Lockhart dropped a sugar cube into Harry's teacup. Watching it slowly dissolve in the black tea, he leisurely gave the answer Harry had known all along but had not dared to say.
"The answer is yes. That's right, Hagrid would still do it."
"Because he's Hagrid. He would still save that egg, still raise that spider, still send it into the Forbidden Forest. He wouldn't change. But those spiders would. Those young spiders that he had never held in his hands, never warmed with his body heat—they didn't know Hagrid. All they knew was—hungry, food, eat. Hagrid's control over those spiders was zero."
Harry's back left the chair as he leaned forward, both hands braced against the tabletop. His eyes shone—not with the bright, blazing light of a torch, but with the light of someone who had finally been understood, who had found a kindred spirit, who could finally breathe easy.
"So—the attacks weren't Hagrid's doing. The spiders themselves—they were lured here by someone—" His words came in fragments, like someone who had groped through darkness for too long and had finally glimpsed a sliver of light. He did not dare run, afraid the light would go out if he moved too quickly. He could only inch forward, cautiously, with his feet sliding close to the ground.
Lockhart watched him, the corner of his mouth curled upward. It was not much of a smile, but it was steady. He reached out and picked up a slender silver key from the table. It was tiny, two sizes smaller than an ordinary key, with the letters "G.L." engraved on its bow. He set it down and pushed it toward Harry with one finger.
As the key slid over the tabletop, it made the faintest sound of metal scraping against wood, like a