Remember the Fifth of November

By Opopanax

Summary: Flash story. I believe it will explain itself.

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"Are you ready?" Inquired the tall woman, entering an immaculately neat kitchen.

"Yes, I believe we are," grinned a man with a walrus moustache, looking up from the kitchen table, where he was working. A bundle of rags lay in front of him on the otherwise bare tabletop; he was just applying the last bands of sticky tape around them.

"Becky Farmington just called. They're gathering now."

"Excellent," said the man with the moustache, rubbing his hands together and rising from his seat at the table.

"I'll grab Dudley, and we'll head out," said the tall woman, spinning on her heel and leaving the kitchen, a spring in her step. A small part of her regretted what was about to happen, but it was lost beneath the pleasure. And the sense of righteousness.

Three minutes later she returned to the kitchen, a baby boy in a sling strapped to her chest. Her husband had the bundle of rags in a canvas bag, not wanting to carry it in his hands. He was afraid he'd never feel clean again if he did that.

"Let's go," said the tall woman. "Time we got this over with."

The couple pulled on warm jackets and swaddled their son, Dudley, in a thick powder-blue blanket. Then, they left the house and joined the procession of Privet Drive residents heading for the field off Magnolia Crescent."

"Evening, Petunia, Vernon," said a thin, hawk-faced man, falling into step with the couple. "Nice night for a bonfire, isn't it?"

"Absolutely, Mr Grunning, sir," said Vernon. In spite of the cool night, sweat broke out on the back of Vernon's neck. Talking to those above him in both stature and position tended to intimidate him.

"By the way, nice work on the Cooper deal last week," said Mr Grunning. "Off the record, I think there might be a bonus coming up for you."

"That ... That's great news," said Vernon, smiling through his nerves.

"Remember, mum's the word," said Mr Grunning, winking. "Well, must be off. Enjoy the fire, you two." He nodded at them and hurried to catch up with a small group of business-suited men ahead of Vernon and Petunia.

Five minutes later the group of Little Whinging residents arrived at the bare field, where the foundations of the bonfire had already been laid. Most of them were clutching effigies, or bundles of rags. In the distance, firecrackers could be heard, their flat bangs muffled into unimportance by distance.

A festive atmosphere evaded the gathering. School-age children darted here and there through the throng, laughing and setting off ladyfinger firecrackers and sparklers.

Finally, someone tossed a match onto the bonfire, which flared up with a whoosh, a wave of heat, and a strong odor of petrol. Once it was going well, people started tossing scarecrows and effigies onto it.

"Now or never, Vernon," said Petunia in a low voice. "Do it."

Vernon nodded wordlessly and reached into his sack. Grimmacing as though handling a ripped bag of used diapers, he pulled out the sealed bundle of rags. He headed for the fire, sweating in the heat, carrying his bundle. The collection of rags was not heavy, but he felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds. Despite his conviction, he could not help but wonder if he was doing the right thing.

"Do it, Vernon," hissed Petunia behind him, as though she was reading his mind. "You know it's the only way."

Vernon nodded again and, without pausing to think about it any further, tossed the pile of rags onto the fire with the rest of them.

The fire flared up even more brightly than ever as Vernon's bundle hit it, sending sheets of corruscating colors into the air. Reds, blues, sickly green, bright orange. The gathered residents cheered and clapped as the flames leapt for the sky. The flashing colors on view did not startle them; it was attributed to someone tossing crystals into the fire-a not uncommon occurrence.

Someone set off a series of loud firecrackers not far away. So only Vernon and Petunia heard the faint cries from the fire as the bundle burned. And because everyone was watching the colors in the sky and the lights of the firecrackers, only Vernon saw the tiny, blackened hand, waving for help in the flames, before being stilled forever.

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November!" Chanted the crowd. And as Vernon Dursley's eyes fixed upon the spot in the fire where he had last seen that tiny, flailing hand, he thought it would be a night he never would forget, no matter how much he wanted to do so.