It was the kitchen at Grimmauld place - not as he knew it to be now, run down and musty and unloved, but as it had been when he’d made it into his home, right down to the chip in the corner of the dining table from when Albus had tripped running through the room and bashed his chin off of it. Some of the furniture was wrong though, he noticed, overcoming his shock to venture forward. The chairs were a darker, richer wood with cushioned seats, and where he’d had a modern oven installed in the real kitchen, this one had an impressive bottle green Aga. 