Welcome back to the Chateau Brockelhurst. Don't mind if nothing's changed.

Outside the brown stone wall, an enchanted car drives up to the gate. It's a Bentley. It can drive through things as if they weren't there; things that would dent, or otherwise wreck, Muggle cars. It can also become invisible.

It's got chrome silver hubcaps, and whitewalls. The paint is dark green, and sparkly.

It parks just outside the gate. The license plate says GOYLE.

Atop the gate arch, the bronze eagle sculpture comes to life. It looks down at the guest. Its eyes narrow, as it spreads its wings, and shrieks, at the strange-looking visitor.

Pierre Goyle, who lives in the Chateau Goyle just across the field from the Chateau Brockelhurst, dismounts the car. The car fades from sight, as soon as he does.

He stops, in the mud just outside the wall. A tabby Kneazel comes out, and starts rubbing in figure eights around Mr. Goyle's ankles.

Pierre nods up at the sculpture, guarding the gate. "You might not remember me, but you know me. I'm your host's neighbor. I've wronged her, but I'm here to endeavor to redeem myself."

Without another movement, the sculpture reverts to its "still" posture. Below him, the bronze gate becomes semi-visible.

Pierre nods up, and walks through the gate as if it weren't there. At full tangibility, and visibility, the Bentley follows, on its own. Behind them, the gate re-materializes, securing itself.

Inside the chateau, Ms. Brockelhurst wanders here and there, adding new abilities to certain inanimate objects. She tries not to get carried away...but sometimes she just can't help herself. Many of her possessions have gone rogue, because of her efforts to over-enhance them.

On the floor, a house-elf teleports into view. "We have a guest," he says, before teleporting away.

Eyes narrowed with curiosity, Lady Brockelhurst peels open the blinds in an upstairs window, and looks down. She sees Lord Goyle approaching, with his car behind him. Now her eyes are narrowed with confusion. Even so, she conjures her wand, and teleports downstairs.

As Lord Goyle reaches for the knocker, the front door opens itself. Below, the mat just inside the door embroiders the words COME IN into itself.

Lord Goyle shrugs, and does what the mat says. Behind him, the door closes, and locks itself.

A brass Gatling gun appears out of nowhere, and points itself at Lord Goyle. Terrified, Lord Goyle raises his arms...

A pair of bewitched hooks creep up behind Goyle, and remove his coat from his shoulders. A hanger levitates, and the hooks rest the coat on the hanger. The Gatling gun vanishes. The closet door opens, and receives Lord Goyle's coat, as the hanger brings it.

Lady Brockelhurst attends to him, laughing. "I say, the Gatling gun gets EVERYONE every time! Come in, Lord Goyle. Long haven't you shown your face."

"I never long to disrespect you, my Lady."

"I now no longer know what I find more disrespecting: your prolonged absence, or your regard, or lack thereof, of my sentiments concerning visitation."

"I can't read your mind, my Lady. But I can read your sentiments...and they confuse me more, I think."

She whirls, and gives him a stern look. He freezes, expecting harsh judgment...

Behind her, an army of household objects assemble. Lord Goyle tenses up, when the kitchen knives join the self-arming assembly. They're all aimed at Lord Goyle, past their master. Some of the house-elves appear, and appear armed with their own magic...which, in many ways, outranks a witch's.

Lord Goyle stands, tensed up. He isn't sure what to expect from his often-crazy-yet-always-gorgeous neighbor...

She sighs, and calms down. "Sorry," she apologizes. "I've no right to retaliate against that. Please, come into the sitting room."

Lord Goyle sits in the sitting room, and waits. In the fat armchair next to him, a throw rug weaves itself.

Dreamcatchers hang from the ceiling, and curtain rods. Deviously, they often reveal a common vision...of Lord Goyle and Lady Brockelhurst standing together at an altar, at the Ministry of Magic. Lady Brockelhurst is in a wedding dress...if that's even possible.

In a cage, a blue macaw cackles. "Husband on the hunt," he says.

"Fuck off," Lord Goyle mutters.

A wooden tray, arrayed with a pot of tea and cups, levitates in and sets itself down on the coffee table. The pot levitates, and fills a cup for Lord Goyle…

Lady Brockelhurst comes in, and sits near Lord Goyle. "Did you say something, Lord Goyle?"

"Oh, uh," Lord Goyle looks around. "I said that, uh, it's sad to think that this interior décor...couldn't amuse a Romanov."

She narrows her eyes, taking her own teacup. "What's a Romanov?"

He scoffs, taking his. "It's a Muggle thing. The Romanovs were once the royal family of Russia."

"Are they not still?" She sips her tea.

He scoffs again. "Uh...no. They were usurped in 1917, by a communist regime."

"What's a communist?"

He scoffs again. She's almost causing him to lose his patience. "A communist is someone who believes that money, government, and social classes are all evil. Anyway, they ruled Russia for over sixty years after that."

"Sounds horrible." She sips her tea. "What happened next?"

He sighs. This woman is hopeless...even if she is a noble witch. "The communists gave up on their mission, and money, class, and government came back to Russia...although technically, they didn't actually leave. You see, as well as communism means, it doesn't actually have a mechanism that keeps the strong from dominating the weak..."

"This is all stimulating." She sets her teacup down. The pot fills it for her. "But I'm pretty sure you didn't come here to give me a Muggle history lesson. I know you hate Muggles."

"Well, I don't hate EVERYTHING about them. As weak as they are, it often intrigues me as to how they rule themselves without magic. And I've always found the Russian Muggles particularly interesting..."

Her icy stare is unyielding, as she takes in her next tea.

He sighs. "Alright; I did it."

"Did what?"

"Lady Brockelhurst...I don't know how to tell you this, but... My Kneazel killed your sparrowhawk."

She spits out a lot of her tea, as she hears this. From another room, an air force of tissues come to life, float into the room, and wipe Lord Goyle down, as he explains.

"I know how sad you've been about him lately," he tells her. "I just couldn't stop wondering if it might've been my fault..."

"How could you know?! You NEVER come to visit!"

"Well," he shrugs; the tissues hardly struggle to keep up with his gestures, as they wipe them down, "YOU haven't exactly been geographically accommodating either, if I daresay so!"

Her icy stare is unyielding; only this time, she's not drinking the tea.

He sighs. "Okay, fine, I don't daresay so, if that's what you prefer. Anyway, I did legilimency on my Kneazel. He did, in fact, have a memory of killing your sparrowhawk. I'm sure he was just confused, but..." He scoots forward, in his seat. "I'd like to try to replace your sparrowhawk, if you'll have me."

Her stare is unyielding...only more confused this time around.

"I euthanized the Kneazel, if that makes you feel any better. And hopefully, you feel less compelled to kill mine, now that...I already have. Do you not?"

Her stare is unyielding. Lord Goyle knows how she feels...but he's not sure how to accommodate for it.

"Uh," he pulls out a bag of coins. "How much did that sparrowhawk cost?"

"Forget it," she says stonily. "We've already got more pets than we need."

"O, please let me make it up to you! Look, you and your daughters can come out to my castle sometime, if you like. I know how much you miss me. Or hey, we could even go out, or come here, or... Or it could just be the two of us, and not your daughters, hell, that'd be even better..."

Her stare is unyielding.

"I mean no, it wouldn't be BETTER, I'm sure your daughters are good girls, and I'd hate to... I mean it WOULD, but..." He sighs. "Please?"

She nods her head...but not with certainty.

He sighs, and stands. "Look, I've already bothered you enough. This just wouldn't leave me alone, and... I know how much you loved that little sparrowhawk."

She takes another cup of tea, when it offers itself to her. "You still haven't told me how you know."

"Know what?"

She stares up at him...the same unfair, indecipherable way. "How I feel? You're always gone. How is that even fucking possible?!"

He sighs. "I think I should just go now." He looks around. "I like what you've done with the place. Thanks for the tea, BTW."

"I haven't done anything with this place. It's been this way since I moved in."

"Really?!" He laughs, and looks around. "I wouldn't know."

"No." She stares into space, and sips her tea. "You wouldn't."

From the closet, the hanger brings back his coat. He takes it back on, and teleports outside, back into his Bentley.

In his re-growing absence, Lady Brockelhurst puts down her teacup, and passes out, sprawling all over the boho chic sofa. THAT was SO intense...

April, the green-eyed Cuckoo, creeps in. Around her neck, she wears a silver torc, that's shaped like a serpent posing to devour its emerald pendant. She leans against the back of the sofa. Her nails are polished dark green...like her eyes.

"What happened, Mum? He seems like he likes you."

Lady Brockelhurst screams, as she sits up. Startled, April leaps back.

"Where am I?! Who am I?! What town is this?! Who's the fucking Minister of Magic?!"

"Relax, Mum. Just tell me what to..."

She leaps up, and runs upstairs, to the top of the keep. April sighs, and flaps her long straight blonde hair.

May, one of her blue-eyed triplets, comes in, and attends to her. She seems confused, too. April fills her in...as little and indecipherable though it is.

"She's going to kill us, trying to help us evolve," May asks, "isn't she?"

April shrugs. "What she goes through might be more advanced than common wizardry, or even primitive wizardry" she admits, "but it sure as hell isn't evolution."