Your Lee Fic Just Killed Me Oh My Gosh

Meeting Walburga

Regulus brings Harry to meet his grandmother

[Regulus Black x Fem Potter! reader]

word count: 785

warnings: hurt/comfort, Walburga being a meanie to Harry

-

Regulus wasn’t entirely sure why he agreed to this.

It was a terrible idea. He knew that. Y/N knew that. Even Kreacher, who had loyally followed him into this new life, had given him a wary look when he mentioned visiting 12 Grimmauld Place.

Yet, here they were.

Harry held Regulus’ hand tightly as they stood outside the Black family’s ancestral home. The looming townhouse was as dark and unwelcoming as ever, its iron-wrought serpent door knocker glinting in the dim London light. Regulus exhaled sharply, tightening his grip on his son’s small hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmured.

Harry nodded, his green eyes wide as he stared up at the tall building. “Are you sure she won’t like… hex me?” he whispered, only half-joking.

Regulus almost smirked. She would if she could.

Instead, he knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Kreacher. His large, bat-like ears twitched as he looked down at Harry. For a long moment, he was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, to Harry’s surprise, the elf bowed low.

“Master Regulus,” he croaked. “Young Master Potter.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Master Potter? No one had ever called him that before.

Regulus gave a curt nod, stepping inside and ushering Harry in after him. The house smelled the same—dust, old magic, and a hint of something burning in the fireplace. The walls were lined with dark portraits, and Harry nearly jumped as one of them moved.

But before he could get a proper look, a voice rang through the house—sharp, commanding, and dripping with disdain.

“Regulus.”

Harry turned toward the voice and saw her.

Walburga Black stood at the foot of the grand staircase, dressed in deep emerald green. Her sharp features were set in stone, her dark eyes taking in her son before shifting to Harry.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Regulus straightened his shoulders, his grip on Harry’s hand firm. “Mother.”

Walburga’s lips thinned as her gaze swept over Harry like he was an insect. “So,” she said slowly, coldly. “This is what you’ve been reduced to. Raising a half-blood.”

Harry stiffened, instinctively stepping closer to Regulus.

Regulus’ expression didn’t change. “He is my son.”

Walburga scoffed. “He is James Potter’s son.” Her voice was venomous. “A disgrace to the family name.”

Harry felt his face grow hot, but before he could say anything, Regulus spoke—his voice steady, but edged with steel.

“He is my son,” he repeated, quieter this time. “And I will not tolerate you speaking of him that way.”

Walburga’s eyes darkened. “You dare bring him into this house?”

“I brought him here so you could meet your grandson,” Regulus said, his tone even. “Not to hear your outdated prejudices.”

Harry bit his lip, gripping Regulus’ sleeve. He didn’t understand everything, but he knew she didn’t like him. He could feel it.

For a long, tense moment, Walburga simply stared at them.

Then, to Harry’s utter shock, she let out a low chuckle.

“You’ve changed,” she murmured, her gaze locked onto Regulus. “Not that it matters. The blood in your veins remains the same. That thing” —her eyes flicked to Harry— “does not.”

Harry flinched.

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “Come, Harry,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We’re leaving.”

Harry didn’t hesitate, stepping quickly in line beside him as Regulus turned on his heel.

As they reached the door, Walburga’s voice rang out again.

“When the time comes,” she said, “you’ll regret your choices, Regulus.”

Regulus didn’t stop walking.

Kreacher, who had remained silent through the exchange, gave a deep bow as they passed.

As soon as they stepped outside, Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Regulus glanced down at him. “Are you alright?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “…She doesn’t like me.”

Regulus sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “That doesn’t matter,” he muttered. Then, more softly, “I do.”

Harry blinked up at him.

“…Mama does, too,” he said after a moment.

Regulus smirked. “Of course she does. She’s your mother.”

Harry smiled a little, shuffling closer to Regulus as they started walking again.

“…Do you think Kreacher likes me?”

Regulus chuckled, glancing back at the house. “I think he’s figuring it out.”

Harry hummed. “I liked him.”

Regulus raised a brow. “You did?”

“He bowed,” Harry said simply. “I think that means he kinda likes me.”

Regulus shook his head in amusement. “You are far too optimistic.”

But as they made their way home, he found himself silently grateful.

Harry would never know the cold walls of that house. He would never be raised in darkness, surrounded by cruel whispers of blood purity and superiority.

He had a family.

A real one.

-

previous chapter <- -> next chapter

I need to vent, guys. Pls dont mind this. TO MY SH*T PARENTS, PLS JS DIVORCE GOSH 😭🙏

So good wth😭

Messiah

Navigationˎˊ˗

{𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝} → open ! || requests are usually open unless they get too much, then I will turn them off so that I could finish other requests ! ||

About the blogˎˊ˗

what I do -> write fanfics and on some occasions, headcanons about timothée's characters

what I write about -> Harry Potter, Marauders, Characters played by Timothée, RPF, etc.

P.S. I don't have an upload schedule, but I try to post and make fanfics as much as possible. My stories are best when I am motivated. It keeps the fun and excitement in making these stories when I'm more motivated. :>

masterlist, prompt list

rules and disclaimersˎˊ˗

yes ! → fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, character x reader, mentions of smvt, bl00d/g0re, slow burn, RPF

no ! → smvt, kinks, p3do, non-con

I do not write smut under any circumstances. If you'd like to make a request, you can choose from the prompt list or submit your own idea.

I've received a few disrespectful comments in the past and have chosen to ignore them. I will continue to do so with any future hate comments. Just a reminder, I am a minor, so these kinds of messages are especially inappropriate.

If you don’t like my writing, feel free to scroll past my blog—there’s no need to send hate comments.

DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY WRITING AND CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN.

I’m pretty indecisive, so if you notice my blog changing from time to time, it’s just me figuring out which colors I like best hehe!

If you come across my work being copied or reposted, please let me know!

Learning how to read

Regulus and Y/N try to teach Harry how to read

words: 0.5k

warnings: fluff, not proofread, alive Regulus and Sirius not being in Azkaban

“Alright, Harry, let’s try this again,” Y/N said patiently, tapping the open book in front of them. “What does this word say?”

Harry, sprawled across the plush rug in the Black family library, kicked his legs idly and squinted at the sentence. He traced the letters with his finger, lips moving as he tried to sound it out.

“C… ca… castle?” he guessed hopefully.

Y/N smiled. “Close! It’s a cauldron. You almost had it.”

Harry groaned dramatically and flopped onto his back. “This is so boring.”

Regulus, sitting in a chair nearby with his own book, arched an eyebrow. “Reading is not boring, Harry.”

Harry turned his head to stare at his Baba with a look of deep betrayal. “But it is! There aren’t even any dragons in this book!”

Y/N chuckled. “We have to practice the small words first, love. Then we can move on to dragons.”

Harry pouted. “But I want adventure stories now!”

Regulus sighed, rubbing his temple. “You won’t understand adventure stories if you can’t read properly.”

Harry huffed but reluctantly sat up again. “Fine,” he mumbled, picking up the book. “But only if I get a story about a dragon next.”

Before Y/N could agree, the library doors burst open.

“Never fear, Padfoot is here!” Sirius declared dramatically, striding into the room with a mischievous grin.

Regulus groaned. “Oh, no.”

Harry immediately perked up. “Uncle Siri!” He scrambled to his feet, rushing toward him.

Sirius scooped him up and twirled him in the air. “My favorite little troublemaker! What are you up to?”

“Reading lessons,” Y/N answered, crossing her arms.

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. Sounds dull.”

Harry nodded eagerly. “It is!”

Regulus shut his book with a sigh. “We were making progress before you arrived.”

Sirius ignored him, digging into his coat and pulling out something that made Regulus’s eye twitch.

A brightly colored, illustrated comic book.

“Forget the boring old schoolbooks, Harry,” Sirius declared, wiggling the comic in front of him. “If you’re going to read, you should read something fun.”

Harry gasped. “What is it?”

Sirius grinned. “The Adventures of Martin the Mad Muggle!” He flipped open the pages, showing off the dramatic illustrations of a confused Muggle accidentally causing magical mayhem wherever he went.

Harry’s eyes widened in delight. “That looks amazing!”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Sirius shot back, smirking.

Y/N sighed, hiding her amusement. “Sirius, you’re not exactly helping.”

“Oh, come on,” Sirius said, plopping onto the rug beside Harry. “Think of it as… incentive! He wants adventure stories? Let him practice with this!”

Regulus glared. “That is not proper literature.”

Harry, meanwhile, was already flipping through the comic excitedly. “Look, Baba! There’s a dragon in this one!”

Regulus groaned as Y/N stifled a laugh.

Sirius winked. “See? Learning can be fun.”

Regulus muttered something under his breath that sounded suspicious like ‘you are the bane of my existence’, but ultimately, he sighed in defeat.

Y/N ruffled Harry’s hair and smirked at Sirius. “Fine. But if he starts writing his letters backward because of those ridiculous fonts, I’m blaming you.”

Sirius grinned, slinging an arm around his godson. “Deal.”

Harry, completely oblivious to the war being waged over his reading material, beamed. “This is the best lesson ever!”

Regulus groaned again.

Wow, he’s really good. Fantastic reflexes.💥💥💥

IG credit to redbullf1academy

Timothée's tiny soulmate

Tiny hands, big love, and a dad wrapped around her finger.

pairings: Timothée Chalamet x Fem!reader

word count: 2.3K

warnings: Fluff, a bit of jerk Timothée for a few moments, childbirth

note: First chapter to my new series.. Girl Dad Diaries !

more here: Girl Dad Diaries masterlist, masterlist

You and Timothée had been married for two years, and today, December 27, just two days after Christmas, was his birthday. A week ago, you found out you were pregnant with his child. It hadn’t been planned, but neither of you was against the idea; if anything, it felt like perfect timing. To surprise him, you wrapped a small, slender box and tied a little bow on top. Inside, you placed five clean, positive pregnancy tests—your quiet, heartfelt way of saying, We’re having a baby. 

You also got him a new iPad for his birthday.

Why not? Right? Were you spoiling him? Maybe just a little. In five days, Timothée Chalamet was getting a brand-new MacBook, an iPad, and, though he didn’t know it yet, a baby. So yeah, you were spoiling him. But if anyone deserved it, it was him.

You woke up bright and early, long before he stirred. The house was still dark except for the faint glow of the Christmas lights strung across the living room, and the soft scent of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air from the candles you'd been lighting all week. Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you tiptoed through the house, grabbing your slippers and hoodie before heading out to the garage. That’s where you’d hidden the gifts—you knew he wouldn’t think to check your car.

Moments later, you returned with both boxes in hand. One was a sleek Apple box, the other longer and thinner, wrapped with extra care and a little satin bow. You placed the thinner one 6to the side for now. That surprise would come last.

Carefully, you placed the iPad box on the bed and leaned over him, brushing the hair from his face. You kissed his forehead gently.

"My love," you whispered sweetly.

He groaned in protest, rolling over and tugging the blanket over his head. "Nooo..."

You giggled. "C'mon, birthday boy. Wake up."

He peeked out with one eye. His curls were a mess, his voice groggy. "What time is it?"

"Too early," you admitted, laughing softly, "but I couldn't wait."

He sighed dramatically. "This better be worth it."

You grinned and placed the gift on his chest. "It is. Open it."

He sat up slowly, yawning as he pulled at the wrapping paper. The second he saw the Apple logo, his eyes widened.

"No way..." he murmured. "You got me the iPad, too?"

You gave him an innocent shrug. "I mean, you need something portable for travel. The MacBook is for editing and writing, the iPad is for movies and drawing. Practical, right?"

He just stared at you. "You're insane."

"Maybe," you replied playfully, crawling back into bed beside him. "But I love you."

He leaned over and kissed you, lingering a bit longer than necessary. "I love you more. You really didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to. You deserve it."

He was already powering it on, a boyish grin on his face. "Okay, yeah. This is amazing. You're amazing. I feel so spoiled."

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the still-wrapped box on the nightstand.

"Oh," you said casually, "there's one more."

He blinked, still distracted by his new iPad. "More? Babe, you already went overboard. What is it, socks? A sweater?"

You chuckled nervously. "Not exactly. Here. Open it."

You handed him the smaller, longer box, wrapped with a delicate little bow. He looked at you suspiciously but took it, tearing the wrapping slowly.

He lifted the lid and stared.

Five pregnancy tests. All positive. All clean. Lined neatly in a row.

His jaw dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

"Wait..." he finally breathed. "Are these... are these real?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "I found out last week. I wanted to tell you in a special way. Surprise."

He looked back down at the tests, then up at you, eyes glassy with disbelief. "We're having a baby?"

You smiled, your voice soft. "Yeah. We are."

He let out a breathless laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a moment before looking at you again, overwhelmed but glowing. "Oh my god. I... I don't even know what to say."

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You don't have to say anything. Just hold me."

He pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you tighter than ever.

"This is the best birthday of my life," he whispered into your hair. "A MacBook, an iPad, and a baby? I don't think anything could top this."

You laughed. "Well, don't get used to this kind of treatment every year."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Too late. I'm officially spoiled for life."

The first trimester was a whirlwind of emotions and adjustments. You cried often—when your jeans didn’t fit, when nothing satisfied your hunger, or just because. Your body was changing fast, and so was your world. Timothée stayed grounded through it all, holding you close when you broke down, whispering soft reassurances. He even cleared out a guest room and began turning it into a nursery—the one with the big window you loved. Inspired by your love for stars, you both chose a space theme, spending countless hours researching baby essentials. Timothée was convinced it was a boy; you secretly hoped for a girl. You decided to wait until the birth to find out.

The second trimester brought a little relief from the nausea, but new aches took over. Leggings became your daily uniform, much to your embarrassment as a touring singer. Still, with Timothée’s unwavering support, you embraced the changes. You announced your pregnancy mid-tour, keeping the details private, and fans adored the mystery. Meanwhile, your craving for cucumbers spiraled—chopped, dipped, and topped with anything you could think of. Timothée kept a cooler of them backstage and even tried your wildest combos. You laughed, nested, your belly grew, and the nursery became a dreamy little galaxy.

By the third trimester, everything was harder. Sleep was a battle of pillows and shifting positions, and you were always too hot, too tired, or too emotional. Swollen fingers forced you to take off your rings—Timothée lovingly put them on a chain around your neck. Performing felt heavier, but fans cheered louder than ever when the baby kicked mid-song. Cravings got weirder, nesting became an obsession, and you repacked the hospital bag more times than you could count. Through it all, Timothée stayed close—singing to your belly, rubbing your feet, and reminding you how strong you were.

You were sore, swollen, and ready. Nervous, but full of love. The best part was just around the corner.

Then, the day finally came when your water broke. The hospital room buzzed with low voices and the steady beeping of machines, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the rhythmic sound of your breathing. Hours had passed in a blur of contractions and sweat, your grip on Timothée’s hand never loosening, even when your fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t complain once. He stayed right beside you, brushing damp hair from your face, whispering encouragements through every cry, every wave of pain.

“You’re doing so good,” he kept saying. “He’s—uh—they’re almost here.” He still stumbled over the pronouns sometimes, trying to avoid guessing, but you could tell he hadn’t fully let go of the idea that it might be a boy.

You were too focused on surviving the next contraction to care.

Then, finally, it happened. One more push, one last scream—and the room exploded into sound. A sharp, high-pitched cry filled the air, and the doctor smiled as she lifted the baby up.

“It’s a girl,” she announced, beaming.

You blinked through your tears and turned to Timothée. But instead of the cheer or the gasp you’d expected, he went oddly quiet.

“A girl?” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

It wasn’t disappointment exactly—not in the way that stung. But for a moment, you saw the flicker in his expression. A beat of surprise. Of recalibration. He had been so sure. Had spoken to your belly like a boy was listening. Had joked about teaching “his son” guitar.

But before you could even speak, they placed her, tiny, pink, wailing, into his arms.

And everything changed.

Timothée looked down at her, and whatever expectation he had crumbled in an instant. His whole face softened, like someone had knocked the wind out of him in the gentlest way. His eyes brimmed with tears as he adjusted his hold on her, already protective, already in love.

“Elodie,” he whispered, like her name had been waiting on his tongue this whole time. “Hi, baby girl.”

Then he looked at you, and though he was clearly trying to be composed, his voice cracked as he admitted, “I thought I wanted a boy. But… she’s perfect. It was always supposed to be her.”

You smiled through your exhaustion, through your own tears, and reached for him, your daughter tucked between you like the softest miracle.

A week in the hospital felt like a slow dream, both calming and surreal. The days blurred into each other in a haze of soft lullabies, nurse check-ins, and the gentle hum of machines that beeped and blinked with their rhythm. Every few hours, someone would enter the room to examine Elodie, check your vitals, ask questions, and smile politely. The food was bland, the lighting too harsh, and the beds not quite soft enough, but none of that mattered. You had her. She was here.

Still, by day seven, you were aching for your home. For the nursery you'd spent months perfecting. For the quiet comfort of your bedroom, your candles, your robes, your slippers. And maybe, selfishly, just a little bit of time without a nurse barging in with a blood pressure cuff when the baby had just fallen asleep.

Timothée was practically bouncing by the time the discharge papers were signed. He packed everything up with the energy of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life. The hospital staff wheeled you down in a chair, your arms wrapped around the infant car seat where Elodie blinked sleepily, her tiny hat pulled low over her forehead. Timothée walked beside you like a proud golden retriever, loaded with bags, snacks, and the biggest grin you’d ever seen on his face.

He double-checked the car seat straps before you left the parking lot. Triple-checked them before pulling out. And then turned in his seat a dozen times during the drive, just to make sure she was still breathing.

When you finally stepped into your home, everything felt different. The air was warmer somehow, the rooms no longer silent but humming with new life. It was like the house had been holding its breath this whole time—and now, with her inside, it finally exhaled.

And from that moment on, Elodie was never far from Timothée’s chest.

You thought you’d be the one who couldn’t let her go, but Timothée became completely, utterly inseparable from your daughter. She was always in his arms, swaddled against his chest in that soft gray wrap he insisted on wearing everywhere. He wore her while making breakfast. While reading. While pacing the living room as she napped. He even wore her while brushing his teeth once. “She likes the vibration,” he shrugged, speaking like he was some kind of baby whisperer.

You joked that you were officially the third wheel now. He didn’t even argue.

Every few hours, when it was your turn to nurse or rock her to sleep, he’d hover just a few inches away. And the moment you were done, he’d scoop her right back up with a breathless, “I missed her.”

You laughed, but you understood. Because watching Timothée fall in love with Elodie was like watching gravity find him again. He melted into fatherhood. The actor, the performer, the dreamer—all of it quieted, softened, sharpened into something tender and fierce. She made him gentler. And braver.

He danced with her often, barefoot in the nursery under the soft light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He’d sway slowly, whispering, “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?” His voice cracked sometimes when he said it. As if he couldn’t believe she was real either.

One night, while you were still adjusting to night feeds and the ache in your body, you found him on the nursery rug with Elodie tucked on his chest. He was humming “Landslide,” eyes closed, tears glistening at the corners. When he saw you, he smiled and whispered, “She likes Fleetwood Mac. She's got taste already.”

He called her his tiny soulmate. You didn’t even mind that he barely looked at you anymore, because when he did, it was usually to say, “Look at her. Just look.”

He was so in love with Elodie that it was almost comedic. One morning, after pulling her gently from your arms, he sat beside you and muttered, “I’d throw myself in front of a bus for her.”

You blinked at him. “You just met her.”

He nodded, serious. “If there was a shooter, I’d use you as a human shield to protect her.”

You stared, speechless.

He gave a crooked little smile. “Don’t take it personally. You had your moment. This one’s hers now.”

But even in all the humor, you could see it. The way she had rewired something in him. His entire world now existed in the space between her breaths.

He wore her in a carrier everywhere: around the house, to the grocery store, even while standing outside in the backyard doing nothing but watching the sky. He kissed her head more times than you could count. He cried the first time she grabbed his finger with intention. He cried harder the first time she smiled.

And you watched it all—this beautiful, chaotic, overwhelming new rhythm of your lives—and thought: We’re going to be okay.

You had your little girl.

And she had the man who would move heaven and earth just to keep her warm.

My biggest strength is my biggest curse.

Imagination.

For the rest of my life it will plague me.

Writing stories of passion and romance that will never be real.

Never can be real.

I spin tales of love and in doing so I doom myself for thinking I could ever be the lucky character in my own story.

TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET as Bob Dylan A Complete Unknown · 2024

If you like the content, follow me on TWITTER as well <3