“HOW DID HE GET IN HERE AGAIN!?”
The pale blond man retained the sinewy athleticism of his school days, if not the strength. As they would all recall later, it hadn’t mattered. Familial indignation and outrage powered him out of the chair at maximum speed and towards the interloper.
“Vous êtes déraisonnable! [You’re being unreasonable!]” the stunning young woman screamed at him through her tears, awkwardly trying to defend her love.
“I BLOODY WELL WON'T HAVE HIM HERE!!” her father screamed.
“Mum, s’il vous plaît! [Mum, please!]” came the plea in “Frenglish”, that odd mixture of both languages she adopted when angry or anxious.
“Calm down and sit down, sweetheart. He’s here to discuss the situ—”
The sound of fist in face — accompanied by a satisfied smirk on the older man’s features — propelled the women to the fallen youth’s side.
“Il saigne! Regarde ce que tu a fait! [He’s BLEEDING! Look what you DID!?] Baby, are you okay?”
From the floor, the young man's eyes tracked invisible birds flying a pretzel pattern in his semi-conscious vision.
“‘m fine, sweetheart,” came in a sing-song manner, like the host of a television programme for very young children.
“You’re being a HYPOCRITE. We’re no different than you and Mum!”
“She has a point...”
This reminder from his mate landed like a cannonball in his chest.
“I BEG TO DIFFER, YOUNG LADY!!”
“Why don’t I get the pensieve and we can all see how things progressed to this point. Is that reasonable?” the older woman suggested, the only rational mind in the room right now.
The older magic wielder growled and grumbled while his own lover slooooowly embraced him. As had happened for years, her touch acted as a soporific.
“FINE! We’ll see the truth and then I’ll HEX HIS BOLLOCKS OFF!!”
“I’ll get the — no, no! Rest yourself, love. I’ll get the pensieve. You two get started filling those vials,” the still beautiful witch instructed as empty vials materialized on the kitchen table. Filled vials floated in batches from their storage place in the attic.
“What now, witch?” the handsome aristocrat barked back at his wife without justification.
“Leave the child be. Wouldn’t want the poor boy to lose his bits prematurely.”
“Spoilsport…” the aggrieved family head muttered under his breath.
Minutes later the movie of their lives together and apart played out.
“Memory Lane” had more than a few cracks, crevices and craters along the way…