Summer On Crax Holm
They don’t go back to Crax Holm every summer, but often enough that the bare little island on the fringe of the Orkneys has a homey, familiar feel for Luna.
They always try to go back and visit as a group. The Lovegoods. The Cooks. Mr. Spring. Auntie George. The Butterfields. And any of the other two dozen or so families who hid out here during the Wizarding War. A week-long family reunion of sorts - one that Luna always looks forward to.
The portkey always deposits them in the same place - a low hillock overlooking the rocky shoreline where seals nap in the summer sun. They follow the same winding path to the little cluster of round stone cottages, poking their heads in to say a quick hello to the other arrivals before proceeding to the second cottage from the top of the eastern hill.
And as they climb the hill to their particular cottage, Dad always says the same thing. “This is where you were born, you know, Luna.”
Luna always just smiles and never says, Yes, Dad, I know.
It’s always an idyllic week. Even when it rains, or something happens like the summer Mrs. Cook came down with a mild case of pixie pox. Dad always seems to remember new stories to tell about Mum. Mr. Spring covers canvas after canvas with seascapes and portraits of his very windblown companions. The children (and a good many adults) splash in the cold surf or race brooms around the small island’s circuit. And of an evening, everyone gathers around a cheerful bonfire to roast marshmallows and sausages, sing, and swap stories.
But this summer? This summer, things are different.
On the first night, everyone at the bonfire is quiet while Luna, with Dad’s prompting, tells what she knows of what happened at Hogwarts at the end of the term.
It makes her feel a little bad, bringing such a terrible thing into such a peaceful, happy place. But Dad is right, just as Dumbledore is. People need to know what happened.
Especially since the Daily Prophet, as always, seems to be three steps behind on the relevant news.
There’s a long, uneasy silence at the end of her story before Mr. Cook shakes himself and stands up.
“Well, the thing to remember,” he says to the assembled group, “is that if it’s true and bad things turn to worse again, the houses on this island are as ship shape as they ever were. We lived here before. We can do it again.”
There are appreciative murmurs, and people look at least a little reassured. But everyone begins to retire to their cottages soon thereafter, not staying up late into the night the way they usually do on the first night back on Crax Holm.
Luna stretches out on her camp bed while Dad putters about the cottage, checking the shutters and the chimney and the levels of dust in the cupboards. Luna watches the light filtering through the cracks in the shutters (this far north, it’ll be some time before the daylight peters out) and thinks about what Mr. Cook had said.
“Dad?” she says, suddenly. “Why was it that you and Mum came here?”
Dad is poking his wand up the cottage’s chimney, making sure that no birds have taken up residence since the last visit. He looks over his shoulder at Luna, frowning.
“Because of the war, Luna. Because things were dangerous. You know that.”
“I know, but…” Luna sits up, folding her legs into a tailor seat. “But lots of people were in danger. Hurt. Killed, even. Why didn’t everyone move away?”
It’s a hard question for Luna to ask, because she knows what’s implied at the back of it. Why weren’t you and Mum brave enough to stay? She doesn’t even mean to imply it, because she certainly doesn’t think that her parents were cowards. But it’s a hard thing to avoid unless you just don’t ask.
And she knows that Dad hears it because he looks very grave as he comes over to sit on his own cot, hands folded between his knees.
“Do you think your mother and I did wrong? Coming here?” he asks.
“No. No, it’s not that.” Luna fiddles for a moment with the end of her braid. “I was just curious about how you decided to.”
Dad is quiet for several moments, watching a spider stroll across the stone floor. Luna knows that this is just what Dad does when he thinks, so she waits patiently.
“I suppose we did the best thing we could think to do,” he says at last. “Those were dangerous times. Your mother and I…neither of us were what you would call fighters. We might even have made a true mess of it if we tried. We were starting a family, and we wanted to keep that family safe.” Dad flashes a brief, affectionate smile at Luna. “We felt that we were doing the right thing, coming here. I still feel that we did.”
Luna nods. The right thing. Right or easy? Easy or right? It should be such a simple thing to figure out, and yet it’s very knotty when you take a good close look.
“If things get that bad again, will we come back here? That seems to be what Mr. Cook was saying.”
“I don’t know, Luna. What do you think?”
This time, it’s Dad who sits quietly and waits for her to think.
“I don’t think we can,” she says at last.
“And why is that?”
“The Quibbler,” she replies. Dad raises his eyebrows. “If the Ministry won’t even admit to snorkacks, I can only imagine they won’t admit to You-Know-Who being back. And if no one else will tell the truth, we’ll have to.”
Luna can’t quite define the look Dad is giving her, but he is smiling. “Yes. I suppose we will have to,” he says.
And they will, Luna has no doubt.
Because that is the right thing to do.
They always try to go back and visit as a group. The Lovegoods. The Cooks. Mr. Spring. Auntie George. The Butterfields. And any of the other two dozen or so families who hid out here during the Wizarding War. A week-long family reunion of sorts - one that Luna always looks forward to.
The portkey always deposits them in the same place - a low hillock overlooking the rocky shoreline where seals nap in the summer sun. They follow the same winding path to the little cluster of round stone cottages, poking their heads in to say a quick hello to the other arrivals before proceeding to the second cottage from the top of the eastern hill.
And as they climb the hill to their particular cottage, Dad always says the same thing. “This is where you were born, you know, Luna.”
Luna always just smiles and never says, Yes, Dad, I know.
It’s always an idyllic week. Even when it rains, or something happens like the summer Mrs. Cook came down with a mild case of pixie pox. Dad always seems to remember new stories to tell about Mum. Mr. Spring covers canvas after canvas with seascapes and portraits of his very windblown companions. The children (and a good many adults) splash in the cold surf or race brooms around the small island’s circuit. And of an evening, everyone gathers around a cheerful bonfire to roast marshmallows and sausages, sing, and swap stories.
But this summer? This summer, things are different.
On the first night, everyone at the bonfire is quiet while Luna, with Dad’s prompting, tells what she knows of what happened at Hogwarts at the end of the term.
It makes her feel a little bad, bringing such a terrible thing into such a peaceful, happy place. But Dad is right, just as Dumbledore is. People need to know what happened.
Especially since the Daily Prophet, as always, seems to be three steps behind on the relevant news.
There’s a long, uneasy silence at the end of her story before Mr. Cook shakes himself and stands up.
“Well, the thing to remember,” he says to the assembled group, “is that if it’s true and bad things turn to worse again, the houses on this island are as ship shape as they ever were. We lived here before. We can do it again.”
There are appreciative murmurs, and people look at least a little reassured. But everyone begins to retire to their cottages soon thereafter, not staying up late into the night the way they usually do on the first night back on Crax Holm.
Luna stretches out on her camp bed while Dad putters about the cottage, checking the shutters and the chimney and the levels of dust in the cupboards. Luna watches the light filtering through the cracks in the shutters (this far north, it’ll be some time before the daylight peters out) and thinks about what Mr. Cook had said.
“Dad?” she says, suddenly. “Why was it that you and Mum came here?”
Dad is poking his wand up the cottage’s chimney, making sure that no birds have taken up residence since the last visit. He looks over his shoulder at Luna, frowning.
“Because of the war, Luna. Because things were dangerous. You know that.”
“I know, but…” Luna sits up, folding her legs into a tailor seat. “But lots of people were in danger. Hurt. Killed, even. Why didn’t everyone move away?”
It’s a hard question for Luna to ask, because she knows what’s implied at the back of it. Why weren’t you and Mum brave enough to stay? She doesn’t even mean to imply it, because she certainly doesn’t think that her parents were cowards. But it’s a hard thing to avoid unless you just don’t ask.
And she knows that Dad hears it because he looks very grave as he comes over to sit on his own cot, hands folded between his knees.
“Do you think your mother and I did wrong? Coming here?” he asks.
“No. No, it’s not that.” Luna fiddles for a moment with the end of her braid. “I was just curious about how you decided to.”
Dad is quiet for several moments, watching a spider stroll across the stone floor. Luna knows that this is just what Dad does when he thinks, so she waits patiently.
“I suppose we did the best thing we could think to do,” he says at last. “Those were dangerous times. Your mother and I…neither of us were what you would call fighters. We might even have made a true mess of it if we tried. We were starting a family, and we wanted to keep that family safe.” Dad flashes a brief, affectionate smile at Luna. “We felt that we were doing the right thing, coming here. I still feel that we did.”
Luna nods. The right thing. Right or easy? Easy or right? It should be such a simple thing to figure out, and yet it’s very knotty when you take a good close look.
“If things get that bad again, will we come back here? That seems to be what Mr. Cook was saying.”
“I don’t know, Luna. What do you think?”
This time, it’s Dad who sits quietly and waits for her to think.
“I don’t think we can,” she says at last.
“And why is that?”
“The Quibbler,” she replies. Dad raises his eyebrows. “If the Ministry won’t even admit to snorkacks, I can only imagine they won’t admit to You-Know-Who being back. And if no one else will tell the truth, we’ll have to.”
Luna can’t quite define the look Dad is giving her, but he is smiling. “Yes. I suppose we will have to,” he says.
And they will, Luna has no doubt.
Because that is the right thing to do.