Initially he was disoriented, finding himself looking at the room from a perspective he hadn’t expected. He advanced curiously, hanging his bag and cloak on the hook on the wall as he went. He was standing at the end of the kitchen, the Room having admitted him from the door which was the entrance to the kitchen in the real number twelve Grimmauld Place. At the far end of the kitchen, he could see the bare stone room and the filing cabinet at its centre, and to the right the archway that lead directly to his study. He could just about hear the crackling white noise of a spinning, but blank record.