“I did it last time,” Ron protested, “it’s your turn, you tell me one.”
“Oh, I dunno . . .” said Harry desperately, who could not remember dreaming anything at all over the last few days. “Let’s say I dreamed I was . . . drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that’ll do . . .”
Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle.
“Okay, we’ve got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject . . . would that be ‘drowning’ or ‘cauldron’ or ‘Snape’?”
“It doesn’t matter, pick any of them,” said Harry, chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge was now standing at Professor Trelawney’s shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questioned Neville about his dream diary.
“What night did you dream this again?” Ron said, immersed in calculations.
“I dunno, last night, whenever you like,” Harry told him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney was looking extremely put out.
“Now,” said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, “you’ve been in this post how long, exactly?”
Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed to decide that the question was not so offensive that she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply resentful tone, “Nearly sixteen years.”
“Quite a period,” said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. “So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?”
“That’s right,” said Professor Trelawney shortly.
Professor Umbridge made another note.
“And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?”
“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher.
Another note on the clipboard.
“But I think — correct me if I am mistaken — that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of second sight?”
“These things often skip — er — three generations,” said Professor Trelawney.
Professor Umbridge’s toadlike smile widened.
“Of course,” she said sweetly, making yet another note. “Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?”
She looked up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe her ears.
“I don’t understand you,” said Professor Trelawney, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck.
“I’d like you to make a prediction for me,” said Professor Umbridge very clearly.
Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and listening sneakily from behind their books now; most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height, her beads and bangles clinking.
“The Inner Eye does not See upon command!” she said in scandalized tones.
“I see,” said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard.
“I — but — but . . . wait!” said Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by the way it was shaking with anger. “I . . . I think I do see something . . . something that concerns you. . . . Why, I sense something . . . something dark . . . some grave peril . . .”
Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.
“I am afraid . . . I am afraid that you are in grave danger!” Professor Trelawney finished dramatically.
There was a pause. Professor Umbridge’s eyebrows were still raised.
“Right,” she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. “Well, if that’s really the best you can do . . .”
She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron’s eye and knew that Ron was thinking exactly the same as he was: They both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt very much on Trelawney’s side — until she swooped down on them a few seconds later, that was.
“Well?” she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry’s nose, uncharacteristically brisk. “Let me see the start you’ve made on your dream diary, please.”
And by the time she had interpreted Harry’s dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less sympathetic toward her. All the while, Professor Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the silver ladder first so that she was waiting for them all when they reached their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later.
She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell.
“Wands away,” she instructed them all smilingly, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out sadly returned them to their bags. “As we finished chapter one last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence chapter two, ‘Common Defensive Theories and Their Derivation.’ There will be no need to talk.”