Clairvoyant – Meteoroid Beater

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.

"Nothing irritates me more than chronic laziness in others. Mind you, it's only mental sloth I object to. Physical sloth can be heavenly."

~ Elizabeth Hurley

Sloth

Her reverent fingers gently traced the words on the yellowed pages of the thick tome resting in her lap. Hermione indulged in a wistful, breathy hum, a combination of a sigh and a purr. Her long-time, faithful familiar, Crookshanks, lounged beside her on the arm of the reclining chair, purring contentedly as she stroked his luxurious, ginger fur.

"I just can't decide. Curry or Chinese for delivery tonight?" She continued to peruse the phone directory for suitable dinner fare, hoping divine intervention would make the choice for her.

"Meooooooow."

Hermione snorted at the animal's overzealous suggestion of multiple entrées. "No, I'm not getting both, you greedy pig. I've gained almost half a stone since I've been on holiday. I can't afford to put on any more weight. I'm barely fitting into my clothes as it is. I abhor using extension charms on fine fabrics."

Crookshanks scrutinized his mistress' attire and responded with a dramatic caterwaul that could only be described as mocking. It was blatantly ironic considering the gaudy, over-sized sweatshirt she wore, torn at the collar a lá Flashdance and emblazoned with the pretty, youthful images of George Michael and Andrew Ridgely. Her spandex leggings were the perfect finish to this tasteless ensemble.

"Thank you for your kind support. I'll remember that at feeding time, my fair-weather friend."

The ancient half-kneazle shrewdly demonstrated contrition, leaning toward Hermione and gently butting his head against her upper arm, uttering a short, soft 'meow'. Too little, too late.

The massive phone book fell to the floor with a dull thud as Hermione jumped up from the rocker recliner. The chair reacted to this sudden loss of occupant with a jerky, back-and-forth motion that showed no signs of slowing any time soon. Startled, Crookshanks leapt to the floor and began to groom himself in earnest, as if embarrassed by his own fraidy-cat behaviour.

"I thought familiars were supposed to be sympathetic to their masters," she chastened him, shaking her head to heap further disapproval on the animal.

Fluffy bunny slipper-clad feet carried her to the kitchen where she began dinner preparations. "Good evening to you, Mr. Patel. I would like to place an order... chicken Vindaloo, mild... vegetable biryani... naan... Is that enough for free delivery? Yes, good. How long? I'll see you in forty-five minutes. Thank you, Mr. Patel."

She replaced the phone in its cradle, then padded back to the living room, all the while avoiding the scattered carcases of empty takeaway cartons, Dairy Milk wrappers and empty bottles of Muggle alcopop...piles of refuse which threatened to suffocate her recycled-cork flooring. She fell back into the still warm chair with an ease and grace comparable to Hagrid dancing the lead role in Swan Lake. With a few wiggles of her nowadays more ample bottom, she settled into her most recently acquired, prized possession.

Her impulsive decision...an extended leave of absence from St. Mungo's...didn't lend itself to travel abroad, too cost prohibitive. However, nothing prevented her from sitting in the literal lap of luxury during her stay-at-home holiday. Her tricked-out, dragon hide rocker recliner was replete with clever amenities: hidden cooler within the armrest, cup holder, extendible side pocket for remote controls. The best feature had to be the 'magic fingers', heated massage providing total body relaxation from her frizzy split ends to her pedicure-challenged toes. With a chair like this, who needed a man?

With a click of the universal remote, Hermione was bathed in flickering light, caressed by smooth Latin beats. Her argument with Crookshanks was just a memory now, thanks to a few swigs from a fresh, cold bottle of coconut Bacardi Breezer. I wish all my problems could be washed away so easily. Her sight was focused solely on the wall-mounted, flat screen television, but her heart and mind transcended the boundaries of her London flat, and she travelled to the world of a homely, yet highly intelligent, executive assistant.

An assiduous, rhythmic knocking brought her awareness back to England and reality. That was fast, nowhere near forty-five minutes. "I'll be right there." The prospect of a warm, fragrant, savoury meal energized Hermione. She jumped to her feet and all but ran to answer the door, avoiding the obstacle course of unwashed, discarded clothing dotting the floor, the irregular pattern reminiscent of a mild case of dragon pox.

"I didn't expect to see you this soon, Mr. Patel," she shouted as she counted out the necessary Muggle funds from her coin purse. She flung open the door, fully expecting to see the smiling face of a short, podgy, balding, middle-aged Muggle, arms laden with yummy Indian foodstuffs. Instead, she was greeted by the scowling visage of a tall, thin, dark-haired, middle-aged wizard, empty-handed of course, but dressed in sartorial splendour befitting his new station in life.

Her stumbling feet sent Hermione reeling backwards; to add insult to injury, she tripped over a stack of out-dated issues of the Daily Prophet. An elegant, long-fingered hand reached forward to offer a reprieve to the witch sprawled awkwardly on the floor.

"Professor Snape, what are you doing here?" Her perfunctory, futile attempt to make herself more presentable consisted of pulling down the hem of her shirt and tucking errant curls behind her ears.

"You missed our biannual, parole-board-required appointment. I was merely..." He fell silent as his harsh, unforgiving eyes strayed from her face to the squalid scene behind her, taking in all the details of the messy, repulsive tableau, the train wreck that was her flat.

His sneer had never before been more derisive than it was now. "Congratulations, Miss Granger. You are the second person in a decade to render me speechless. The first was the Dark Lord...indirectly through Nagini, of course."

Hermione could feel the blush of mortification as it travelled from hairline to cleavage. Merlin's balls! I've become inured to all this rubbish.

"You know what they say about curiosity?" He turned to glare at Crookshanks, who had the good sense to run far away from the tall, dark man. "So I hope I won't regret asking this, Miss Granger, but what in the hell is going on here!"

"I was just waiting for delivery of my takeaway order and watching television. Betty la fea, to be exact. It's a telenovela, or soap opera, and there are twenty versions from various nations. I have completed an exhaustive study of them all, only to discover I prefer the original Columbian version. It has more... poignancy."

"You are babbling, Miss Granger. Leave of absence means a corporeal withdrawal from one's place of work. Did you perchance leave your know-it-all brain at St. Mungo's when you went on holiday?" His sharp, bitter tongue couldn't be arsed to wait for an answer before continuing its chastisement. "I don't care what you were doing before I arrived. How did you and your home come to be in this..." he paused carefully to choose his words, "state of chaos?"

She relaxed a bit, certain his concern was genuine. "Professor, I think you'll be more comfortable inside my apartment rather than in the hallway."

"That's debatable. Can you guarantee my health won't be endangered in that cesspool?"

"Inasmuch as you can promise to go five minutes without uttering some scathing, sarcastic remark."

"Touché." He strode past her to stand before the sofa, scanning in vain to find the safest place to sit, one which wouldn't leave a greasy spot on his fine, tailored suit. He perched on the very edge and kept his hands in his lap, trying to touch as little of the grimy sofa as possible.

She flopped gracelessly into the recliner, its see-saw gliding making her nauseous. Or maybe her churning stomach was due to the intimidating, critical man seated on her couch. She needed to find just the right words to give voice to the despair which had been plaguing her for months. Her neglected appearance, the accumulated debris, these were the physical manifestations of her depression. But the cherry on top of this sundae of mixed emotions was her inexplicable attraction to this enigmatic wizard; she'd been surprised to realize, after they'd shared lunch at his hilltop mansion in Simla, she'd taken a fancy to him.

"Where's that famous Gryffindor moxie of yours, Miss Granger? Cat got your tongue is no excuse; your familiar has left the room." His needling bordered on the far edge of sarcasm.

"If you must know, I'm burned out. Depressed. I hate my job. I'm just spinning my wheels; I've no hope for advancement at St. Mungo's." She gasped at her own bluntness. Her teeth were poised for lip-gnawing action in anticipation of a torrential rain of acerbic words from hurricane Severus.

His body trembled ever so slightly as he held his sardonic wit in check. "Then quit. As a case worker, your considerable talents are wasted on the masses. I can think of several careers for which you would be better suited."

Her smile was tentative; she'd had little reason to smile these past few weeks, but she didn't altogether trust his sincerity either. "Somewhere in this mess is a three-foot parchment filled with Arithmantic analyses of several different careers, all promising satisfaction on intellectual and emotional levels. Bookshop manager, librarian, Arithmantic quality controller, the list goes on and on."

"May I suggest you use the remainder of your holiday to search for fulfilling, gainful employment? However, I doubt your dissatisfaction with your career is solely responsible for your complete disregard of housekeeping and personal hygiene."

Hermione's timid smile faded into nothingness. Taciturn, stoic Severus Snape dared allude to her personal life? But he's already seen me at my worst. I've nothing more to lose. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Ronald and I were not a good match, too disparate in our temperaments, interests and goals in life. Love alone would never have sustained us. I deserve the love of a man who can stimulate me intellectually and... " Hermione had the good sense to edit herself, though not quickly enough to stop that inconvenient blush. A knock at the door saved them both from further embarrassment.

"I claim no power of divination, but I assume that would be Mr. Patel at the door."

She laughed for the first time in a long time. "Would you care to join me for dinner, Professor? I ordered more food than I could ever eat on my own."

"On one condition, Miss Granger. I will accept your generous offer, if you allow me to tidy up your flat with some foolish wand-waving while you freshen up with a real shower, not some pathetic, ineffective cleansing charm."

She flashed him a broad, yet surprisingly bright, plaque-free grin. "I accept, but I also have one condition. I insist you call me Hermione. I plan to quit my job, so I'll no longer be your caseworker."

"Very well, Hermione." Her name tripped easily off his tongue, in that velvety voice, smoother and richer than any Shakespearean actor's. But alas, the five minute moratorium on sarcasm had expired. "I trust you can work some magic on that rat's nest you call hair. It would repel Snow Monkeys, and you know how indiscriminate they are, eating the bugs they pick from each other's fur."

A few minutes earlier his chaffing words would have wounded her, but now his biting remark felt more like a flirty, friendly nip. Hermione's spirit was lifted by the promise of a hot shower, spicy food, and an interesting man. The future looked brighter, indeed.

A/N: Many thanks to kittylefish for her beta work and RedSkyatNight for providing me with details about flavored malt beverages sold in the United Kingdom.

Word count: 1971

Prompt words: assiduous, inure, sartorial