A/N: No randiness in this chapter, but I like it nonetheless. I have never been a big fan of Dumbledore, but neither do I see him in an entirely negative light. This particular story, however, is writing itself at this point, and the Muse demanded that Dumbledore be unlikable. And who am I to argue with the Muse?

I do not own Harry Potter or anything else in JKR's world. All of the above is her sole and exclusive property.

I do own Miss Ambrosio.

Snape tapped his booted right foot repeatedly against the stone floor in annoyance as he waited for the damnably slow circular staircase leading to the Headmaster's office to reappear. The gargoyle sentinel had turned up its stone nose at Snape's usage of the correct password, as though it still didn't much of him, and would rather not have granted him access.

Snape was tempted to inquire whether or not the gargoyle had been a member of Gryffindor house during its time as a human, before it had been relegated to this cold and useless existence.

Why the fuck the Headmaster employs this damn staircase as the entrance to his office is beyond me, he thought irritably. Damned Gryffindors. Always acting as though they have no use for appearances, when in reality they never waste an opportunity to impose their grandeur on others using roundabout means such as this. At least we Slytherins are honest in our desire to be seen as powerful.

Agonizingly slowly, the moving stairs carried him to the all too familiar office. Snape hated being there. For one thing, it smelled like old people. For another, the old coot always made him wait. Always. It was as though he was conveying a message to the dour man.

No matter what you do, how much you sacrifice, how much you suffer: it'll never be enough. You are in my debt forever.

Yes, well, Snape now had a card to play. He had had it ever since the end of the previous year, and he would use it now, if he had to.

"Severus!" came the perpetually cheery tone of the Headmaster. Even when certain situations necessitated a certain amount of gravity, there was always an annoyingly light overtone to the ponderous voice which had made so many demands of the dark man.

Snape didn't get up.

"I have happened upon a piece of information which I find it urgently necessary to discuss with you," he told his master bluntly.

Dumbledore's posture changed slightly as he leaned forward, interest sparking swiftly in his eyes.

"You were summoned? Severus, we had an agreement. You were to inform me before answering Tom's calls. Why have you not reported to me sooner?"

Snape felt the familiar, quick rush of an irritation that skirted hatred.

"The Dark Lord has not called me for weeks." He didn't bother trying to conceal the edge in his voice. That was all he was good for to the Order. Not a damn person in the organization gave a shit about him as a person. It was all about what he could do for them.

"What, then?" Dumbledore leant back in his imposing chair, reaching for a lemon drop. He didn't offer one to Severus.

"This is a different matter altogether. It concerns one of the students of my House." He just wanted to get this conversation over with, and get out of this musty, scarlet and gold cage.

Dumbledore pursed his lips with what Snape knew to be distaste.

"Son, you know that I hate to get involved with your snakes," he told the younger man, who had to call upon his considerable self-control not to bristle noticeably.

He had always hated being called that. He supposed that it might sound paternal and kind, coming from someone else, but in Dumbledore's unctuous tones, it simply sounded patronizing. He sneered inwardly.

I may be scum beneath your shoes, old man, but my skills at Occlumency will always be far superior to yours.

Good thing, too. Snape had no desire for Dumbledore to see the thoughts he had been having recently about his student. Or their little interlude in his storage closet. Or the fact that Snape was currently imagining Dumbledore dangling upside down from the rafters for referring to his Slytherin charges as "snakes", with that faint curl to his upper lip.

Maybe if less people judged us, less of us would turn out the way we do.

"This is no adolescent dispute or skirmish," he said shortly. "Were you aware that Miss Ambrosio, one of my seventh year advanced Potions students, has veela blood?"

The old wizard's eyes opened wide, the only immediate indication that he was shocked to the bone.

And they all think he is infallible, Severus snorted silently. Honestly. Students could have died! She could have blown up the whole school!

Dumbledore was quite aware of the implication of Snape's question, which he processed for several long moments while the Potions Master waited impatiently, knowing that if he demanded a reaction, the ornery man would only make him wait even longer.

"I shall be having a long talk with the Head Registrar," he finally offered, fingertips pressing lightly together in front of his face. "In the meantime, see that she is well-supervised."

Snape's eyes bulged. Any other man would have stuttered in outrage. As it was, he took several deep breaths before rejoining.

"I can't possibly continue to accept her in my class, Headmaster. It is a miracle she has not caused devastation thus far. There are far too many students to supervise, most of whom suffer simply from a pervasive and unrelenting case of stupidity. Miss Ambrosio, however, is a far more volatile case. I cannot, in good conscience, risk missing something."

Dumbledore looked as though he didn't think much of Snape's conscience.

Snape ground his teeth quietly. Dumbledore was a perfectly proficient potioneer; he was simply goading him. Because he could. Because he had the upper hand. Because this was an unequal relationship.

It was time to play his card. The guilt card.

"After what you asked me to do last year, you are unwilling to help me resolve this simple matter?" he demanded.

Snape had flat out refused when the old man had come to him with his "plan", arguing that he had already blotted his soul far more than was healthy with the things he was regularly forced to do in his role as spy. He had known Dumbledore was dying; his cursed hand was resilient to treatment, and defied all known laws of magical healing, but in Snape's mind, the concept of "for the greater good" only went so far. Knowing his taskmaster, with his nightmarish Gryffindor attitude of sacrifice, wouldn't let him off the hook as long as the dark curse consuming his body remained operational, Snape had focused all his efforts during his nonexistent leisure time on a potion to cure him. It had worked.

Dumbledore had the grace to avert his eyes.

He had never thanked Severus. They had never spoken of it, and Snape was counting upon this fact to throw the man off guard and wring cooperation from him.

"What is it you require?" he asked the Potions Master, sounding put-upon.

And they say my billowing entrances and window slamming are dramatic.

"I require assistance determining the exact nature of the potion the girl created in one of my more recent classes. Whenever a veela alters the content of a potion, it is vital that its characteristics and properties be examined and catalogued for future reference. It could be anything: an healing elixir, a pain potion, even a dark substance. It must be identified and registered with the Ministry."

"Very well," came the reluctant answer. "Bring me a sample of the liquid, and I will endeavor to ascertain its nature."

The older wizard rose, making the grunting sounds that only the elderly make when changing position. Snape knew that he was being dismissed.

"What am I to do with the girl?" he demanded of Dumbledore's retreating back.

The old man looked over his shoulder, eyes appearing impossibly small behind his half-moon spectacles.

"The girl?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing further.

On its shelf, the Sorting Hat peered down at Snape suspiciously.

Strengthening his Occlumency shields, Snape simply nodded.

"Yes. The girl. As I told you, I am unable to continue to accept her in my group class. It is unsafe."

The Headmaster sighed, as though Snape was being ridiculous.

"I will rectify the oversight, and see to it that Miss Ambrosio's veela heritage is documented appropriately. A letter will be sent to her parents, to impress upon them the importance of full disclosure of relevant personal data. As for lessons, simply conduct private classes with her, to enable her to continue her studies."

Snape's jaw dropped in outrage and dismay.

"I can't possibly-" he began, then trailed off, shaking in fury.

The old dodger was gone.

"Yes, my health is quite good at the moment," he snarked into the silence, directing his rage at the general direction of the now-closed door leading to Dumbledore's private quarters. "Thank you so much for your concern. What's that? Why yes. Yes, I would be positively delighted to devote my extensive private time to tutoring!"

Snarling, he billowed his way out of the office, pausing only to throw a rude hand gesture over his shoulder in the general direction of the Hat.

He took great pains to slam the door.

Poor Snape. Dumbledore is kind of a doosher in this story, isn't he? I swear, I don't normally think this poorly of him. He's just writing himself in this tale, like all the rest of my characters.

Hmm, private lessons? I think we all know that's going to mean trouble.

I'm planning out the next chapters: we're going to learn more about how Snape became a vampire, how he cured Dumbledore's hand, and how he and Miss Ambrosio deal with their attraction.

Please review. I beg of you. It inspires me so much. Plus, if you review, I will return the favor and review your stories. =) It's all about mutual encouragement, people.

xoxo.