The smell hit like a concussion curse: the rot of dead meat and mildew causing Harry to stumble into a wall as he doubled over to retch, spitting up the sour taste of gin. Half the striped green and grey wallpaper peeled off with him when he found his feet and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of jacket. He drew his wand and with a flick, cast a Bubble-Head Charm, then Lumos.

Stark white light spilled into the hallway even as the door slammed shut behind him. Harry whipped around, but there was nothing there. If he didn't know better, he'd blame the wind. But Harry had spent too many years in a magical world filled with unseen dangers out for his blood. He knew better.

"Kreacher?" Perhaps now the little demon would answer him. "Kreacher!"

Harry hadn't heard a peep from the Black house elf in three years. One day he'd just stopped responding to Harry's summons. He'd figured Kreacher had finally kicked it and the stench of death Harry had been greeted with certainly seemed to support that.

Venturing forward, stepping carefully over rotting floorboards and senses alight for danger, Harry made his way into the kitchen. When nothing jumped out at him, he gestured at the lights with his spare hand, and winced as they sputtered to life, illuminating the room in a deceptively cosy golden glow.

On the table was Harry's favourite mug, an orange and green monstrosity that George had gifted him one Christmas, enchanted to keep his cup of tea at optimal tea-drinking temperature. Impressively, it seemed to still be working, digestive brown brew giving off steam and warmth. He'd lost it a few years ago, or so he'd thought. Keeled over on the tiled floor by the table was the desiccated corpse of what could only have been Kreacher. Harry cursed as he stepped closer and stubbed his toe on an ancient teapot discarded next to him.

In Kreacher's favour, it seemed the bugger had literally worked himself to death.

"RIP and all that." Harry jerked his wand at the corpse. A spark ignited on contact and the body burned to ash in a matter of seconds, leaving nothing behind but a scorched mark on the floor. Another flick of his wand cast the cleansing spell they used at crime scenes, which would hopefully eliminate the worst of the smell. Cautiously, Harry popped the Bubble-Head. It still smelt of damp and rot, but it was bearable.

Harry took an absent slug of tea as he glanced around and instantly regretted it. He spat the liquid out and glared at the mug with betrayal. It seemed that although it preserved warmth, it didn't stop the milk from going sour or from several flies from drowning in it.

This had been a fucking disaster. A waste of time. He had work tomorrow, he needed sleep, not to wander down memory lane in the middle of the night. Tossing the putrid tea down the sink, Harry stalked out of the kitchen and yanked open the front door.

It didn't budge.

With a frown, he gave the handle a jiggle and pulled again, putting his weight behind it. The door did not open.

"No, no, no, no," Harry said, glad that no one else was here to witness him arguing with a house. "Open this door right now. Open!"

As if in answer, the brown, moth-eaten curtains which framed the door suddenly squirmed free from their bindings and slammed shut before him.

"Oh, you must be fucking kidding me," Harry growled. He stared down the curtains as he considered his options.

Apparition was out; despite the time gone by, Grimmauld Place was warded like a fortress. The floo had long been disconnected and he didn't doubt he'd face the same issue if he tried to break through a window. He could start blasting apart walls and hope for the best, but with his luck, he'd end up fighting the ghosts of the Blacks long dead, animated in protection of their stronghold.

"Don't think I'm not afraid to burn you down!" Drawing his wand, he paced in a circle. Despite his threats, burning the house down with him still inside it was a last resort.

The door to the parlour creaked open, the fireplace bursting into flames, warming the room invitingly. Harry froze, listening for sounds of life. Scuttling sounded in the walls, likely doxies or rats, but other than the crackling of flames burning without fuel, Harry appeared to be alone.

Revelio, he incanted, not taking any chances. Nothing.

"This is definitely a mistake," Harry muttered, sidling into the room. Bar a thick layer of dust and a pile of mouse droppings, the room was just as he remembered it, a sprawled disarray of antique decadence, mahogany furniture, and green velvet drapings. In contrast to the disrepair of the rest of the house, the Black family tapestry gleamed. Gold and silver brocade flickered in the firelight, the faces of many generations of Blacks staring out at him with a mocking twist to their embroidered mouths. Sirius's name was burned off the tapestry, but Harry traced a purple threaded branch along to where his own face smirked at him, Harry James Potter embroidered below. That was new.

A frayed and crisped corner of tapestry caught Harry's finger as he traced back over where Sirius's name ought to have been. He flinched as a droplet of blood smeared on the fabric and then scowled as the tapestry absorbed it and remained unblemished.

A flicker of movement caught his eye and Harry turned, wand at the ready, only to see flowers blooming on the tapestry where there had been none before, spilling out from the trunk of the tree, bursting into life, the branches of the tree shivering as if in the wind.

"Great. A vampiric tapestry." Harry took two steps back and stumbled over a table that definitely hadn't been there before. He landed on the edge of the table and bruised his knee on the wooden floor, even as his ears popped. Sudden nausea struck him, like the side effects of a long Apparition, and Harry groaned, propping himself up with a hand.

"Curious… how did you get in here?"

The unfamiliar voice startled Harry to his feet and he blinked as he took in the room. It had the bare bones of the Grimmauld Place parlour: the Black tapestry, the chandelier, but everything else had changed. The curtains were drawn—it appeared to be mid-afternoon, judging by the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the polished windows. The furniture was pristine, the floor was spotless, not a speck of dust in sight, and most importantly, a witch in her early twenties stood before him, tapping the tip of her wand into the palm of her hand. She was dressed in black trousers tailored to her frame, a corset laced over a black satin shirt, and a dark cloak lined with deep purple silk was draped about her shoulders.

"Who the fuck are you?" Harry said. Had he somehow collapsed, allowing an intruder to the house while he was unconscious, who then had… cleaned it?

"Charming," the witch said, tucking a dark curl behind one ear. "I really feel it ought to be me asking you that question."

"Why the fuck are you in my house?"

"Your house? Ha!" It was as the woman tilted her head back and cackled that Harry realised who she was and drew his wand in an instant.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," he snarled. How he'd not recognised her, he had no idea. Instantly, her face transformed from mirth to malice.

"Not yet," Bellatrix hissed. "Not if I can help it. Now tell me, who are you?"

"You're dead," Harry said, halfway between bewildered and angry. He'd seen Molly petrify and shatter her. "Am I dead?"

Mercurial as a snitch, Bellatrix's expression mellowed as she eyed him curiously. "I most certainly am not dead. And neither are you, as far as I can tell…"

"Right," Harry said, "I see."

That, obviously, was a lie, at least in the metaphorical sense. If neither of them were dead, and Bellatrix didn't know who he was, and he was actually standing in Grimmauld Place… he pinched himself.

"Not dreaming," he murmured.

"Why? Do you frequently dream of attractive witches in familial distress and appear to ravish and/or save them from their plight?" Bellatrix said. "No, this is not a dream. In fact, let me amend my query. Do you frequently break into one of the most well warded houses in the country and then play-act like a buffon?"

Harry wondered if the tea he'd drunk was causing hallucinations. It seemed the most obvious solution to their bizarre encounter. Either that, or Harry actually was dead, which seemed unlikely given he had a sneaking suspicion he couldn't die, or Harry had travelled back in time several decades, also unlikely, although not impossible. He long learned that through magic, anything was possible.

Belatedly, he cast a spell to cleanse himself of toxins, one he'd used to clear up many a hangover and the occasional poisoning attempt. The room remained pleasantly sunny, with not a doxie in sight.

"Darling, I'm too attractive to be a figment of your imagination," Bellatrix said, cocking a brow. "Now I really must insist you tell me your name and how you snuck in here, else I'll be forced to scream, or perhaps curse you."

"Harry," Harry said, too bewildered to lie, "are you sure I'm not dead?"

He touched his hand to where the Elder Wand remained strapped to his forearm. If he were dead, he'd hoped to be greeted by his parents, this time. This better not be his father's idea of a practical joke.

Bellatrix giggled. "Quite sure. Aww, does my beauty boggle your teeny tiny mind? That should make this easy at least. Imperio. Now, tell me who you are. "

The warmth of the Imperius Curse spread through Harry's bones, giving him a sense of lightness he'd not experienced in years. Tempting as it was to give into the bliss, Harry shrugged the curse off. A young Bellatrix had nothing on Voldemort and the numerous other Dark magic practitioners he'd faced down throughout his career.

"What year is it?" Harry said, instead of answering her demand. Bellatrix paled and Harry felt a gut deep sense of satisfaction. This wasn't the woman who'd murdered his godfather and countless other innocents, but he could see the path laid out before her. Married to Rodolphus Lestrange, indoctrinated further to the pure-blood cause, initiated as one of Voldemort's servants. If she was willing to use the Imperius Curse, then she was hardly a paragon of saintliness.

"It's 1974," Bellatrix said. "How… hmm…"

Thirty-one years. Harry sighed, rasping a hand over his beard before dragging it through his hair.

Bellatrix gasped, stepping closer, dropping her wand to her side. "Your scar," she whispered and reached out a hand as if to touch it. Harry caught her wrist, almost surprised to find flesh and blood beneath his grasp, rather than illusion or emaciated skin and bone.

"It's just a scar," he grumbled.

"Fate's lance," Bellatrix said. "A lightning bolt… Morgana bless us all." Her grey eyes narrowed. "Harry what? "

"Harry Potter." He subdued the inclination to cover the scar with his hair as he would have in his teen years. This was getting far too weird for his tastes.

"Oh." Bellatrix seemed to gather herself, then glanced at the tapestry that surrounded them. "Dorea's son? You ought to have said. I wouldn't have cursed you, if I'd known."

Harry opened his mouth to contradict her, then snapped it shut. He couldn't exactly claim to be the adult son of James and Lily Potter, not if it actually was 1974.

A sly smile crept onto Bellatrix's face. "You're in luck that I found you. Aunt Wally's the sort to curse first and ask questions later. Why, in that get up, she might have mistaken you for an Auror. Then you'd really be in trouble."

"Luck," Harry said dryly. "Yes, I'm feeling an abundance of it."

"Excellent. You'll need it, to survive the upcoming discussion with my parents."

"Will I?"

"Oh yes," Bellatrix purred. "You see, my dear, mysterious Harry Potter, you're going to tell my parents that you plan to marry me."