A cloudy night sky hid the moon from view. A light breeze skimmed across the gunsmith's brow. He felt the build-up of magic in the ground. Curious vapors emanated from his chalk. He had drawn a ritual circle, in runes.

During his youthful years of studying amidst the Druidic Brotherhood of Britain, he had participated in various rituals at Stonehenge. This ritual was of his own design. It would be the first time he attempted such a feat at this sacred site—a location of awe-inspiring power.

The revolver had been carefully placed in a magical trunk, custom built by one of Europe's finest trunk makers from Magical Germany, specifically for this purpose.

The gunsmith had been actively powering the ritual for close to three months now–ever since the adventures that followed that phial of liquid luck–and he was curious to see what the final product would look like.

The Brotherhood had agreed to allow their old pupil to use the site. After all, much is possible with the help of Felix Felicis. This full moon would be the third and final time he gathered at Stonehenge for a little while. He was leaving Britain, again. Adventure's call never stopped.

The gunsmith smiled. It had been a fortuitous trip to the Isles. Very fortuitous, indeed. Firstly, his contract with the British Ministry of Magic was going to increase tenfold. Apparently, his custom alloys were of high interest to certain parties there.

Secondly, he came across some Felix Felicis.

While leaving the Department of Mysteries after signing his new contracts, he got lost in the hallways. His guide had gotten an urgent message right as he was guiding him to the floo.

In the department, there is a special branch of the Floo Network that runs parallel to the main Network, and to the the International Network.

The gunsmith had forgotten his hat in an office where he had signed the contract. His guide had disappeared promising to return in a moment while busying himself with the urgent letter. The wizard decided to simply hop back into the office, and grab his wayward hat.

After going through the door, he observed that it wasn't the room he had been in earlier. He quickly realized his mistake, and went back again, but ended up somewhere completely different in the department. He assumed he was still in the department because the décor was mostly in the same style.

He kept trying different doors.

Sometimes the appearing hallways were long, sometimes they were short. One time he passed by a large gate that was swung ajar.

Inside he could make out rows and rows of crystal orbs: some were glowing, some not.

He heard voices, and some that were calling for him.

Ask any Unspeakable, and they will tell you: recorded but forgotten prophecies don't act like active prophecies.

Not knowing why, the man suddenly shuddered, and quickly decided to walk away.

He ended up in a cavernous chamber next.

In the middle of the giant room was an arch, whispering of death. The smith stood there for a minute and pondered about the meaning of life. He turned around and left when he started to feel a pull.

Arriving back to yet another hallway, he took a minute to reflect about his life. After a moment, he genuinely voiced out his gratitude for everything in his life, out loud. He simply stated, to no one in particular, every single thing he was grateful for, ending with the fact that he just got the necessary funding for his next five trips, with spending money to boot. With a smile on his face, he opened the next door and happened upon an abandoned office. It had fallen into disrepair. There were spider-webs everywhere, and dust on every surface. There were knick-knacks in various shelfs on the walls, such as jars with discolored items floating inside. There were old tomes, and a few wooden boxes.

On the desk was a journal. The yellowed pages were open to the last entry. The smith covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief to prevent himself from breathing in too much of the fetid odours as he approached the book. His feet kicked up plumes of dust with every step he took.

Glancing at the journal, he saw a scribbled date: March 20th,1894.

Beneath it was an entry:

I have successfully brewed another batch of the luck-inducing potion. The ingredients are quite toxic, and so it takes a bit of time for the liquid to mature to stability. By the end of next week, it should finally be ready.

The smith looked at the desk and waved his wand. Nothing seemed to be charmed or cursed.

He gave his wand a little twist, and the desk drawers slid open one by one. Within, he found four phials of what the Smith deduced to be Felix Felicis. As a world-travelling adventurer, he could tell he just hit a jackpot.

Pocketing three of the phials, he upended one and drank it in a one smooth go.

Immediately, he felt the potion activate.