Felix Felicis was, by every account, one of the most perilous potions ever conceived.
Its brewing required absolute precision; every second, every stir, every shift in temperature mattered. A single mistake could turn liquid fortune into lethal poison.
Even for the most accomplished Potion Masters, the process demanded half a year of patient tending, with each stage aligned to the cycle of the moon.
Few dared to attempt it.
Although Sylas possessed Professor Snape's annotated notes, his own potion-craft had not yet reached the level of a true master.
He could only bridge that gap through his enchanted Crown of Wisdom, a relic that amplified intellect and perception, but even that could not guarantee success.
What troubled him even more than skill were the ingredients.
Many of them simply did not exist in Middle-earth.
Sylas ran his finger down Snape's list, muttering aloud.
"Two pints of Mandrake extract, one pint of lemon juice, ten Ashwinder eggshells, seven drops of undiluted Acromantula venom, six Fire Salamander eggs, twenty-three fresh amaranth petals, one inch of Unicorn horn, and one drop of blood willingly given by a Unicorn."
Some were manageable. Mandrake, lemon juice, and amaranth he already had.
Ashwinder eggshells and Fire Salamander eggs could be replaced by fire snake eggs and Fire Salamanders cultivated with Balrog blood.
Acromantula venom was readily available from his own colony.
But the last two ingredients…
Unicorn horn and Unicorn blood were impossible.
There were no Unicorns in Middle-earth. Not in the forests of Lórien, nor in the hidden groves of Fangorn.
"Am I supposed to conjure a Unicorn out of thin air?" Sylas muttered.
He waved his wand irritably toward the castle stables.
A nearby horse shimmered and changed. Its mane turned white as snow, and a long, spiraled horn grew from its brow.
It looked perfect, but when Sylas placed his hand on its neck, he felt no trace of magic, only the frightened heartbeat of an ordinary horse.
"This won't do," he sighed, dispelling the illusion. The horn vanished, and the horse snorted before trotting away, thoroughly unimpressed by its brief transformation.
Returning to his study, Sylas reopened Snape's old potion journal.
The yellowed pages still smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, each line written in Snape's sharp, slanted handwriting.
Snape had once brewed Felix Felicis himself, long before Voldemort's fall, hoping to save Lily Potter from the Dark Lord's pursuit.
He had given the potion to her in secret, praying she would use it to escape. But Lily, trusting the Fidelius Charm, passed it to another member of the Order instead.
When betrayal came, and Voldemort found them, she chose sacrifice over survival. Her act of love rebounded the Killing Curse, creating the Boy Who Lived and sealing Snape's lifelong grief.
After that night, Snape never brewed Felix Felicis again.
In the margins of his notes, he had written:
"Luck is but the illusion of control. Even the purest potion cannot alter destiny, only delay it."
Still, his notes were exhaustive. He had refined each step, annotated every reaction, and explained the purpose of each ingredient in precise detail.
Sylas studied Snape's reasoning carefully.
"The Unicorn horn stabilizes the potion and neutralizes toxicity. The willingly given blood purifies the magical flow and prevents corruption."
He leaned back in his chair, frowning.
He needed something that could do both, stabilize and purify magic, yet no such creature existed here.
He paced the room, thinking aloud.
"What in Arda could match the purity of a Unicorn?"
He knew of dragons, balrogs, eagles, and maiar, but none possessed that sacred gentleness that cleansed rather than corrupted.
When in doubt, consult your elders.
Without delay, Sylas traveled to Rivendell to seek Elrond, the wisest healer and alchemist of Middle-earth.
Elrond listened quietly as Sylas explained his dilemma.
The Elf-lord's expression was calm, touched with curiosity and mild surprise, though he was no longer easily startled by Sylas's ambitions.
After a long silence, Elrond finally said,
"Such ingredients are indeed rare. But there is one thing that might suffice."
His eyes grew distant as though gazing through time.
"The Araw Cattle of the eastern lands of Rhûn are descended from Oromë the Hunter's divine herd. Their white horns are blessed with purity and balance. They possess remarkable magical stability and can neutralize poison. You may find them a fitting substitute for the Unicorn."
Sylas's eyes lit up in astonishment.
"The Araw Cattle… I've seen one before. The Blue Wizard Rómestámo's mount was one of them."
He had never imagined that its horns carried divine properties.
Quickly, Sylas reached into his spatial pouch and drew out a long, polished horn bound with gold.
"Lord Elrond, is this Horn of Victory also made from Araw Cattle horn?"
Elrond took the Horn of Victory, and his eyes lit up with recognition. He smiled faintly and said,
"This is not just an Araw Cattle horn, but the horn of the closest descendant of Oromë's divine herd. It is a relic of the Elder Days, and such creatures no longer exist in Middle-earth. You might still find them only in the Blessed Realm of the West."
He paused for a moment, then continued with quiet gravity.
"If you intend to use it as an ingredient for Felix Felicis, I do not recommend it. It would be excessive. An ordinary Araw Cattle horn would suffice."
Sylas naturally understood.
The Horn of Victory had played an extraordinary role in the Battle of Isengard, and it was one of the greatest treasures in his collection. It had proved invaluable as an auxiliary artifact in war, amplifying courage and magical resonance across armies.
Destroying such an artifact merely to brew a potion was unthinkable.
He respectfully placed the horn back into his spatial pouch.
Elrond then turned thoughtful once more.
"As for an ingredient with purifying properties that can enhance magical purity…" He hesitated, his expression clouded with old memory. "You may not know this, but the blood of the Elves possesses such power."
Sylas was startled. "Elf blood?"
Elrond nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting both sorrow and wisdom.
"Elves, the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, were gifted eternal life, and that immortality once inspired envy among some of the Secondborn. In the dark years of Arda, certain men, seduced by malice and despair, raised their swords against the Elves. They sought to unravel the secret of immortality, even resorting to drinking Elven blood in the belief that it would grant them eternal life."
He shook his head with quiet disdain.
"But their efforts were in vain. Those who defiled themselves with Elf blood were cursed, tormented by pain and remorse until death released them. None gained what they sought."
Sylas listened intently, surprised by the tragic history.
Elrond's gaze turned distant, as if recalling ancient ages.
"Not all Elven blood holds such purity," he continued. "Only the Light Elves who have bathed in the light of the Two Trees possess the most sacred essence. If you wish to find blood that can purify magic, you must obtain it willingly from one of the Calaquendi, the Elves of Light."
Now Sylas understood why Elrond had hesitated earlier.
Those who had once beheld the light of the Two Trees were exceedingly rare in Middle-earth. Only two names came to mind: Lady Galadriel, the Lady of Lothlórien, and Glorfindel, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, who dwelled in Rivendell.
Elf blood was sacred among their kind. No Elf would part with it lightly.
Moreover, if such blood fell into the wrong hands, it could become the source of terrible corruption through dark rituals.
Sylas knew that if he asked Galadriel, she would not refuse him. She had aided him many times before, and as Arwen's grandmother, her goodwill toward him was boundless. But he did not wish to seem greedy or ungrateful.
So he decided to turn to Glorfindel instead.
When Sylas entered Rivendell's great library, he found Glorfindel seated beneath the tall windows, bathed in shafts of soft morning light.
The Elf's long golden hair shimmered like spun sunlight, filling the library with a quiet brilliance. Even the parchments and scrolls around him seemed brighter under his presence.
Glorfindel looked up from his book, his eyes calm and radiant."Are you seeking me, Wizard Sylas?" he asked in his clear, melodic voice.
Sylas bowed respectfully. "Forgive my intrusion, Lord Glorfindel."
Without preamble, he explained his purpose, his tone earnest and direct.
When Glorfindel heard that Sylas sought a drop of his blood, the Elf's expression remained composed and unreadable.
Just as Sylas began to worry that Glorfindel would refuse, the Elf-lord unexpectedly nodded.
"Yes."
Sylas blinked, stunned. "What?"
"I agree," Glorfindel said with a faint smile. "And I must admit, I am curious to see what this luck-bestowing potion of yours will be like. When you finish brewing it, remember to share some with me."
For a moment Sylas could only stare in disbelief before joy broke across his face. He quickly bowed his head.
"Thank you, Lord Glorfindel. I promise that once Felix Felicis is complete, I will personally bring you a bottle."
From his pocket he took out a small vial filled with a ruby-red liquid and placed it before the Elf.
"Lord Glorfindel, this is the Elixir of Life I brewed. It can not only extend life but also restore vitality. Even one at the brink of death can recover if there is still a single breath remaining. I have nothing finer to offer, so please accept this as my token of gratitude."
Glorfindel picked up the vial, turning it toward the light.
"The Elixir of Life you created with the Philosopher's Stone?" he asked with clear admiration. "I can sense an immortal essence within it. Remarkable work, truly."
He smiled warmly. "Such a gift should not be refused. Very well, I accept."
"Then please, bring the bottle," Sylas said, his voice filled with anticipation.
He set an empty crystal flask upon the table. Glorfindel drew a slender, ornate dagger from his belt, its edge glimmering faintly with sacred light. Without hesitation, he cut his fingertip and held it above the flask.
Pale red blood fell drop by drop, one, two, three.
"Enough, enough! One drop is sufficient!" Sylas exclaimed quickly.
But Glorfindel's hand moved with quiet precision, ignoring his protest. Ten perfect drops fell before the Elf allowed the wound to close. The cut healed at once, leaving no scar.
He handed the flask to Sylas with an easy smile. "If it proves insufficient, tell me. I can always give more."
Sylas accepted the vial reverently, the faint golden shimmer within the blood pulsing with a rhythm that felt alive. It was as if the light of the Two Trees themselves still lingered in those drops.
"Thank you, Lord Glorfindel," he said softly. "I will not waste a single drop."
Glorfindel inclined his head. "May your work bring fortune rather than folly."
With that blessing, Sylas departed from Rivendell, preparing to journey eastward to acquire the Araw Cattle horn.
But before he could leave, Arwen awaited him in the courtyard, her eyes bright with quiet joy.
"Sylas," she said gently, holding a folded bundle of black cloth in her hands, "your Invisibility Cloak is ready."
...
Stones PLzzz
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