Under the Cursed Moon - CH - 91

Forks carried on.

The fog still rolled in every morning like a blanket drawn over the town’s shoulders. The grocery store still restocked on Tuesdays. Kids still whispered about legends of the woods, though now they’d moved on to talking about other things—baseball, festivals, summer plans.

The Cullens, though once the object of curiosity, were now simply a memory to most.

Dr. Carlisle Cullen had been respected—kind, soft-spoken, and brilliant—but doctors came and went. His absence at the hospital was noted but easily filled. The "children," all of whom had been enrolled at the high school, were missed less. They had made few strong ties, kept largely to themselves until the final few months, and when they were gone, most assumed they'd just moved like so many others before them.

A few kind neighbors still mentioned them now and again.

“They were polite kids,” someone would say.

“Dressed real nice,” another would nod.

And that was it.

In the Black Mansion, the absence was never felt.

Not truly.

Because they were never truly gone.

The Floo Network Harry had carved into existence glowed with warm magic daily. It had become as routine as opening a door. Sometimes, when Hermione passed by the living room fireplace, she’d hear footsteps echoing faintly from faraway stone—a Cullen arriving, or Teddy departing.

They were neighbors, in every way that mattered.

“Teddy! Come on!”

Renesmee’s voice echoed through the Floo fire one morning, her curls dancing as her head poked through the emerald flame.

“I told you the lake froze overnight! Come skating!”

Teddy bounded down the stairs, wand half-tucked into his belt, scarf around his neck.

“On my way!”

With a puff of green, he vanished.

The Cullen Estate in Alaska was unlike anything Teddy had ever seen.

Five hundred acres of wilderness wrapped around the property like a silver cloak. Tall black pines towered over deep snowbanks. Wolves howled freely at night. Frozen streams curled through rock and ice, and in the distance, mountain peaks stood watch like slumbering giants.

Here—there were no neighbors. No curious eyes.

And so, here, Renesmee and Teddy were free.

They raced across the woods at inhuman speed, dashing over snowbanks, leaping boulders, laughing so hard their voices scared the foxes. Teddy would shift into his wolf form, giant and sleek, bounding beside Renesmee with joyful growls, while she rode his back like a queen of the northern wilds.

Sometimes, they sparred.

Magic sparked from Teddy’s fingertips while Renesmee dodged and struck with her growing strength. They practiced in the wide glade behind the house, safe beneath enchantments Harry had left behind.

Teddy often stayed for days at a time in Alaska, his room set up beside Jasper’s old study. But every time he returned to Forks, the Black Mansion welcomed him with warmth and food and the gentle comfort of home.

And when the Cullens missed Forks weather, or wanted to walk the paths they once knew, they came too—via the Floo. Bella would bring Renesmee for a beach day. Edward would wander the quiet forest paths he once patrolled. Esme visited the Forks Preservation Council once a month. Alice still shopped at her favorite antique store. Carlisle met with local doctors on special cases.

It was as if they'd never left.

Hermione’s potion shipments arrived on schedule—blood pops, fortifying elixirs, and sun-blocking draughts. Harry maintained the fireplaces and the wards. Leah occasionally sent enchanted meat pies just because Teddy liked them.

And Teddy and Renesmee?

They talked every day.

By phone. By fire. Sometimes by racing through the Floo at dawn just to eat breakfast together.

To them, the world had simply grown bigger, not farther.

The people of Forks remembered the Cullens briefly and let go.

But in the hidden world, in the web of magic, family, and fire, the bond remained intact.

Forks had not lost the Cullens.

It had simply learned to share them with Alaska.

And Teddy, laughing in the snow beside his best friend, his hands full of enchanted snowballs and his heart full of wild joy—

—he would never feel the loss.

Only the gift of freedom.


For the first time in years, the scent of vampires no longer lingered in the pines or the sea breeze. The Cullen family—those elegant, disciplined predators who had dwelled just beyond the border—had departed for Alaska.

There had been no conflict. No broken treaties. No bloodshed.

But there was relief.

At the bonfire pit, beneath the shadow of ancient trees and the rhythmic crash of waves, Sam Uley sat cross-legged, a warm blanket draped over his shoulders. Around him, the rest of the pack gathered in a loose semicircle—Jacob, Embry, Paul, Seth, and others still too young to shift.

The fire burned steady.

“I never hated them,” Sam said finally. “Not once.”

“No one did,” Jacob replied. “But it’s easier now.”

Seth scoffed. “You mean quieter. No weird tension in the air.”

“And no nosebleeds from the smell,” Paul muttered.

Laughter rippled through the group. But under it all was something heavier—a shared truth they didn’t speak of often.

“We were never meant to be this way,” Embry said after a moment, staring into the flames. “We weren’t born to shift.”

Sam nodded slowly. “The gene was always there. Dormant. Ancient. Passed down from the First Guardians. But it only wakes up for one reason.”

“Vampires,” Seth muttered.

“Any vampire,” Sam confirmed. “Doesn’t matter if they’re monsters or monks. Their very presence stirs it.”

Jacob stretched his arms. “It’s not like the stories make it sound. Strength. Speed. Power. Sounds great, right?”

Paul growled under his breath. “They forget the anger.”

“And the restlessness,” Seth added. “It’s like there’s always a growl in your chest, waiting to get out.”

“And that’s not even the worst part,” Jacob said. “Not for the older ones.”

Sam’s eyes darkened. “The bonding.”

It was the part of the Quileute magic few outside their tribe understood—and even fewer inside wished to experience.

The power to imprint—to recognize one’s destined soul connection—was as mysterious as it was disruptive.

“You can be with someone for years,” Sam said quietly, voice bitter. “Love her. Build a life. Then one glance at a stranger—and it’s over.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

Seth looked at him, sympathy plain on his face.

Sam continued. “Not because you stopped loving her. But because something ancient in your blood says ‘That one. That’s yours.’ And nothing else matters. Not promises. Not time. Not loyalty.”

“So yeah,” Jacob said, resting his chin on his fist. “We’re glad they’re gone. Doesn’t mean we hated them.”

“They honored the treaty,” Sam said. “They respected the borders. Hell, under Harry’s eye, we even had a kind of friendship.”

Seth nodded slowly. “But their presence still messed with us. Made more kids phase early. Stirred up heat in the blood.”

“And now?” Paul asked.

“Now,” Sam said firmly, “we return to balance.”

The pack stared into the fire, watching the embers dance like fireflies.

They weren’t like other people. Not really.

They didn’t worry about careers in Seattle or university admissions. Their lives weren’t measured by promotions or prestige.

They were guardians. Chosen by blood. Tied to this land.

The world outside Forks and La Push could burn or flourish, and they would still stand, barefoot in the forest, watching the trees, listening to the wind.

“I don’t care what the Cullens do in Alaska,” Sam said finally. “As long as they stay gone.”

“And if they come back?” Embry asked.

Sam stared into the fire. “Then we talk. Again. Like we did before. But only if they remember who we are.”

“And who’s that?” Seth asked.

Sam’s voice was steady. Quiet. Absolute.

“We’re the ones who don’t forget.”


In the stone halls of Volterra, beneath blood-red banners and candlelight that never flickered, Marcus sat upon his ancient throne, fingers clasped, eyes dim but alert.

He did not blink as the reports came in.

“The Cullens are gone.”

The chamber fell quiet.

“They left in the span of two days,” the messenger added, clearly uncomfortable. “No trace. No bodies. No scent trail.”

Marcus’s voice was like dry wind. “And Riven?”

“Left behind.”

Marcus’s lips tightened. “They never trusted him.”

For centuries, the Volturi had ruled not by mercy, but by certainty—of movement, of control, of intelligence. But in this moment, everything about the Cullen exodus screamed one truth:

They had been outmaneuvered.

“They’ve gone to Alaska,” said a younger vampire in the shadows—Moris, lean and red-eyed, gifted with power resistance.

“Do you know that?” Marcus asked.

“No. But it is the only logical place. They had a property somewhere in Alaska, covered in winter, no humans for miles. No sunlight exposure. And large enough to disappear.”

“Yet we do not know where,” Marcus murmured.

“No,” Moris admitted. “And the crime reports show no increase in death rates. No missing persons. No patterns.”

Marcus’s expression did not change, but his fingers tapped once against the stone arm of his chair.

"That is why we have always feared the Cullens. Not for what they are. But for what they do not leave behind."

In a quiet antechamber below Volterra, a candle was lit before three scrolls.

They bore the names: Riven, Lysara, and Matheon.

An elder guard stepped forward, dipping a pen in blood-ink and writing one word across each scroll:

Return.

The orders would reach them by nightfall.

In the forests of Forks, Lysara stood high in the tree canopy, her sharp eyes sweeping across the snow-covered land. Below, in the distance, smoke rose from the Black Mansion—a warm house, full of laughter, safety, and comfort she had never known in Volterra.

The letter arrived with the soundless grace of a raven, bearing the Volturi seal.

She opened it without urgency.

She read the word Return, and closed her eyes.

Later, seated in the warmth of the Black Mansion’s library, Lysara gently passed the parchment to Hermione, who read it with careful, calm eyes.

“They want you back,” Hermione said quietly.

“I don’t want to go,” Lysara whispered.

Harry, standing near the fire, looked up. “Then don’t.”

“They’ll punish me.”

“They’ll try,” Harry said simply.

Lysara looked at him, not with fear, but with gratitude.

“They’ll never find the Cullens,” she added. “You know that, right?”

Harry nodded. “That was the idea.”

“No vampire can read your mind. No tracker can trace you. And the Cullens are somewhere no one dares to venture without a guide.”

“Exactly.”

Lysara leaned forward. “They’ll blame us. All of us.”

Harry shrugged. “Then let them.”

In Volterra, Marcus paced slowly across the black marble floor.

“They are no longer just a family,” he said to Moris. “They are a kingdom. Protected by a wizard, guarded by secrecy, and blessed by blood that leaves no stain.”

“They will become myth,” Moris said.

“They already are.”

And so, the orders went out.

Riven. Lysara. Mattheon.

Return.

But as the flames flickered over the seals, Marcus whispered something the others didn’t hear:

“Even shadows can’t touch what lives in the light.”


Deep beneath the city of Volterra, within the cold, vaulted chamber lit by flickering torches and ancient enchantments, the World Vampire Council convened in secret.

Three thrones stood at the head of the chamber, carved from dark stone veined with silver. Seated upon them were Marcus, brooding and silent; Caius, as sharp-eyed and cruel as ever; and in the center, his pale fingers steepled together, was Aro—the heart of the Volturi.

The circular table before them was lined with shadows—advisors, spies, scholars, and enforcers. Scrolls lay open. Names inked. Maps of vampire settlements stretched across the marble surface, one particular map showing the wilderness of Alaska, where the Cullens had vanished.

“The hybrid child needs to be found,” said a female scribe softly, unrolling the latest dispatch. “But she is no longer traceable. She does not feed. She does not hunt. She is no threat—yet.”

Caius scoffed. “Every threat begins as a child.”

Another vampire murmured, “If we can find her again, we might still classify her as a supernatural anomaly requiring containment—”

“Containment?” Aro interrupted, smiling like a knife. “No. That ship has sailed.”

He gestured at the map.

“They have magic. Wizard. Wards. Secrets even I cannot untangle. They have the wolf-born. The potions. The protections. They have... Harry Potter.”

Caius hissed, “He is mortal.”

“For now,” Aro murmured.

A silence spread like ink across the room.

“Let them run,” Aro said at last. “Let them hide. We are immortal. We are the mountain, not the river. The Cullens may flee to Alaska, to shadows, to spells and wolves and tricks.”

He leaned forward.

“But all magic burns out eventually. Even the brightest flame.”

Caius grunted. “What if they do not? What if Potter’s protections do not fade?”

Aro smiled.

“Then we wait for him to die. He is mortal. His wife is mortal. The Blacks are strong, but they will wither. We? We do not age. We do not forget.”

He looked down at the map and tapped his finger on Alaska.

“Sooner or later, they will make a mistake. Sooner or later, they will believe themselves untouchable. And in that moment—we will strike.”