Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
It was long in coming, but it's here. Enjoy.
If Dumbledore had been expecting a young, naïve, compliant, untried child, he was about to get a kick in the pants.
Chaosti was, by nature, an uncommonly clean child with a temperament that went into a rapid downwards spiral when he thought he was dirty. And right now, Chaosti was so dirty his hair was slick and slimy with grime.
Another point of interest was that this child was particularly enamoured by his hair. His hair was washed every second day without fail with the best hair-care products and brushed with exactly one hundred strokes every morning and night. Every night, his hair was placed into a braid and sprayed with leave-in conditioner for extra softness and shine. In short, messing with the hair was a big no-no.
Besides, Chaosti had a phobia of old people; especially old men (right up there with the Furry Critters Of Doom). The next point of interest is that, when scared, Chaosti becomes very, very, very volatile and aggressive. This behaviour had to do with living with four large predators who 'dealt with' any threats to their power base in a most brutal bloody fashion.
Final point of interest was Vampire Politics; very bloody line of work. Seriously. Vampire Politics was very much a blood sport, Machiavellian through and through with everyone trying to out-manoeuvre everyone else. Satu had explained it to Chaosti, at the tender age of four, as being similar to a war; there was you and your allies and flunkies and your enemies and their allies and flunkies and neutral parties who could go either way, all of whom were trying to out-manoeuvre their opponents and gain advantage or victory. To kill a close friend was the Game's equivalent of a polite note not to get involved in something.
To put it bluntly, Dumbledore was going to treat this child like any other child not raised by three of the oldest and most powerful vampires and singularly oldest werewolf on the planet and amidst a bloody political arena were it wasn't murder unless you were caught red-handed.
Despite massive, overbearing, colossal evidence to the contrary. Not to mention testimony from his own teachers.
A final footnote that should be noted would be that he didn't actually know any of this, and thus may be excused from the pop quiz at the end of the lesson.
Still…one would have proceeded with caution with an unknown, potentially dark child. But noooo, Dumbledore went into this little meeting with head at maximum inflation.
…We know how this will end, but let's find out the details for a kick, shall we?
Yes, we shall.
Judging by general body language, even a blind man could tell that Chaosti was Not Happy.
It could have been the stomping or the growling or clenching and unclenching of fists or even the 'I'm-Going-To-Kill-You-In-A-Brutal-Bloody-Fashion-With-A-Smile-On-My-Face' scowl. The gargoyle guarding the door to the Headmaster's office didn't even bother to wait for the password before scrambling out of the way.
Dumbledore barely glanced up when Chaosti arrived (only enough to see a dark figure) before continuing his oh-so-important letter to a Mr Malfoy. "Welcome Chaos-ti, my boy! I've been looking forward to meeting you-"
"First off; my name is Chaosti." The dark child's voice was cold and very obviously pissed. "Shay-oh-stee. Second; I am not your anything. I am Mr Frost to you until I tell you otherwise. We are not on a first name basis, Headmaster Dumbledore. And thirdly; you had better have a damned good reason for calling me here, and not just to meet me. I have things to do and people to talk to before curfew."
The old wizard behind the desk looked up, startled, at the now very noticeably dirty, very noticeably unimpressed child glaring at him with his mother's eyes from across his assortment of knick-knacks, one of those monstrous cats standing in his shadow.
The Icon of Light gave a grandfatherly smile that always put people off guard. It didn't work.
"My apologies, Mr Frost. I understand completely." Chaosti chose to ignore this polite little lie. "I actually asked you here to ascertain as to wether you were aware of your lineage-"
"I am." The dark child affirmed coldly. "It is irrelevant to me at this point in time and a great deal safer that Harry James Potter remain gone."
Dumbledore tried vainly to salvage the situation and conversation. "But surely you must understand that the Wizarding World needs their saviour? It would ease people's hearts to know you walk amongst them-"
He was once again cut off, to his chagrin.
"You speak as if I care what Harry Potter did. As far as I'm concerned, Harry Potter is dead. My name is Chaosti Jakluel Frost, and that is all I will ever be. If this leaks to the public, I will know who to blame and I shall be withdrawn from this school."
Dumbledore got the impression that he was losing control of the conversation. This was incorrect. He had already lost control of this conversation.
"But surely you must know that your presence will help people?"
Chaosti fought not to sigh. The old fart was just not getting the point. "My physician tells me that I have a deficiency in moral fibre and a mutated public duty gland and am therefore excused from saving worlds. Goodnight, Headmaster Dumbledore."
Chaosti left.
Dumbledore adjusted the letter to a Mr Malfoy.
"Good evening, Madam Bones."
"Satu. To what do I owe the presence of a vampire of your political stature?"
"I want to see the file on Sirius Black's trial."
"Hmmm. That was before my time. A moment please. I'll have to get it from the locker room."
There was nearly a half-hour of silence while Satu waited in Madam Bone's office. The door opened.
"It would appear that Mr Black was not granted a trial." Disapproval was heavy in the woman's voice.
"So I was right." Pause. "I want the case reopened. Furthermore, I want to know who the hell gave Dumbledore the right to choose Harry Potters guardians. I know for a fact the people he left them with are unfit to raise cats."
"You can be sure I'll look into it."
"Goodnight, Madam Bones."
"Good night, Elder Satu."
Quote: I have six locks on my door all in a row. When I go out, I lock every other one. I figure no matter how long somebody stands there picking the locks, they are always locking three.
-- Elayne Boosler