Chapter 126: Moonsoul Water, Not Over Yet
Inside the Forbidden Forest.
Aurelius appeared without a sound, and beside him stood a tall, silver-haired, silver-bearded old man in deep-purple pajamas and a matching nightcap.
In the next heartbeat, a burst of scarlet flame blossomed in midair.
Out of it swept a splendid crimson bird.
It circled once and glided to hover over the prone unicorn.
Drip. Drip.
Two clear, crystalline tears fell—one onto the unicorn's brow, one onto her belly.
"Fawkes?"
Recognizing the unmistakable phoenix, Leonardo and Newt both looked up—and saw Dumbledore standing beside Aurelius.
None of the three spoke. They only dipped their heads in silent greeting.
Leonardo and Newt bent again to the caesarean for Seleneia.
Dumbledore's eyes were grave. He spared a look for the strange creature at his side and swiftly absorbed what it had conveyed.
Being woken by an unknown being bursting into the Headmaster's office was startling enough for a man of his age.
The way it spoke to him—through that uncanny form of thought and image—was stranger still.
Yet, when he saw the permit he himself had once given Leonardo, he forced belief to settle.
The creature had whisked him from the castle like an Apparition—passing through Hogwarts' wards as freely as Fawkes, and faster.
Now he saw the creature's master—Leonardo—and an old friend of many years—Newt Scamander.
He knew he was not dreaming.
He strode to the mangled unicorn and drew a wand of curious shape—the Elder Wand.
Asterion, standing nearby, did not startle this time. Aurelius had already explained.
Spell after spell streamed from the wand's tip: some to gauge the unicorn's condition, some to clear interference from Leonardo and Newt's work.
Dumbledore read the situation at a glance and folded it together with Aurelius's account.
Light flowed in his bright blue eyes as he turned to the worktable crowded with reagents.
A tap of the wand—and extra ingredients shimmered into view.
He moved the Elder Wand in clean, sure arcs, sorting a blur of components into precise order.
He meant to brew a potion to purge the mare's poisons.
The compound toxin was intricate, but for Dumbledore—
He had no need of the title Potions Master. His honors were already weight enough.
The hardest point of the caesarean had passed. Leonardo realized his hands were no longer needed; Newt could finish from here.
"Mr. Scamander, I want to prepare for the foal's treatment," Leonardo said evenly.
Newt's hands did not pause, but his eyes dimmed.
He knew the foal's condition. What they did now leaned toward saving Seleneia.
Severed magical pathways meant agony for the foal—and repair…
But the resolve in Leonardo's tone stopped him.
He, too, wanted to give it a try. He, too, hoped for that fragile, unseen thing—luck.
"Go on," Newt said softly. "I'll handle the rest."
At that, Leonardo rose and went to the worktable.
"Headmaster, I would like to borrow the Philosopher's Stone—"
Before he could finish, a familiar half-transparent red jewel appeared before him.
"Do what you mean to do," Dumbledore said.
Leonardo took the Stone and moved to an open patch of ground.
He drew out a small purple-glass flask, flicked his wand, and sent his workbench gliding to his side.
In his mind, he laid out the broad steps of Magical Pathway Weavecraft:
First, brew a potion called Moonsoul Water, uniting alchemical and potioncraft methods.
Its purpose: to calm a magical creature, steady its soul, and set its pathways in place.
Second, apply a specific Dark spell to tear the target's pathways.
That step could be skipped—the foal's were already severed. He meant to repair, not rebuild.
Third, and most crucial: the finest edge of Transfiguration—
to use the wizard's own magic to mimic a portion of the creature's internal pathways and, slowly, guide and shape them anew.
It was delicate, consuming work—the line between failure and success.
Last came the longest stage: a sustained sequence of spells and potions to stabilize the new lattice.
He lifted his gaze to the moon. Cool light washed him.
The condition was met.
Begin.
He set the Philosopher's Stone upon the bench.
The pinnacle of alchemy would shorten brewing time and lengthen the potion's life.
Moonsoul Water relied on alchemy to hold its lingering effect; with the Stone, many steps could be cut.
And now, time was life.
"Asterion," Leonardo said, beckoning the stallion closer. "I need your blood to save your child. It must be freely given."
Aurelius translated at once. Asterion nodded without hesitation.
Leonardo drew his wand across the stallion's chest.
A thin line opened; thick, silver-white blood welled forth into a jade dish.
He used the Peeking Fiend's Eye to check for any trace of curse—and exhaled in relief.
Moonsoul Water began with the blood of the same species—freely given.
Unicorns made this simple to judge; when taken by force, their materials carried curses of varying severity, strongest in the blood.
When the measure was right, Leonardo sealed the wound and handed the dish to Aurelius.
"Rise as high as you can. Let the moonlight soak the blood until blue flecks appear. Mind the temperature—do not let it freeze."
Aurelius sent a curl of auspicious cloud to cradle the dish and shot upward into the night.
Leonardo turned back to his work, waiting for the moon-soaked blood.
He sliced, ground, and mixed in a deft rhythm.
Anything missing, he asked of Dumbledore—and whatever he named, Dumbledore produced.
A sound as thin as a gnat's cry threaded into his ear.
He looked toward Seleneia.
In Newt's arms lay a golden foal.
The newborn tried to open its eyes—and could not.
Leonardo's hands did not falter. He worked through the materials and listened inwardly for a chime.
The Pathway Expansion Stele's loan task was to witness the memorable birth of life.
The chime did not come.
This surely counted as memorable—but he remembered the system's definition:
[ The moment life fully arrives in this world, touching it as a newborn ]
No chime meant the foal's life still hung by a thread.
The conditions of birth were not yet met.
No.
It is not over.
The vortices in his eyes widened.
He saw the foal's pathways dimming—yet flickering still, stubbornly.
Perhaps the Qilin's blood. Perhaps the phoenix tears. Perhaps the foal's own will to live.
His hands stayed steady, his movements quickening to their utmost edge.
It was not over.