Harry's Housekeeping

Notes: I had this all written and then I decided that I didn't like it, so I rewrote it. Thank you for your patience.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 10

"Now this book - " Nicolas Flamel said, gesturing at a large tome in the library of the Flamel estate. Despite being a mere spirit, he managed to dislodge a cloud of dust.

Harry sneezed, and since he had been hovering near the ceiling, shot himself a backwards a few feet. He floated back over to read the spine.

Cleansing Moste Stronge

"Fantastic household charms. Created by yours truly." The dead alchemist puffed his chest. His equally dead wife fawned over him.

"I married the smartest man alive," She sighed.

Harry chose not to point out that neither of them were actually alive anymore. In fact, they were only here because Harry had used the resurrection stone to summon them.

("Tri-ni-sette. Sounds familiar…"

"Of course we'll help you research. Our library is very extensive. It would take you ages on your own!")

Harry eyed the Flamels dubiously, beginning to doubt the veracity of their promise. They had so far pointed out every single cook book, three books on muggle creatures (so exotic, Perenelle sighed), and twelve books on modern basket weaving.

I'm doing this for Skull, Harry reminded himself when his eyes threatened to roll to the back of his head.

"Oh, Nic," Perenelle squealed. The plant beside her cringed and inched its pot backwards. "Remember this? The book of poetry you wrote for me?"

"Of course I remember, my dearest. My love for you is like the stars. It could power my broom all the way to Mars."

Perenelle giggled.

Harry wondered if he had made a big mistake.

—

A sheet of parchment fell to the floor as Harry pulled out yet another book. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Two weeks. Two weeks of scouring the library with the overly cheerful Flamel ghosts. He was beginning to wonder if it would have been faster on his own…

Nicolas peered at the book, then shook his head. Harry shelved it and bent down to pick up the parchment.

"Nic, Nic, it's The Recipe," Perenelle breathed as she stared at the paper in his hand. Nicolas' eyes widened reverently.

Harry glanced at it curiously. Recipe?

Perenelle's Infamous Meatloaf

In smaller, scratchier script next to the title was a parentheses.

(The Colon Cleanser)

Harry held the paper a little further away from himself.

"So many wonderful dinners because of this recipe," Perenelle beamed.

"Oh yes, and quite a smooth release of the bowels too," Nicolas added in a stage whisper, winking at Harry who shifted a little uncomfortably at the thought.

"I wonder if Talbot misses them," Perenelle rested her cheek on her hand. "The poor dear, all alone since we died…"

"Talbot?" Harry hummed.

"Oh, yes, one of our dearest friends. A bit of a recluse, that one. But we did many projects together. In fact, he was the one who inspired us to make the Philosopher's stone."

"Oh?" Harry tilted his head.

"I just couldn't bear the thought of him being alone for so long," Perenelle sniffed. "Spending his days by himself, no one to cook for him or keep him company…"

"Not to mention he kept bragging about being favoured by Death…" Nicolas shrugged. "Figured it got mighty lonely, being one of the few immortals."

Harry blinked. "You… made the Philosopher's Stone so that you could potentially live forever and keep him company?"

"And bring him meatloaf every Friday," Perenelle beamed.

"That was… very kind of you."

"Such a polite lad," Nicolas chuckled, his arm passing through Harry as he attempted to slap him on the back.

"You know, now that I think about it, I think Talbot might be able to help you," Perenelle tapped her lips thoughtfully. "He did a lot of research into the ancient magics."

"Any help is most appreciated," Harry replied diplomatically.

She beamed. "Oh, if you do go see him, will you do me a favour?"

—

"What is that, Harry?" Luna peered dubiously into the oven. The meat stared back.

"A gift… of sorts."

Luna backed away slowly.

—

"Six hundred years. Six hundred bloody years of casserole. And just when I think I'm free of it…"

Harry stared down at the meatloaf. He shrugged. "I promised Perenelle I'd bring you some."

"Did you know she used to make fruit cake at Yule as well? As tough and heavy as bricks."

Harry thought back on Hagrid's rock cakes.

"And in the spring she'd make these jello salads…"

"I think my aunt used to make those," Harry hummed, thinking back on the meals he hadn't been allowed to eat. He wondered how Perenelle, a famous alchemist in her own right, could be such a horrible cook.

Talbot stared at the casserole with an odd mixture of horror and fondness. "I called it the toilet plugger," he said with a sigh as he went to fetch a spoon.

Harry declined to taste it.

—

Talbot's house was… odd. It towered higher than the Burrow, each floor added more precariously than the previous. It swayed in the wind with a series of creaks that worked their way up the stories, culminating in a crackling of bristling roof tiles.

There was something wonderfully magical about it, though. The feeling had seeped into the walls and floor over the years, imbuing the building with a sense of life and home. It was probably why the chairs had the tendency to wander off with visitors still perched upon them, and the cutlery tried to feed everyone in sight. Harry had to fend off more than one spoonful of meatloaf while repeatedly tripping over an excitable rug.

Talbot was working his way through the casserole, looking a little green. He sniffed occasionally and dabbed at his eyes and Harry politely averted his gaze. He wandered the work room instead, eyeing the large variety of pickled body parts and fully intact sets of teeth.

"Tri-ni-sette, you said?" The immortal said finally as he led Harry into his library. The books danced eagerly around the two immortals.

"Yes, Checkerface has been gathering the seven strongest flames of each generation to power it, stealing their flames until there is nothing left." Harry's eyes lidded as he remembered the vile feel of Skull's pacifier - the way it tore and stole and devoured.

Talbot handed him a book. He opened it almost automatically, tilting his head when he came upon a particularly interesting passage.

"Self-sufficient?" He murmured. "Is such a thing possible?"

"Flames are somewhat like magic. They are… alive in a way that is independent of their wielder. Perhaps not conscious, but there is something more to them."

Harry nodded slowly. He could not deny that at times his flames felt almost eager to be used. To be wielded. To work with him.

"The magical world has long used precious stones to harness and preserve large amounts of magic. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps the same can be done with flames…" Harry finished, leaning forward with wide eyes. "To remove the need for a living host…"

Talbot nodded his wizened head. The bird skulls around his neck clacked their beaks victoriously.

"We will not know for sure until we find the proper medium, so I'm afraid it will not be an instant solution." Talbot stroked his beard, sombre but for the fascinated twinkle in his eyes. The opportunity for such experimentation was far too appealing for the immortal to pass up.

"Thirty years," Harry said. "We have thirty years." Harry hoped it would not take that long - that Skull would not be condemned to the body of a child for three decades.

"Well then," Talbot pushed away the empty casserole dish. It scuttled past Harry's elbow and made a dash for freedom. "Shall we get started?"

("What are you getting Luca as a wedding gift?" Maria leaned closer to Harry, her question whispered as she shot a nervous glance at the man in question.

"I haven't decided yet," Harry admitted. "I thought about getting him a crossbow, but…" He eyed the way Luca was clutching his steak knife, glaring at the loud group of newbies at the table next to him.

"I think the Ninth is getting him a new gun."

"Does he want us all to die?")