “I thought I’d never… I thought I’d lost you.”
Her heart clenched. She wanted to tell him she had tried, that she had fought, that she had screamed his name into walls that never answered. But the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, she inched just a little closer — close enough that their foreheads almost touched.
His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound.
And then, as if the nearness finally loosened something inside him, his eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, exhaustion claiming him the moment he felt safe enough to let it.
His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, exhaustion claiming him the moment he felt safe enough to let it.
Within minutes, his breathing evened out.
He was asleep.
For the first time in months he slept without nightmares clawing at him.
She stayed there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the faint lines of worry still etched into his face even in sleep.
She reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes with trembling fingers.
“I tried,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I tried every day to come back to you.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m so sorry, Remus.”
She leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to his temple — a touch so light he didn’t stir.
Then she sat back, keeping vigil beside him, letting the quiet of the room settle around them like a fragile promise.
it has come to me that we are going through a shortage of self-insert marauders fanfics and that is simply UNACCEPTABLE! the world is already a mess as it is, we can’t lose the ancient texts
