"Rose!" the woman calls, her low voice slightly panicked even though she is against panicking as a rule. "Rose, where are you?"
She's standing in a busy department store, hopping slightly from one foot to the other as she tries to lift her view above the heads of the swelling crowds. It's hot – far too hot, even though it's winter, because everyone is crowding inside and an enthusiastic store clerk has turned the heating up far too high. Dark, curly hair is spilling into the woman's face; she blows it away, but there's some stuck onto her lips still and tangled above her eyes.
"Rose!"
She absentmindedly clutches at the clasp of her plain, no-nonsense handbag, opening and closing it again and again, before finally turning, making up her mind to ask an employee to send out an announcement over the loudspeakers.
She makes it half a step before someone is in her way.
A stranger – a man about her age, dressed in a tight fitting, probably incredibly expensive coat with enamelled lapels. His hair is pale, almost luminescent, with probably a ridiculous amount of products in it, and his eyes are grey and expansive and beautiful and probably totally insincere.
"I'm sorry," she says, half-aware, clutching her tatty old bag to her chest and feeling around with one hand to check her phone and keys are still there. "I'm trying to find my daughter – could you move, please?"
"I'm here!"
She blinks, stumbling back a little, and finally sees Rose, happily clutching the stranger's hand and grinning from ear to ear, perfectly safe and unharmed.
"Oh," she says, a little deflated. "Rose – Rose, where did you go? I was worried! Don't ever wander off like that, please!"
"I won't," Rose says, wide dark eyes staring solemnly into hers. "But I met Draco and he's really nice and can you be friends with him, Mummy?"
She stares at her daughter, her six year old daughter whose father left them when she was two and whom she has tried to bring up sensibly on her own, and sighs.
"Pleased to meet you," the man says, with an amused curve to his lips and a glint in his pale eyes. "I'm Draco, as your daughter mentioned."
"Ah," she says, blinking. "I – er – I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger."
"Mrs Granger," he says, smiling, but she cuts in quickly. "It's Miss – at least, I keep my maiden name. But, please, call me Hermione."
His eyes dart from her, to Rose, and back again, and she realises with an inward wince he has assessed the situation and probably found the right answer.
He doesn't comment, though, which she appreciates.
"Well," she says with an effort to recollect herself, "thank you for looking after Rose, but we'd better go."
Rose stamps her foot petulantly, which Hermione frowns at. She really does need to have a talk with her daughter, when they get back home – which they had really better do, because Hugo is still with the babysitter, and that always seems to end badly, somehow.
"I want to stay with Draco!" Rose bursts out. "He's really nice. And he has nice shoes."
Hermione glances at Draco's shoes in bemusement. Black – leather. Probably Italian. She sniffs, out of habit. "Yes, sweetheart, they're lovely, but we need to go see Hugo, don't we?"
"I won't keep you waiting," Draco says courteously, and Hermione thinks, thank God. Perhaps he is okay, after all. She did judge him fairly quickly.
"Hermione," he shakes her hand, as an old woman manoeuvres around them with a huge shopping bag, and "Rose." He shakes her hand, too, and she beams.
Then he turns, and he's gone, coat – so pretentious – and face earning him several glances from people passing. Hermione sniffs again, and picks up Rose's hand tightly, determined not to lose her again, but there's something in it – a curled scrap of paper.
"Rose, what's this?" she asks.
"Draco gave it to me," Rose says brightly.
Hermione opens it quickly with neat, precise movements, and stares for a few moments.
There's a mobile number written on it in elegant, arching handwriting, and a note: next Saturday, same time, the café just down the road? I'll buy you a new bag.
She rolls her eyes, but what gets her most is what Draco has used as notepaper – a blank cheque.
"What does it say?" Rose asks.
Hermione screws it up into a little ball and buries it deep into the bottom of her bag. "Nothing, darling."
Honestly, she thinks. The nerve of him, to give her his number and offer to buy her a new bag after meeting her for two minutes. Ridiculous.
But there's a spring in her step as she walks home with Rose, and she's humming as she smoothes out the little scrap of paper carefully and types an eleven digit number onto her phone.
Hey! So, I got a Tumblr prompt to write a drabble for Harry Potter revolving around a handbag. I hope you guys like it! If you do, feel free to message me and/or check out my Tumblr: ballerinainblack. I will always answer asks and requests :)