"Hello, fellow professors!" Dumbledore says, sweeping into the faculty lounge. "How goes your first day of classes?"

"Kids. Fucking. Suck," Pimona Sprout declares.

"Loathe as I am to ever agree with my esteemed colleague, I have to agree," McGonagall says.

"Indeed," Professor Flitwick says. "And I hate to bring someone's deficiencies to light, but I was informed by my third-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs that Professor Squirrel never showed up to teach his classes."

Dumbledore casts his gaze on Professor Squirrel. "Is this true?"

"You mean I have to teach more than one class?" Professor Squirrel asks, scratching his neck.

Snape narrows his eyes. "We all do."

"Oh," Professor Squirrel says. "I thought I just had to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"...yes," Snape says darkly. "To everyone."

"I did teach everyone!" Professor Squirrel says. "Then I left."

McGonagall shuts her eyes tightly. "Professor, are you telling me you taught one class–"

"Yeah!" Squirrel agrees. "I taught the one class I'm supposed to teach! One class, like all of us."

Snape rubs his forehead. "It's one subject you teach. You teach multiple classes on the singular subject of Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Oh," Professor Squirrel says. "Oh."

"Okay then!" Dumbledore says cheerily. "It looks like Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were a bust. However–"

"Can't we just call them DADA classes like we used to?" Flitwick implores. "It's so much simpler–"

"YOU DARE TO INSULT MY ART BY CALLING IT SIMPLE?" a man roars. "MY ART IS COMPLEX! INTERESTING! ANGRY! AND SICK OF THE ILLNESS THAT INFESTS MODERN BOURGEOIS CAPITALIST SOCIETY! I SPIT ON YOU! AND YOUR DEMANDS FOR SIMPLICITY! PTOOEY!"

Every professor besides Dumbledore stares at him, shocked.

"...who the HELL is that?" Seymour asks.

Dumbledore smiled. "Oh, that's–"

"MAN RAY, BITCH!" MAN RAY BITCH declares.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agrees. "Man Ray is our new arts professor."

"Since when do we have an arts program?" Snape asks, aghast.

Since the author decided it would be funny.

"Honestly, Headmaster, I must object," McGonagall cuts in. "Our students are quite preoccupied with learning the ins and outs of magic, without trying to take on the difficulties of a modern Muggle curriculum."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. By the way, does that creep anyone else out? Eyes should not be twinkling. It's just freaky, that is. But regardless, he seems to think it's endearing. Or possibly he's trying to creep everyone out. Either way, he makes his eyes twinkle as he says "This is not a full-scale curriculum overhaul, Minerva, merely the addition of an art class."

"It's a slippery slope," Madame Hooch hedges. "If you add art, what's next? Literature? Mathematics? Gym?"

"Oh, that reminds me," Dumbledore says. "Because I want to add a music class but don't have the budget for that and...what's your job again, anyway?"

"Flying," Hooch explains. "I think. It's not really clear what else I teach."

Dumbledore waves her off. "Right, that. Well, anybody can teach that, and you're pretty much an ancillary character anyway, so you're fired."

"WHAT?" Hooch asks, aghast.

"Good point," Dumbledore says. "You're now the substitute teacher for the school."

Madame Hooch gapes.

"...if it were anybody else, that would be a foolish, shortsighted move," Snape says bitterly. "Since you're you, it's one of the best moves you'll make all year."

"Thank you for that barely hidden insult, Severus," Dumbledore says smugly. "Now are there any other issues?"

"YES!" MAN RAY BITCH bellows. "HOW CAN I EXPECT TO TEACH STUDENTS ART, WHEN ART IS FEELING AND MOTION AND EMOTION AND LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE? YOU CANNOT TEACH LIFE! YOU CAN MERELY–"

"Man Ray," Dumbledore cuts in. "You can either continue to teach a barely-attended elective that only holds two classes a week and educates all students at once, leaving you plenty of time to pursue your art and providing you with a steady paycheck, or you can storm off in a huff and take a day job as a telemarketer where you'll not only be paid less but have very little free time with which to pursue your artwork."

"...your point makes sense," MAN RAY BITCH admits. "Not that I'm happy about it."

"Dumbledore, I must object!" Madame Hooch objects. "If, as you say, Art is going to be poorly attended, wouldn't it make sense to keep Flying as a subject instead?"

"A capital idea!" Dumbledore agrees. "We shall make Flying another subject, and as the best qualified among us, I believe Madame Hooch should teach it in addition to her various substituting duties. Are there any objections?"

Everyone gapes at him.

"Fantastic!" Dumbledore says. "Welcome to the teaching squad, Madame."

McGonagall groans. "Dumbledore, did you do that just so you could get a permanent subsitute teacher who couldn't even complain because now you can claim she gave you the idea?"

"Indeed I did!" Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling madly. "For I am an amazing manipulator of others!"

MAN RAY BITCH groans. "Is there any other way you wish to torture us before I drink myself into oblivion?"

"No, I believe that should just about wrap things up," Dumbledore says. "So long as nobody has any objections?"

The door explodes open.

"DAMMIT HAGRID!" Filch barks. "I CONSTANTLY HAVE TO REPAIR DOORS AROUND HERE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO OPEN THEM NORMALLY!"

"Sorry!" Hagrid says cheerfully. "I just heard there was a faculty meeting, and you know I hate to miss those!"

"Don't worry, Hagrid," Snape says, massaging his forehead. "We didn't actually cover anything of note."

"Oh," Hagrid says mournfully. "So I take it nobody wants to know how my watermelon moonshine turned out?"

"Will it kill us?" MAN RAY BITCH asks.

"Of course it won't, you dumbfuck!" Sprout snaps at him. "I helped grow those fucking watermelons. Are you insulting my gardening skills?"

"It will not only not kill you, it'll make you feel right as rain!" Hagrid says cheerfully. "I learned my lesson from that mishap with the lead piping."

"Yes, see that it doesn't happen again," Dumbledore says. "I take it none of you gave out pop quizzes you have to grade, so let's all have a taste test of Hagrid's shine!"

Everybody leaves to get sloshed except for Mr. Filch, who stays behind, grumpily staring at the broken door.

"Oy, Filch, I'm sorry," Hagrid admits. "I'm a bit, uh–"

"I know what you are," Filch says, as kindly as he can.

"So, wanna have a–"

"I can't," Filch interrupts. "I have to work nights."

Hagrid nods. "Right, right. So, how about I, uh, maybe, I could, creep down into the castle late at night, leave a present on your doorstep for when you finish?"

Filch glares at him. "No. I do not want to clean turds up when I'm done cleaning up the school."

"That wasn't me!" Hagrid defends himself. "I swear it! It musta been a prank! By someone else!"

"Very well," Filch says bitterly. "I'll take your word for it. This time."