It was probably Peter's fault. He defaulted to magic for basically everything he ever needed to do, so most of the electronics around the house exhibited some malfunction or another. His answering machine was especially problematic, as it would sometimes play his messages with something to the effect of, "Sirius called. Something about curry. Maybe elevenish."
"Sure." He tossed the remote in Sirius' direction and curled up against the arm of the couch. As some Welsh gentleman started exclaiming the benefits of the Home Curry Press or some such nonsense, Peter began, "D'you reckon... no, never mind."