"Mundungus certainly took quite the fall for you," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with quiet amusement.
"And what of it?" Snape's voice sliced through the air like a blade, each word dripping with venom. "That worthless scavenger finally served some purpose in his miserable existence. Did you honestly believe he hadn't been pilfering other treasures? The man can't so much as sip from a goblet at Grimmauld Place without first checking whether it's sterling silver."
"Severus, I wasn't casting blame on Orli," Dumbledore said gently, though his tone carried the weight of long patience tested.
"Orli, how in Merlin's name did you manage it?" Professor Lupin asked, his voice still thick with disbelief. "You actually destroyed a Horcrux—alone?"
"Two, actually," Dumbledore corrected, his voice growing quieter, more grave. "Ravenclaw's diadem fell to Orli's efforts as well."
Lupin went pale. "But if that's true, then just how many of these abominations did that monster create?" His fingers trembled as he counted. "The locket, the diadem, plus the ring and diary you mentioned—that's four already! Can a human soul even withstand being torn apart so many times?"
"Perhaps that's what's driving his descent into madness," Dumbledore mused, his ancient eyes growing distant. "But we cannot know the exact number with certainty. My research has yielded only one concrete conclusion—no wizard can create more than ten Horcruxes without their soul collapsing entirely into fragments beyond recovery. Which is why, Severus, I must ask you to remain vigilant for any whisper of additional Horcruxes. Every lead, no matter how tenuous, must be pursued."
"There's one more we can be reasonably certain exists," Orli interjected carefully. She couldn't reveal the cup's location outright—too dangerous, too many questions. Instead, she had to plant the seed and let them reach the conclusion themselves. "Hufflepuff's cup. While I don't know its current whereabouts, perhaps we should consider his pattern—he entrusted the diary to Lucius, gave the locket to Regulus. Wouldn't it follow that he might have placed the cup with another of his most trusted servants?"
Dumbledore began pacing, his long robes rustling against the stone floor. After several measured steps, his piercing gaze settled on Snape.
"I received no such artifact," Snape said after a moment's careful consideration, his black eyes narrowing in thought. "But there are precious few Death Eaters who commanded that level of trust—and most of them are currently enjoying the hospitality of Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange, for instance."
"The Lestrange family?" Lupin shook his head immediately. "Impossible. Their ancestral estate was ransacked thoroughly after the war ended. Every stone was turned, every secret passage explored."
"No," Dumbledore said softly, his footsteps finally coming to rest. "There exists another place. A location that would seem absolutely impregnable."
The words hung in the air like a curse. Snape's eyes widened with sudden, terrible understanding.
"Gringotts," they said in unison.
"A Gringotts vault," Dumbledore confirmed, his voice heavy with the implications.
Thank Merlin for brilliant minds, Orli thought, allowing herself a small breath of relief. At least she wouldn't have to spell it out completely.
"That's utterly impossible," Lupin protested, his voice rising with something approaching panic. "The vault's owner is rotting in Azkaban—we couldn't even attempt impersonation! Are you seriously suggesting we mount a direct assault on Gringotts? That would mean declaring war on the entire goblin nation!"
Orli felt the familiar weight of impossibility settling on her shoulders. This was precisely why she'd avoided moving against the cup. Bellatrix remained locked away in Azkaban—even if she could somehow acquire Polyjuice Potion ingredients, there was no way to obtain the woman's hair. And even if she managed that miracle, the goblins would never believe Bellatrix had simply waltzed out of the most secure prison in the wizarding world.
Beyond the cup lay two even more impossible targets: the serpent Nagini, never far from her master's side, and Harry Potter himself—the boy who lived, carrying a fragment of Voldemort's soul within him. Those Horcruxes would have to wait for circumstances beyond their current reach.
"So we must bide our time," Dumbledore concluded, his voice carrying the patience of centuries. "Wait for the proper moment to present itself."
His eyes found Snape's, and something passed between them—a look weighted with knowledge and terrible anticipation. Snape gave the barest nod, so subtle it might have been imagined.
Orli understood the unspoken truth that hung between them like a shadow. Azkaban's walls would not hold forever. The first great breakout was coming—she could feel it in the air like the electric charge before a storm. Bellatrix would taste freedom again, and when she did, their impossible task would become merely dangerous.
That was the moment Dumbledore spoke of. The moment when the pieces would finally align, and they could move against the cup that lay hidden in the deepest vaults of Gringotts, protected by goblin magic and the assumption that its owner would never again walk free.
All they could do now was wait, and prepare for the chaos that would surely follow.
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