"He wasn't the murderer. But he might have been the one who handed the key to the murderer."
Harry's hand clenched at his side, his knuckles cracking. "So—Hermione's guess was right? The attacks were done by the spiders themselves? Hagrid didn't order them to do it; those young, unruly male spiders slipped into the castle on their own to look for food?"
Dumbledore neither nodded nor shook his head. He looked at Harry for a long time.
Long enough for the wind to blow snow out through the cracks in the ruins and onto their faces, cold and prickling, as though someone were lightly brushing their cheeks with feathers.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps it wasn't only the spiders." His voice was so soft that it sounded as though he were talking to himself.
"But Harry, the truth will not come running out simply because you are anxious to find it. You need time. You need evidence. You need to find the true heir."
His hand rose again. This time, instead of resting on Harry's shoulder, it patted the back of Harry's head. The gesture was so gentle, like stroking a child who had just woken from a nightmare.
"You have good friends. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They are good people. They will help you uncover the truth." His hand withdrew and hung at his side, his fingers curling slightly. "Hogwarts now has Professor McGonagall holding the fort. She is as upright and resilient as Gryffindor's sword. If you need help, or discover any new clues, go to her at once. She will know how to handle it, and she will keep you safe."
Dumbledore paused, seeming to consider something. His gaze drifted from Harry's face to the broken stone pillar in the distance, to Iris's folded wings, to the