"Professor Dumbledore?" Percy asks, sounding shocked and pus-filled. "What are you doing in the closet?"
This awakens Dumbledore's wrath, and he rises to his feet like a tidal wave of naked elderly glory.
"What did you say?" Dumbledore asks coldly.
"I–" Percy says, uncomfortable in the face of such amazing and uncompromising elderly genitalia. "I just wanted to know about–you, and the closet, and–"
"Enough," Dumbledore says. "You get a week's worth of detention with Substitute Professor Madame Hooch. Now get out of my office."
Percy stumbles backwards out of Dumbledore's office, unable to tear his eyes away from the old man's glorious manhood and wrinkly nutsack until he falls down the stairs for the second time that day.
"Now," Dumbledore says, unwilling or unable to spark the usual twinkle into his eyes, "what exactly do the rest of you want?"
Arthur clears his throat. "It was brought to my attention that Draco Malfoy was sorted into Gryffindor."
"Yes," Dumbledore says. "That is a thing that happened."
"Well, are you–" Draco says uncomfortably, doing his best not to make eye contact with Dumbledore's dong, "–are you sure that–that that was–the correct decision?"
"That's not up to me," Dumbledore says. "That's up to the Sorting Hat. Sorting Hat?"
"I'm right," Seymour says. "He's a total Gryffindor."
"And there you have it," Dumbledore says. "Now Lucius, I'm sure you're disappointed–"
"DISAPPOINTED?" Lucius yells. "IN MY SON?"
"JESUS FUCK KEEP IT DOWN!" Dumbledore howls, massaging his temple.
"disappointed? in my son?" Lucius yells in a quiet voice. "lemme tell you something, lucius malfoy has been disappointed in a lot of things, but he has never, i mean never, never ever been disappointed in his son! you take that and shove it up your ass, baby! draco is my son, and anybody talking shit about him is about to get the shit knocked out of 'em, you feel me?"
"Fine," Dumbledore says, still massaging his forehead. "Draco's a Gryffindor, you're okay with it–"
"I'm not!" Arthur pipes up. "Honestly, Albus–"
Dumbledore lifts his head and glares at the people gathered in his office. "Shut. Up."
Arthur's mouth slams shut.
"Let me tell you something," Dumbledore says. "I have a bitch of a hangover right now, and your incessant bickering and yelling and ranting and raving over God knows what stupid issue is making it worse. Now what you're going to do is leave this office, and what I'm going to do is shut the door and then make myself a hangover cure consisting mainly of pancakes and Gatorade. Now, if you still want to bother me with whatever this is, you can do that in a month, when my current low-heat-but-simmering hatred of you for exacerbating my hangover has been allowed to cool. But until then, none of you are to bother me unless at least five students die. And even then, it'd be better if someone else–someone who isn't a constantly yelling nincompoop–gave me the news. Any questions?"
There are no questions.
"Go," Dumbledore says, pointing towards his office door.