Slytherin's Legacy Behind-the-Scenes

"You saved both of them, then," said Dumbledore. "Your glasses saved Mr. Weasley, and your spreading the word about the mirrors saved Miss Clearwater."

"Oh," Delphi said again. "Well, no, that wasn't me. Hermione was the one who found out that it's a basilisk, and—" And Draco was the one who spread the mirror thing around the school. "I can't take credit for that. I just... wanted to see if I could come up with something to keep people safe, and... and I guess it worked."

"I believe it did," Dumbledore said, smiling. "Though caution will still be necessary. It is possible, after all, that Mr Weasley was merely wearing your glasses when he caught sight of the basilisk's reflection in the mirror that Miss Clearwater was holding."

Delphi's shoulders sagged; she hadn't thought of that. "But that does at least confirm that mirrors work, right? We know for sure that if you see the basilisk's reflection instead of looking at it dead-on, you get petrified." Her brow furrowed as her mind started to race. "What if... what if we start hanging mirrors in the corridors? Everywhere would probably be best, but definitely at the corners... Might have to take down some portraits to do it, but... Would the people in the portraits be killed or petrified, do you think? They're not alive, so I wouldn't think so... but neither was Nearly-Headless Nick, so maybe...?"

That familiar twinkle was back in Dumbledore's eyes as he watched her think aloud; though she could practically feel Snape radiating annoyance from where he stood a few feet behind her, Dumbledore seemed nothing short of thrilled with everything she'd said. "There are many things," he said when she paused to think, "that are very rewarding, my dear, about being an educator. Moments like this are among them; the creativity and ingenuity of children never ceases to amaze. It is very refreshing, Delphi, to hear you thinking so very hard about how to protect the other students in this school."

Delphi frowned. Dumbledore had just complimented her, she knew that; and it wasn't like she thought he wasn't being honest. He wasn't mocking her, and she was pretty sure he meant what he'd said... it was just that—well, why wouldn't she be thinking about how to protect everyone else in the school? Delphi could think of only one reason—and the reminder made her spirits plummet like a quidditch player falling from their broom.

And Dumbledore, watching her, frowned slightly as well. "But I do hope that you understand," he went on, "that it is not your responsibility to worry about the safety of anyone besides yourself." Delphi stared. What was that supposed to mean? "It is very admirable, what you and your friends did last year and what I'm sure you hope to do now. But it is not upon your shoulders to stop the attacks or to protect your peers. It is mine and that of the other teachers. You do not need to burden yourself—beyond, of course, telling me if you again find the diary."

Delphi didn't know what to say. Dumbledore was wrong, but how was she supposed to explain that? No one ever listened to her when she tried.

After a moment, Dumbledore folded his hands together with a speculative little hum. "But I can see that you do not believe me," he said. "You feel as if you are guilty for the harm he's caused? Might that be why you fought with your friends a few weeks ago?"

Delphi winced. She really didn't want to talk about this—not now, and preferably not ever. She wanted to forget that those awful days apart from Harry and the others never even happened; she wished she could just pluck the memory of the whole ordeal from everyone's mind and make absolutely sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one ever brought it up again. "We fought," she said in a sad, small voice, "because I didn't want to tell them the truth. It was bad enough that I had to admit to Tom Riddle being my dad. But admitting that... that I'm the daughter of You-Know-Who... it felt impossible—especially when they were already mad. And... professor, I don't understand. Why didn't you tell them yourself? That night, when you went to get the diary? If you'd just told them then..."

Delphi didn't know for sure what would have happened. Maybe they could have worked things out sooner... or maybe they never would've been able to work things out at all. Would she have lost them all forever if they had found out that night?

But Dumbledore seemed to be caught off-guard. "I did not tell them," he answered, "because that secret was always yours to share with them, not mine. You deserved to be able to tell it to your friends when you felt the time was right. When you felt prepared."

"But I didn't get to wait until I was ready to tell my friends," Delphi said, shaking her head. "I don't think we ever would've been able to make up if I hadn't come clean, and I was only able to do that because of Hagrid and Neville and Hermione being so nice and trying so hard... It's a miracle that Harry says he's forgiven me. I never would have, if I were him."

"Wouldn't you?" Dumbledore asked. "If your positions were reversed, and your parents had been murdered by Harry's, you would have held that against him? I very much doubt that is true. Your father's actions are no more your fault than anyone else's; they are his and his alone. You believe somehow that what your father has done is your fault?"

"Not my fault, no, but—"

"If you are not at fault, then what is there to forgive?"

Delphi clamped her mouth shut and only barely suppressed the urge to cross her arms defiantly over her chest. She was getting so utterly sick of this insistence that there was nothing to forgive. Of course there was! Otherwise, she wouldn't feel so damn guilty all the time. Hell, if everybody could just stop saying, "there's nothing to forgive," and start simply saying, "I forgive you," instead, maybe then she'd finally feel a bit better about the whole damn thing! Repeating this nonsense to her over and over again wasn't going to make it true!

"Delphi," Dumbledore said, and the way he spoke so gently to her now made her sink into a glare, "perhaps you should consider that if you think the rest of your fellow students should not be judged or persecuted—or, say, petrified—for their lineage... perhaps your own does not define you, as well."

"I know that!" she insisted. "It's not about my lineage. I don't care about that. I care about my father's actions—what he's still somehow doing here in the school right now with the basilisk! You can't honestly tell me that if your dad was the one trying to kill your friends, you'd be happy doing nothing about it! And—and you can't tell me, either, that if I weren't doing something to try to help, you wouldn't think less of me. If I were just minding my own business right now and didn't seem to care about everything that's going on, you'd be suspicious of me—not because of anything I did but because I'm related to him. I'm going to be treated differently. I'm always going to be treated differently once people find out. I have to try to earn forgiveness whether or not there's anything to forgive. It's guilt by association. So what if it isn't fair?"

Dumbledore stared at her for a moment, and Delphi, who realized too late that her voice had just risen nearly a yell quite without her intention, tried to force herself calm. She was shaking very slightly, as anxious and wired as if she thought she might have to flee or fight at any moment, and the absurdity made her terribly self-conscious. What must Snape and Dumbledore think of her nerves?

"Perhaps you are correct," Dumbledore began, "in a certain fashion. I cannot honestly say that you are not being treated differently than the other students, I suppose. You are getting a certain amount of special treatment, after all, aren't you? You have been allowed to shirk your obligation to sit with your own house in the Great Hall; Professor Snape has taken it upon himself to provide you with extra lessons; and I myself gave you a very special book of my own creation, one I wrote specifically for you." Dumbledore waved his wand, and then there it was—Prudentia sat upon his desktop, looking just the same as it had the night that Delphi had left it there. The night when it had accidentally led her to discover her connection to Lord Voldemort himself.

"However—I have been at this school for almost a century. I have decades of experience working with children precisely your age, and I have spent many years learning how best to educate and nurture them. And what I have learned is that no two children are precisely alike—which means that no two children can be treated precisely the same. Educating children means doing one's best with each individual child; it means discerning, understanding, and meeting their own individual needs. And you, Delphi, if you will forgive my saying so, have different needs than most. When I say that you are correct in a certain fashion, I mean only this: Being the child of Lord Voldemort does not make you guilty—it makes you vulnerable. Who your father is will be a burden to you for the rest of your life. Some will hate you for it; others will seek to use you to their own advantage. My job with you, as with all of my students, is to make sure you have the opportunity to grow into the best possible version of yourself. You are not guilty and you will never be guilty for things that you did not do. You do not need to earn forgiveness... but I understand why you feel as if you do.

"Now! This remains yours." Dumbledore gestured toward the book between them, and Delphi let her gaze fall back to it again. Did she want it back? She'd thought when she'd left it here that she wouldn't want it anymore, but now that it was right in front of her again... "If you still wish to have it, you may take it back. I do not blame you for forgetting it in the midst of what happened that night, but if perhaps instead you meant to return it permanently..."

Delphi made up her mind in a heartbeat. "I'll take it." What use was there in holding a grudge against a book?

"Good," Dumbledore said, smiling once again. "And I meant what I told you last year, Delphi. I would like there to be trust between the two of us. I would like to feel that I can trust you, and I would like you to feel that you can trust me in kind. I believe, because you are here confessing to me about your invention, that I can trust you. Do you feel that you can trust me, too?"

"I... I think so, professor."