Disclaimer: Hermione, Luna, and anyone else aren't mine; they're JKR's and I promise to put them back.
A/N: Written for LJ's femslash50 challenge; prompt was "Winter."

Sometimes, when winter rolls around, Hermione wonders why she signed up for this. True enough, it wouldn't have been much better had she stayed with Ron, and it certainly wouldn't have been as happy – a long-time crush, it turned out, meant little and he was still unfulfilling – but at least the Burrow doesn't need several heating charms a day to combat the cold. The radiator works, but it still doesn't get them much, and there have been three separate occasions when she's felt warmer outside her and Luna's dingy flat, where at least the snow made a blanket of frostbite under which to keep her warm. Luna shares the real blankets, of course, she's not that selfish, but even under several quilts, it's hard to stay warm.

If they'd ask their parents for help – and either set would more than willingly give it – they could afford somewhere nicer (warmer, and where unexpected winds don't blow out candles when Hermione's in the middle of a sentence). That, however, would defeat the purpose of growing up. It's no one's fault that the Ministry doesn't pay beginners much, though Hermione will consider the possibility that it's her fault she doesn't compromise her integrity for promotions like Percy. And, while journalism is interesting and Luna's refusal to let her father pay her more for her work is endearingly fair-minded, little money comes in from The Quibbler, if any at all, sometimes.

There are other times, when Luna gets it into her head that fresh air is the best thing ever given to mankind. For those, they Apparate together up to Hogsmeade, and amble mindlessly around the old village and school grounds until Hermione can barely tell the blue of Luna's old scarf (wrapped on her neck and mouth) from the blue that may or may not actually be spreading on her nose.

The snowball fights tempt her to hate those times, but the way Luna shakes snow out of her hair always makes a persuasive argument against it, though it can't change the fact that their flat is still freezing.

Every now and then, Luna gets the idea to try and cook, which has yet to yield good results. Her attempts at soup wind up chunky or too thin, scalding or too cold (more often the latter), and the one time she didn't burn something, she was making hot chocolate. But, when she smiles expectantly, biting her lip and just rocking back and forth from anticipation, Hermione keeps her opinion to herself and suffers through it. It's better than eating something cold.

Intermittently, it snows so much that Hermione can't help entertaining the idea that they'll be snowed in, which still won't keep her from having to go to work and it certainly won't fix the heat (or the raw, arctic water that makes showering feel like an exile to Siberia, even after charms for hear). Luna watches the snow out the window, childish roses bringing spring to her face, even though winter makes her skin white, and her fingers leave both prints and heat-stains on the pane. Her camera – their most expensive purchase in a long while – then becomes her favorite plaything, and, for some reason, the developing potion always makes the snow look more winsome and effervescent than it really is. In reality, it's melancholy, but, in Luna's photos, it always swirls and whorls like dandelion puffs on the wind. She makes it dauntless and enthusiastically whimsical.

Hermione always thought she had a good vocabulary; Luna proved her wrong, then set to work on improving what she had.

And then, when she's giving serious consideration to the possibility that she could have it better elsewhere, she comes home from work, slips into one of Luna's spare sets of flannel pajamas (they're warmer than her own, even if they have a pattern of sheep), and huddles in the corner, pressed against the radiator and wrapped in three blankets. She sets up a meager excuse for a candle – more of a ball of salvaged wax with a wick than anything else – so she can see and thinks about it all with a practical eye. Ron moved on and he's happy with Harry; she moved on and she's happy with Luna, if freezing to death. Had they stayed, she wouldn't be cold, but he never understood her and Luna does, if she doesn't always understand Luna.

And then, Luna joins Hermione, bringing the last two blankets and curling up next to her, her blonde head on the brunette's stomach and their legs chiastically weaved together. As the candle burns low and frost gathers on the window, Luna falls asleep, exhaling in warm, tickling breaths. Hermione strokes her hair if her breath ever gets too fast or shudders too much, and, though she never says anything about it, it's clear that she's grateful. She has that elegant way of saying things without needing to.

And then, as the candle goes out and they are enveloped by the split moonlight, wooed towards some warmth by the shaky huffs of the radiator, Hermione knows, honestly, why she stays.