Pitiful Memories (Yandere H.P Various x Reader)

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┍━━━☽【❖】☾━━━┑

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑*̑˚̑𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚛❶↝𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛④˚̑*̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.

𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢

┕━━━☽【❖】☾━━━┙

•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ ✩. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. ˚ *•̩̩͙ ✩

✮*•̩̩͙✧•̩̩͙*˚✧*˚✮*•̩̩͙✧•̩̩͙*˚✧*˚˚*✧˚*•̩̩͙✧•̩̩͙*˚✮

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇

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❝𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜.❞

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After getting off at London, the three of them walked past many shops, stalls, and restaurants, but none of these places seemed like the kind where one would buy a magic wand. 

Y/n couldn't help trusting him.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place." It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, y/n wouldn't have noticed it was there. 

Hagrid had steered her and Harry inside. 

Everyone inside seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying,

"The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid.

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Harry, "is this -- can this be --?" The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent. 

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor." He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his hand, tears in his eyes. 

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back." Harry didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. 

Hagrid was beaming, but quickly realised what he was doing and dragged y/n behind him, as if shielding her or hiding her. 

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

"Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, y/n, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you. And y-y-you might b-be?"

"Y/n." She said plainly, finding it hard to trust the man in front of her, for no reason at all other than her plain instinct.

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?"

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he'd rather not think about it. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously.