Professor inspections?
Orli found herself lost in contemplation, her gaze drifting unconsciously toward the staff table. She let her eyes wander seemingly casually across Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, and finally settle on Snape. He was eating his breakfast in characteristic silence, making no attempt to meet her gaze. But his hand paused—just for a heartbeat—as he speared a black olive with his fork and placed it deliberately in his mouth.
Orli pressed her lips together and looked away, feeling warmth bloom across her cheeks like spilled ink on parchment.
"Come on, we need to go,"Hermione said, rising from her chair with the brisk efficiency that meant business.
"We can't be late—if Umbridge decides to inspect Professor Binns' class, we absolutely cannot give her any ammunition..."
They abandoned their half-finished breakfast with the reluctant haste of students who knew better than to test fate, hurrying toward the classroom through corridors that seemed longer when you were rushing. But Umbridge never materialized in History of Magic—the lesson remained as soul-crushingly tedious as it had been every week since the dawn of time. After class, they encountered Fred and George in the corridor, both wearing expressions that suggested interesting news.
"Have either of you been graced by the 'High Inquisitor's' attention yet?"Fred asked, his tone dancing somewhere between amusement and disgust.
"No,"Orli replied immediately, though something cold settled in her stomach. "Why? Did she inspect you?"
"Just finished with us, actually. Last period,"George said, running a hand through his hair. "Seventh-year Charms."
"What did she do?"Harry and Hermione asked in perfect unison, their voices carrying identical notes of dread and curiosity.
Fred shrugged with the casual air of someone who'd survived something mildly unpleasant. "Nothing too dramatic. Umbridge just perched in a corner like a particularly unpleasant gargoyle, scratching away with that ghastly quill of hers. You know Flitwick—treated her like she was part of the furniture. Didn't let her presence disturb his lesson for even a second. Professional as anything."
"She barely asked any real questions either,"George added. "Just a couple of softball inquiries to Angelina about the coursework. Angelina told her Charms has always been excellent, which is nothing but the truth."
"I reckon everyone's evaluation of Professor Flitwick will be glowing,"George continued with genuine warmth. "The man's never met a student he couldn't help pass their exams. Bit of a miracle worker, really."
"What's on your schedule this afternoon?"Fred asked, though his expression suggested he already suspected the answer wouldn't be pleasant.
"Trelawney—Divination,"Ron answered with the resignation of the condemned.
"Oh, brilliant. I can practically see the 'T' for 'Troll' being carved into stone as we speak,"George said, pulling a face that would have been comical under different circumstances.
No student harbored any illusions about Trelawney's actual prophetic abilities during normal circumstances—except for Parvati and Lavender, who remained devoted believers in the face of all evidence to the contrary.
But that didn't mean Orli felt any enthusiasm for witnessing Umbridge's inevitable power display.
Sure enough, the afternoon Divination class had barely begun—they'd just pulled their dream analysis notebooks from their bags—when Umbridge appeared at the trapdoor entrance like a pink-clad harbinger of bureaucratic doom.
The classroom's previously relaxed atmosphere evaporated as completely as morning mist, replaced by a silence so thick it seemed to press against their eardrums. This sudden shift shattered Trelawney's concentration mid-murmur as she'd been examining Neville's homework with her usual mystical intensity.
"Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,"Umbridge said, her smile as sweet and artificial as crystallized sugar. "I do hope you received my note? Would this be a convenient time for my little inspection?"
Trelawney nodded with obvious reluctance, her expression suggesting she'd just tasted something particularly unpleasant. Her attention quickly shifted away from Umbridge as if the woman were merely an unwelcome interruption in more important mystical work.
Umbridge maintained her saccharine smile while casually seizing the back of the nearest armchair. She dragged it to the front of the classroom with the confidence of someone accustomed to rearranging spaces to suit her needs, positioning it mere inches from Professor Trelawney's usual spot—close enough to be unmistakably intrusive.
She settled into the chair with obvious satisfaction and extracted a clipboard bristling with official-looking papers from her flowered handbag. Her entire posture radiated eager anticipation, like a cat watching a particularly promising mousehole.
Professor Trelawney surveyed her class through those dramatically oversized spectacles, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders—whether from the tower's perpetual chill or Umbridge's presence was impossible to determine.
Author's Note: The English word "olive" bears a striking resemblance to Orli's name—a detail that doesn't escape notice in certain quarters.
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