This Cursed Book Wrecked My House and Saved My Marriage

The roar of the Floo Network faded, leaving a familiar ringing in Hermione’s ears as she stepped from the fireplace into the living room. She brushed a layer of soot from the shoulders of her Ministry robes, the motion automatic, her muscles aching with a deep, bone-settled weariness. The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary immediately filled her senses, a warm, savory anchor in the low-level chaos of home.

From the kitchen, she could hear Hugo’s delighted shrieks mixed with Ron’s low, placating murmur. “Just one more minute, mate, then it’s all yours. No, don’t touch the oven door, it’s hot.”

Hermione dropped her heavy briefcase by the sofa, the thud loud in the relative quiet of the front room. She pushed her hair back from her face, her fingers catching in the tight bun she’d twisted it into that morning. All day, it had been one crisis after another in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—inter-departmental squabbles, poorly-worded legislation from the Wizengamot, and a particularly nasty hex that had turned the entire archives lavatory system into a portal to a swamp in Wales.

She walked towards the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to take in the scene. Ron stood at the stove, his back to her. Even after all these years, the sight of him still caused a quiet stir inside her. He was broader now, his shoulders filling out the worn grey jumper he favored, and faint lines fanned from the corners of his eyes when he smiled. He held a wooden spoon in one hand while his other arm was wrapped securely around Hugo’s small torso, keeping their son from launching himself directly at the sizzling pan.

Rose sat at the kitchen table, her brow furrowed in concentration over a piece of parchment, her wild brown hair falling into her eyes just as Hermione’s always had.

“Smells good,” Hermione said, her voice sounding tired even to her own ears.

Ron turned, his face breaking into a relieved smile. “There you are. Rough day?”

“The usual.” She moved towards him, her path a well-worn track across the flagstone floor. He leaned in, shifting Hugo onto his hip, and gave her a quick, firm kiss. It was warm and familiar, tasting faintly of the spices he’d been cooking with. It was the kiss of a man she loved deeply, a man who was the very bedrock of her life. It was also over in a second.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, turning back to stir the gravy. “Rose, ten more minutes on your charms homework, then wash up.”

“But Dad, the levitation is wobbly,” Rose complained, not looking up.

“Wobble it into the sink, then,” Ron said with an easy grin.

Hermione watched them, a familiar ache settling in her chest. It wasn’t sadness, not exactly. It was love, so much of it that it was heavy, a comfortable weight she had carried for years. But underneath it, so faint she could almost pretend it wasn’t there, was the silence of a space that used to be filled with something else. Something wilder. She pushed the thought away, blaming it on the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin.

Just as Ron was lifting the pan of roasted vegetables from the oven, a sharp, insistent tapping echoed from the living room window.

“Owl!” Hugo squealed, pointing a chubby finger towards the sound. He wriggled out of Ron’s grasp before he could be stopped, toddling towards the front of the house.

Rose’s head snapped up from her homework, her eyes wide with an excitement that was so rarely seen outside of birthdays and Christmas. “Is it for me? Is it from Hogwarts?”

“You’ve still got two years, Rosie,” Ron said, setting the hot pan on the counter with a thud. “Probably more work for your mum.” He glanced at Hermione, a hint of sympathy in his expression.

Hermione sighed, following the children into the living room. Sure enough, a large tawny owl was perched impatiently on their windowsill, a square, securely-wrapped parcel tied to its leg. It had the distinct, haughty air of a Hogwarts school owl. She slid the window open just enough for the bird to hop inside. It landed gracefully on the back of an armchair, extending its leg with an air of great importance.

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured, her fingers working at the knot. The owl nipped her finger affectionately before taking a beakful of the owl treats Ron kept in a jar on the mantelpiece.

The package was a simple cardboard box, bound with twine. A note attached read: From the collection of the Hogwarts Library, as requested. M. Pomfrey. She’d forgotten she’d even asked Madam Pomfrey to look for these for her; a set of obscure, out-of-print Arithmancy texts she needed for a cross-reference on ancient warding curses. It felt like another lifetime ago that she’d sent the request.

“What is it, Mum?” Rose asked, peering at the box as if it might contain a solid gold Snitch.

“Just some boring old books for my work, sweetheart,” Hermione said, the words feeling heavy and dull even as she said them. The wonder in her daughter’s face flickered slightly, replaced by a polite, but visible, disappointment.

The owl, having finished its treat, gave a dignified hoot and launched itself back out the window, disappearing into the deepening twilight. The brief intrusion of that other world, their real world, was over.

Hermione placed the box on the floor next to her briefcase, making a mental note to unpack it after the children were in bed. Right now, the thought of sorting through dusty academic tomes was profoundly unappealing.

“Right then,” Ron said, clapping his hands together from the kitchen doorway. “Dinner is served. Hugo, hands washed. Rose, parchment away.”

The spell was broken. Hugo was herded towards the downstairs loo, and Rose reluctantly rolled up her homework. Hermione stood for a moment, looking at the plain brown box sitting innocently by the sofa. For a second, she felt a flicker of the same excitement Rose had shown, the remembered thrill of discovery, of unwrapping something unknown from the place that had been her first real home. But it was fleeting, quickly buried under the weight of her aching feet and the demanding reality of the day she’d just survived. She turned away from the box and walked back towards the kitchen, towards the familiar comfort of her family and the predictable quiet of the evening.

The last story was read, the final glass of water delivered. A powerful Silencing Charm on Hugo’s door ensured his night terrors wouldn’t wake the whole house, and the quiet that descended felt heavy, pressing down on them. Ron finished washing the last of the dinner plates by hand—his preferred method, he always insisted it made them cleaner than a spell—while Hermione stacked the children’s school books on the hall table.

They met in the living room, two magnets drawn to the soft cushions of the sofa. Hermione sank into one end, tucking her feet beneath her. Ron took the other, stretching his long legs out towards the cold fireplace. For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Perkins is trying to re-classify Doxies as ‘non-sentient pests’ again,” Hermione said into the silence, rubbing her temples. “Can you imagine the paperwork? It would set precedent for Pixies, Gnomes… the man’s an idiot.”

“George is thinking of launching a new line of self-insulting biscuits,” Ron countered, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “He wants to call them ‘Criti-bix.’ Thinks they’ll be a bestseller with the Hogwarts crowd.”

Hermione let out a small, tired sigh. “Honestly, Ron, sometimes I don’t know why I bother. I spend ten hours a day arguing magical theory with people who have the intellectual capacity of a garden gnome, and for what? So they can ignore it all and pass another ridiculous ordinance.”

“Gnomes have feelings, you know,” Ron said, a faint, automatic defense. “And a surprisingly good ear for sea shanties.”

The conversation stalled. It was a familiar pattern, a trading of daily grievances that offered no real comfort, just the acknowledgement of shared exhaustion. They were in the same room, but miles apart, each trapped in the bubble of their own day.

As they sat in the thick silence, a strand of twine on the cardboard box by the sofa snapped with a faint ping. Neither of them noticed. The box lid shifted, pushed up from within by a sharp corner of dark, cracked leather.

“Maybe I should just quit,” Hermione murmured, more to herself than to him. “We could move to the country. I could do some consulting.”

“And you’d be bored in a week,” Ron said, not unkindly. “You love it, ‘Mione. You love being right.” He finally turned his head to look at her, offering a small, weary smile.

She didn’t return it. She just stared at her hands, resting in her lap.

A dark shape slid from the box, landing on the rug with a soft, fleshy thud that was swallowed by the thick pile. The book was bound in something that looked disturbingly like skin, its cover bare of any title. It lay flat for a second before its covers bent, lifting the spine from the floor. It moved, a horrifying, stop-motion shuffle, like a many-legged insect. It dragged itself across the few feet of open space, a dark stain against the cream-colored wool, and disappeared under the deep valance of the sofa.

“I’m just tired,” Hermione finally conceded. “I’m so tired.”

“Me too,” Ron agreed. He pushed himself up from the sofa, his joints cracking in protest. He held out a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

She took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His hand was warm and calloused, a familiar comfort. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a brief, brotherly press of lips to skin. “It’ll be better in the morning.”

“It always is,” she whispered.

They switched off the lights, leaving the living room cloaked in shadows and silence. The box sat with its lid askew, looking like nothing more than a forgotten delivery. Beneath the sofa, in the dark, the Arithmancy tome settled into its new hiding place, pulsing with a faint, malevolent energy that was just beginning to wake up.