Hermione held her breath and looked around the room. She felt like an intruder. Although she had been there once before, Luna was not at home. So being there felt like an intrusion. But the crushed candles in the entrance hall had lit themselves to greet her, and that did not happen for everyone.
She loosened her jacket. Her choice of triple denim - beret, jacket and pants in navy blue - had been striking, but not warming. Thankfully she had chosen a heavier red sweater to keep out the chill of the evening.
The main room was domed like an igloo. It looked more like a tent when she considered the springy beams reaching up from the ground to meet several feet up. Was she underground? That could be natural light flickering around the apex. And the strips of wood lining out the walls could be leathery fabric. Or something else. But nothing terrifying.
There was a faint jingling noise around the apex of the roof. She had not noticed it before. Like a dream catcher or wind chimes. But inside, inbetween the pointed beams of the ceiling rose. It made her neck tingle. But it was relaxing and reassuring. This was what she needed; somewhere to relax, and someone to chill with.
Slightly further down the walls, animated rugs hung lazily from four of the twelve angles. Each depicted a season, childishly drawn, but fresh and alive. Hermione stared at the widening mouth of an Asian lion as it commanded a barren hilltop, the summer Sun flaring and waning behind it. She had seen it in many old fashioned homes. It was a cheap memento bought cheaply on a budget vacation. Then, as always with these things, the scene repeated with equal vigor. Hermione had no time for mass producer merchandise. But she knew Luna was less discerning. Or maybe just discerning in a different way.
Further down, at floor level, a weird collection of dressers and short cabinets crowded around the outside wall. They were stuffed randomly with clean clothes, rags, books, scrolls, bits of magical equipment, vanity mirrors, and more bits of bric-a-brac.
An incredibly thin writing bureau was wedged between two unfeasibly tall wardrobes. Sheets of paper and sparking notebooks were piled up in a wobbling, vaguely held still by a hand high paperweight. A little bronze statuette of a stag stood atop the heap magically rearing up on its back legs, the front hooves scratching at the air. She picked it up and looked closer. As soon as her hand touched the metal, the figure stopped moving and became little more than an ornament. She noticed too that there were no antlers, just a single horn jutting stiffly from the horselike head. "Oh. A unicorn," she whispered.
The notes started to slip and slide sideways. She slapped her free hand on the pile. "Petrificus!" she joked. "Stay still." The papers behaved almost predictably in a muggle kind of way. "And what have we here?" She thought aloud. "A journal? Love letters? You're so mysterious, Luna." With one hand holding the weight, and one holding the papers, Hermione felt trapped. But there was also an opportunity. Maybe a quick read of the notebooks wouldn't be so wrong?
"Who's there?" A faint, lilting voice called thru. The candle crumbs sparked into sharper lines of light.
Hermione put down the bronze figure. It started to rear again on its hind legs, proud and wild. She made to call out, but her mouth was dry. She cleared her throat. "Me," she said firmly.