HERMIONE X MALE READER
Y/N and Harry Potter. The brothers who lived; They were normal children, their parents supposedly died in a car accident according to what their uncles told them...
Y/N was a different boy than his brother, he was more reserve...
"Best be off, guys, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an’ buy all yers stuff fer school.”
"Um — Hagrid?” Started Y/N.
“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots. “We haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle Vernon last night . . . he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yers parents didn’t leave yehs anything?”
“But if their house was destroyed —”
“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I wouldn’ say no teh a bit o’ yers birthday cake, neither.”
***
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. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Y/N had the most peculiar feeling that only he Harry and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside.
For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone 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 official Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, patting Y/N on the back making him stumble forward.
The pub had suddenly gone really quiet.
"Bless my soul, it's the Potters!" Tom cried out. There was a sudden shuffling of chairs, a rushing of feet, and hands were being shook and many compliments.
"P-P-Potters," stuttered a man wearing a purple turban, "C-Can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to m-meet you."
"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?” Harry said.
“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-Potters?” He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.
“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, guys.”
“Three up . . . two across . . .” Hagrid muttered. “Right, stand back, Y/N.”
He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella. The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.
“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”
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