It's a dark and cloudy night over Cornwall. Off the coasts, there's a North Atlantic storm brewing...and that spells ill for most Muggles unlucky enough to be caught outside in times like this.

Alas, a veil forms a dome around a piece of the Cornish countryside. Pass through it (you're not likely to, if you're a Muggle), and what's over there is very phenomenal.

In here, the sun shines. The grass glitters like emeralds. Small groups of unicorns run and graze. There's always a rainbow in the sky, and it hovers abroad, like the Gateway Arch.

Here and there, a blue and hideous Cornish pixie flies. A brown raptor swoops, bares its talons, catches each pixie, and flies back to its roost. Every other raptor tries to eat their catch, while still flying...usually crashing into the top of a tree, as a result...

In the gardens, there are flowers. Most are blue, lavender, pink, yellow, or white.

Welcome to the Chateau Brockelhurst. It's a magical place. Hasn't always been, but... Most Brockelhursts get sorted into Hufflepuff at Hogwarts.

The castle's stonework is brown. France has influenced much of its design...Gothic France has, in some spots.

Atop its towers, there are many wind vanes. There are also anemometers.

In the water features, there are lotus blossoms. Beneath, blue and brown cichlids swim.

The sculptures here are enchanted. There's a bronze sculpture of a raptor, at the front archway, that comes to life and attacks intruders, whenever the need arises. And as many stalkers as this reincarnation of the Brockelhurst family has, those stalkers are mostly male, and mostly frequent.

It isn't just the sculptures. Some of the vines are enchanted. In fact, there are mass graves of gnomes all over the gardens...courtesy of the vines fashioning themselves like hangman's nooses, creeping up on gnomes and hanging them, each time they fall too much in love with their chances...

The roosters on the wind vanes are enchanted, too. They're made of bronze...but each morning, as they're bewitched too, they crow...just as a Muggle rooster would anywhere else in Britain.

Upstairs, in a tower, these chambers have some stunning interior décor. They took many a mind to fashion...even if it is just boho chic.

There are pinks, and lavenders. Tapestries, rugs, pillows, throws, brown furs, and bronze and sapphire jewelry are cast about, here and there. They rise, levitate, and float around, whenever they're needed. Many things here scream tribal Gaul. Whoever decorated this room had ZERO sense of law and order. And hence, the Ministry of Magic has visited this chateau many times...if not these chambers.

Although, there was this Auror, once, who... Never mind.

Nearer a corner, there are three four-poster beds. Boho chic throws and brown furs are piled all over them. They're not alone...

Aloft, a bronze weather vane crows. It is time...

From one of the piles, a bare leg protrudes. Some of them fall off the bed. The leg extends and flexes itself, several times, showing off. In the other beds, a matching leg surfaces from their respective piles, and does the same...

Each leg's owner is white. Each leg's owner is a mostly-pureblood witch...

All around them, the throws and furs rise. They circle their owners, like tornados of levitation. They're certainly slower than actual tornadoes.

They settle down, all over the place. Now, their owners are more visible. They're triplets, and they're all blonde, with varying hair lengths and styles. Unlike Fred and George Weasley, they just HATE being mistaken for each other. They call themselves the Brockelhurst Cuckoos.

Right on cue, a cuckoo clock in the hall "coo-coos" the time. Ah, how the Cuckoos would sometimes love to shut that awful noise off...

They all wear white lingerie. One at a time, they cast spells, and summon their unicorn hair-cored wands. With another spell, they dress themselves more decently...not that they don't like the feel of being lingerie-clad in the morning. They each dress commonly, and boho chic-like.

One of their dresses is throw-like. Another's is white, and tribal. The third's is sky-blue, and streaming.

One bats a dream-catcher, hanging from the ceiling. It spins. When it stops, a scarf levitates, and "swims" through it, like an airborne eel.

The Cuckoos wander around their chambers, in bare feet, elaborating on their dawn chant. Their dawn chant is always their favorite...if not their most refined. But then, if chants were refined, then it'd be cool to be a nun, wouldn't it?

O, we are three, the Brockelhurst Cuckoos,

We are wild, but we are good

Once, we were five

But our late sisters, Martha and Julia, died in childbirth

We live to do our matriline proud

Or rather, what's only recently become of it

Before, we were just another Dark Ages witch family

No one would've known us from a Weasley

We've been reborn as Ravenclaws

From a witch who we owe our origins to

The lady of this chateau

One day, we will succeed her

We'd rather not anticipate that,

We love boys more

Little good that ever does us,

But hey! What would Rowena do?

Outside of our estate's border enchantments,

The Muggle Cornish race is dying

The Cornish language becomes a relic

Some of our spells have roots in Cornish,

But many have been replaced

They probably all will, in do time

Ah, how the Celts have suffered...

In France, our Breton neighbors forget the Breton language

In favor of the French one

Ordinarily, anyone else would care,

But look us in the eye

And tell us you don't prefer French over Breton...

Muggles' problems are not our concern

If they ever were, they'd enslave us

Merlin knows how they'd pull that off,

Then again, who would've expected humanity to dominate mutants

In the X-Men comics of the Muggle world?

Best we stay secret

Ah, but how we Ravenclaws stumble with that

We'd rather talk our airheads off

A bit of a misnomer,

Considering that most Ravenclaws are brilliant

We don't all turn out good

In fact, half of us probably go bad

Our record is only beat by Slytherin,

Who mostly goes bad

Only one of us was in Slytherin;

April, here

The green-eyed one

Brilliant, we are, here in Ravenclaw

But the thing that really helps us stand out

As a house and as an institution

Is our beauty

We're virtually the nobility of child British wizardry

All wizards want a wife like us

Few ever win one

Crying shame; we always want them

Unless they're hideous, or badly behaved, or treacherous

Not that we can argue; treachery IS Ravenclaw

Dark wizards only recruit our men

But only to bully them

For once, we Ravenclaw women

Wish our beauty could help us, and them, there

Most of our own men are more charming

Than the men of other houses

But as the egalitarian sort,

We often feel we must give ALL sorts a chance...

We can't be blamed for settling for just one

Even in wizardry

We must maintain monogamy

Muggles see us as dark

Doesn't mean we have to be...

Or, DO we?

Our mother created us

Not just to make us gorgeous

But to help British wizardry evolve

Mum's into eugenics

Like you wouldn't believe

And we're the products of said eugenics

Proud? We're not sure yet...

She's worried if we get so much as scratched,

We'll become the next LeStrange

We think she's being paranoid

But then, most Ravenclaws just are

Ah, how Slytherin would profit from us

If Mum made more like us

We'd rather she didn't

We don't really want more siblings

It's an exciting prospect,

But it does have its disadvantages

We're not old, but we've lived enough

We've suffered, because of those disadvantages

If Mum thinks she's reproducing again,

She's crazier than we are

Her uterus can't possibly stand the strain

She'd be better off creating more of us in cauldrons

I'm sure Slytherin wouldn't mind donating a few to her cause

We think it might be our cause too,

But it's hard to make up our minds

We have no idea how Mum did it;

Making up one's mind isn't exactly easy-peasy

And it isn't lemon-squeezy, we know that;

We can do that WITHOUT a strong will

Hell, we can enchant the lemon to squeeze itself

We do that all the time

While fixing our own tea

Alas, we shouldn't have to

Because that's what house-elves are for...

At this moment, the family house-elf teleports into view. She serves the Cuckoos their morning lemon tea, and vanishes.

Simultaneously, they drink their tea. They lower their cups, and sigh happily, in three-part harmony... And, they return to chanting.

Little good, this indecision does us

There are Slytherin boys lining up for us

We think they're pathetic,

But not in an all-out rejecting kind of way

Alas, some of them have gone to Azkaban since last we talked

But hopefully, they didn't get a life sentence

And if they did

We're still a stronghold of hope for them

When it comes to eugenics

They pride themselves in their purity

Genes; not heart

Heart does have to do with it,

But not as much as they can prove

So they turn it around

And try to focus on genetics

Little good that did Salazar Slytherin

When he tried to reduce Hogwarts's enrollment

It's whitefolk like us

That the rest of the world envies

Being witches can only make them love us more

If only they didn't all see witches

As degenerate abominations

They probably don't anymore

Thanks to Charmed and Sabrina the Teenage Witch

Just to name two

O, must we breed the best of us?

Are we even premium?

The world would say so

The heart would say itself...

But damn, don't women need men?

Our men are charming,

But Slytherin's are burly

And secretive

And mysterious

And look good in black...although not all are fat...

We look good in black, too

But we prefer boho chic

And to unleash our inner Gaul

O, eugenics...

Must we doom ourselves to replicate ourselves?

Will we, as the wizard species

Not become more like that Muggle they call Pamela Anderson,

Or that other Muggle they call Britney Spears,

Or that other Muggle they once called Marilyn Monroe?

Must we doom our duplicates to the bimbo type?

Yes, they're pretty,

But must they be the future?

We know they'll be magic,

But that's no guarantor

Hell, some of them might be Squibs

O, eugenics...

Must we commit?

We suck at commitment

We don't exactly get passing marks at Hogwarts

Our only O was in Charms

April's only O was in Potions

Plus, we're more likely to get married

Than become professionals...

Then again, if our mother made us without a father,

Apparently there IS hope for being single...

O, how we hate to imagine,

But damn if life never turns out perfectly

O, eugenics...

Is this our life?

Is this our legacy?

Is joining Slytherin's pureblood-supremacy cause best for us?

In single file, they descend downstairs, still in bare feet. There's a full Cornish breakfast on the table, waiting for each of them. They surround the table, sit, and eat like noblewomen...as tempted as they are to eat like sows.

From the shadows, their mother, Palomino Brockelhurst, appears. She's virtually an exact clone of her daughters. Or rather, her daughters are clones of her...

She's a gorgeous witch, with blue eyes. Nobody believes she's still single.

O daughters, dear daughters, she chants,

How dare you doubt your destiny?

If not for us, British wizardry would erode to nothing

Cornwall already has

With her wand, Lady Brockelhurst petrifies a passing Cornish pixie, as she's chanting. It falls on the floor, motionless.

You are great queens of wizardry

You will out-evolve all other flunkies

You will shame Mudbloods

You will be an improvement on half-bloods

Even the Dark Lord had to fatigue

You'll beat Squibs

Although I can't promise that none of your duplicates

Or successors won't be Squibs...

But you will be pure

And you will be whole

Slytherin won't need no mail-order brides

Neither will other wizards

One way or another

We will replace all of wizardry

We will be angels on Earth

Happiness and fortune will, once again,

Become the dominant forces of nature

We will help it there

We will make many sacrifices

We will make many foes

We will burn many bridges

But with these assets

And these faces

And these ethics

And this purity

We WILL replace degenerate wizardry

One day, the Muggles will see us

As most people do Sabrina Spellman

As tiny and quirky though she was

You are too, now, my fine Cuckoos

But you've got your whole life to out-evolve your imperfections

And with luck, you won't shrink yourselves,

As Sabrina Spellman often did

The Cuckoos trade disgusted looks. Some still have food in their mouths.

"But you need not regard that, my Cuckoos. Please, eat..."

The Cuckoos shrug, and keep eating. Their mother smiles, scurries back into the shadows, and giggles, once she's out of earshot.

In her secret space, a white sparrowhawk lies dead, on a boho chic pillow. Once, it was Lady Brockelhurst's familiar. Alas, the cats and Kneazles from the chateau next door really like to hunt. Her fallen familiar has become one of their more recent victims...

In a darker chamber, shaded by dark blue tapestries, Lady Brockelhurst sits. She waves her hands before a crystal ball, before her. Inside, an opal-colored cloud generates light. As she clears her memory, her future, within the glass ball, becomes more apparent...

She sees the Himalayas. They're so majestic, from up here...

In an azalea forest within them, a blood pheasant forages. It's inspirational...and yet, not complete.

"No, no," she laments, waving her hands. "SURELY I can summon something better than that..."

She sees a flock of demoiselle cranes, ascending the height of Mt. Everest. There are too many; plus, she's never found the crane an attractive bird...

"Too many, and too dorky," she says. "I know you're there for a reason. What is it?"

She sees Dormammu, a devil from another world. He sits in a stairwell, glowing orange, pondering the great mysteries of his past failures...

"Better," she comments, "but not perfect. Is there no one smaller? Is there no one...easier to manipulate?"

She's looking at the top of a cliff, overlooking a set of huts, in a vale below. On a rock, a red falconet sits, perched...

"Getting better," she admits. "I think there's someone closer, though..."

That red falconet seems sure of himself. Alas, the same can't entirely be said for his falconer...