Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling, therefore I do not rightfully own the whole Harry Potter theme-thing…got that sorted out?

Good.

Chapter 2 – Mel says No

The confrontation was still young in Mel's mind. Upon reflection he came to admire the past scene.

A droppeth of rain from the heavens; he thought. A droppeth true blue, honest. Mel was, of course, ignoring the fact blue rain was a child's production under conditions enforced by state schooling.

But, regardless of the source, it was lending a smile on his feet, and he managed to bend his pride so much, as to do a shuffle-skip at his mother's front door.

The door opened.

"Mother!"

Osteoporosis was riding her shoulders hard. Like a lunatic cowboy drunk on Texan red fever it bucked and screamed on her wispy tendons, bending her into a permanent prostrating position.

"Oh, Melvin." She said meekly, slapping the cowboy on her back, she never liked bowing to her son.

"It has been a long time." Mel beamed.

"Yes. Yes it has. And what a time for you to chose."

"Eh?"

"Quick, get inside."

With strength that seemed to come from a concealed pocket she knotted her fist into his flannel shirt and dragged him inside.

Mel straightened himself, somewhat taken back. His mother pulled a pocket watch from her pocket, tapping it with an ivory wand she clucked.

"Exposure, Mel… oh dear."

"Exposure?"

"Yes! And a good 20 seconds. Can't hurt you think, but how long does it take for the wrong eyes to lap up their future feast. Oh yes, exposure."

"You mean, you haven't been out, haven't – exposed – yourself in…"

"…it's been about a month."

"Hmm." Mel said in a somewhat reflective pitch. He looked down on his tiny mother like an unsure professor confused as to what he should name his new chemical formula.

Mother piled on another shawl and retreated to her bunker kitchen loaded with popping plants, gummy acid drops, dancing knives and toxic bubble detergent.

"You'll need provisions."

Mother knew best.

"Just tea." Mel said taking in the kitchen's wartime renovations.

"Tea?!"

Mother roared a mountainous laugh, which spewed from her belly and shook her gappy teeth.

"Don't be so patronising mother, tea please."

"Tea is a luxury my boy. We are in war."

"No where are not."

Mother paused, licked lips.

"And as we're in a war, provisions must be sufficient, not luxurious or abundant… but sufficient. Tea… hawhawhaw!"

Mel rolled his eyes. "I really don't believe this."

Mother recovered from her belly-shaking laugh and patted her rollers self-consciously. She pulled out broth-in-a-can (whatever that is) and after giving up on a trek to recover a tin opener, tore the aluminium seals off with her wand.

A soft plop and she was opposite Mel at the table.

"So tell, tell… what's been happening?" She said in a pitiful, senile way.

"Well Dad's gone mad after Ronny ran off to Pakistan, Ronny said something about a dowry…"
"No, no, family stuff.. pfftt! Trivial! We must put it aside, tell me about the war. Have our troops reached the front yet?"

"Mum, there's no front."

"Well there's something new! A war without a front?! Guess all that development's made it more guerrilla style, I told Sybill to camouflage her greenhouse."

"Because that's sooo important." Mel yawned.

And so the evening continued like this, it really isn't worth recording. Mel wished he had the power of the writer and could skip ahead, but as laws go, until he reaches philosophical nirvana, Mel is stuck in his presence.

Dusk has driven past, purred to a stop, dumped dark velvet on the horizon, and chuttered off, tail gating the sun, honking its horn rudely.

"Move your fat arse!"

And the golden sun, so curvaceous and beautiful, but misread in this superficial world, weeps and hides in a dark mine.

Mel sat on a chair literally tucked between his wardrobe and his bed. The whole room seemed to mimic his actions. Indeed were a nano scientist to apply a heavy, wondrous microscope to the air, they would find the particles with a puzzled look upon their brows, a pondering pipe in their mouth and finger scratching their chin, it would be a break through.

But alas, science will have to wait.

Mel concluded at 4:26am that the events of the day, that being the absurd nature of his mother and his confrontation with his closest friends, should be treated very seriously. Furthermore, that he should act upon them.

Because?

Well, Mel didn't know why. Because and why have always been like equal signs, so demanding and always expecting the answer correct on their left (our right). Because and why belong in maths class, under cynical mathematicians who quote wisdom from a text book whose margins is full of old school logarithms.

Tut-tut! Says the all-knowing rebel in a year 10 uniform (back row of course).

And of course, Mel was in his old, childhood bedroom.

Not a maths class.

So he decided that, because and why should be left out. And maybe if he ever feels a geek nearby he'll ask him.

How Mel was going to act upon it was a difficult one. The obvious one is to know the truth, about everything. About he-who-must-not-name, about Harry Potter, about Dumbledore (bless him), about the buttons that burst from Aunt Marge's blouse.

But of course, the effort, would be extreme.

Mel paused in thought and looked back on his last thought (seen above) before he moved on (next stop no where). Was he being dismissive?

The crowd murmurs a united yes, but for some reason Mel says no.

Mel was undecided. Caught in cerebral netting. One thing he does manage to settle on is the need for a second party. The only sane one being, of course the man whose first name is Mad.

Mad Eye Moody, was what Mel scrawled on the top of his sheet. He chuckled, when was the last time he'd called him Alastor?

20 years ago?

Mel had a young ideology in him. He was proud of his unjaded soul, coincidently his skin contained a youthful glow – that of a happy 10 year old, some old farts wondered if naivety and skin-freshness were proportional.

Mad Eye Moody, (Mel repeated)

I know that considering your condition as an auror and darkness extinguisher, asking you for input is somewhat invalid.

But I'm caught up.

I will write down my beliefs first.

Mel's Beliefs:

Firstly I believe that there is never really an incident in which one side is 100 justified in carrying out actions.

(scratch that)

I mean, in a colour of an opinion or an idea there will always be a fleck or two of opposition. Nothing is ever one-minded.

Second, one that I think is accepted by most, but not understood very well: ignorance is a great evil. I feel that the essence of ignorance is one of the purest substance around, the only thing I've ever approached with a one-minded attitude.

Ignorance is bad, end of story.

Thirdly, looking at one and two, I can't help that this so called war against the dark side, against you-know-who, is slightly misrepresented by the press etc. There is plenty of fear around, which is not that great. I do reckon that you-know-who is a right tyrant and I hate and loathe his actions, but I can't help that feel, that every one else sees anything touched by the dark lord is contaminated, even, perhaps, Mr Potter to an extent.

This fear has gotten right into the people and the three people I've met today have gone all defensive or loony. Therefore have decided to do something about it, I'm not sure what…start up a completely new and unbiased paper? Please help out.

Not sure what action to take.

Yours truly,

Mel.

Mel folded the parchment evenly, lingering to fold the creases into tight, fine lines. He then spent a while looking over his letter, checking for errors, ink smudges. The reality was he was delaying time, procrastinating from the truth, he had no owl and had never mastered the art of letter teleportation.

The second heavy sigh of the day was released. Mel realised he'd has to ask his lunatic mother if he'd butchered the owl yet, something told him that would explain the extra padding of his quilt.

Suddenly, with a little pop, a little jay materialised beside him. With a tweet that said 'ta-dah!' he flourished his wings, pulled out a tiny twig-like wand and dismissed the comical trunk at his side.

It was the very same jay who had been dismissed by the crow above Mel's, She-Mel's and Jud's head that mid-day.

"Well hello, you look very familiar." Mel clucked affectionately daring to extend a finger. The Jay, turned its head and regarded the finger, then on a bizarre and sudden impulse, bit him.

"Bloody!"

Sorry, the Jay cooed.

"Sorry my butt!" Mel retorted. "Here, get off with you."

The jay had been terrified of being dismissed again, he'd only recently been to his mother's who had thrown him out.

The jay resorted to begging which embarrassed Mel greatly.

"Make it up for me then," he said with a shiver of enlightenment. "Deliver this to Mad-Eye-Moody." And picking up the letter, shoved it in the beak.

How am I meant to do that? The jay asked.

"Employ your bird tactics, interrogate a few pigeons and find Moody, then give it to him. It's urgent."

You make it sound so easy.

"That's because it is."

And with that Mel pushed the jay out of his window. He felt a little excited, to be consulting a dear friend and auror of his next actions, that would be considered outlandish, but in the name of justice.

He fell short of congratulating himself, and picked himself up. Breathing slowly and low, he calmed the nerves and condemned them to further restrictions by imprisoning them in sleep.

He slipped his socked feet under the sheets and pulled the fluffy, plump quilt to his shoulders, convinced it was dear old owl's feathers only a millimetre of cotton away.