Under the Cursed Moon - CH - 82

Even as Forks settled into a comfortable stillness after the thunder of celebration, another kind of storm began to gather—quiet, cold, and cunning.

Far across the Atlantic, in the blackened marble halls of Volterra, a bitter wind howled through open archways. It was a wind that carried no warmth, only the weight of old grudges.

Inside the council chamber, the three surviving masters of the Volturi stood in uneasy silence.

Caius slammed his pale hand down onto the carved stone table, sending cracks racing along its surface.

“We should have burned them to the ground!” he snapped, his voice echoing through the ancient chamber. “The Cullens, the shapeshifters, the humans meddling in our affairs—and that wizard!”

Aro stood calmly at the head of the chamber, hands folded into the sleeves of his robe, his dark eyes unreadable.

“You mistake survival for weakness, brother,” he said softly. “Had we fought, we would have lost not just guards… but dignity. And our place as rulers.”

Caius sneered. “Because of one mortal with a wand?”

Aro’s smile never reached his eyes.

“No, not just a mortal. Harry Potter. The wizard who dismantled the Dark Lady’s war, who shattered vampire covens in a blink, and who—unlike us—has nothing to lose.”

Marcus, still and quiet, leaned forward. His voice was low and final.

“He let us live twice. That was mercy. If we push again, he will not grant it twice.”

Caius scowled, but said nothing.

Aro turned toward the arched doorway where four figures had been waiting, cloaked in muted shadows. He gestured them forward with a single flick of his hand.

“It is not time for war,” he said. “It is time for… understanding. Send in the Whispers.”

The four stepped forward: a vampire with gold eyes and long dark braids; another with burn scars up her neck and a quiver of blades across her back; a human scholar with ink-stained hands and half-moon spectacles; and lastly, a man—young, quiet, and unnervingly calm.

Aro addressed them without flourish.

“You are to go to Forks. Blend. Observe. Report. Cause no chaos. Yet.”

The vampire nodded. “What is our cover?”

“You,” Aro pointed to the gold-eyed vampire, “will pose as a migrating nomad, curious about peaceful living.”

“To the lady,” he continued, “you will pose as a hunter, seeking sanctuary from the north.”

The human adjusted her glasses. “And I?”

“A field researcher. Claim you are studying small-town American cultures. Take notes. Watch who speaks. Who disappears.”

Lastly, Aro faced the young vampire. “You are to make yourself visible. Friendly. Curious. Be seen in town. Lure out any magical presence. Potter’s people will react. That’s how we find their weaknesses.”

He gave a nod, eyes blank as stone.

“You leave tonight.”

Back in Forks, Carlisle Cullen sat in the quiet study of the Cullen house, reading a letter by firelight. His brow furrowed. The wax seal was broken neatly—it had come from a coven in British Columbia.

He folded the letter and stood abruptly.

“This can’t wait.”

Later that evening, the door to Black Mansion opened, letting in the cool mountain air.

Harry, seated beside the hearth reading a book on druidic wards, looked up as Carlisle entered.

“Didn’t expect you this late,” Harry said, rising. “Everything alright?”

Carlisle handed over the letter. “Not exactly.”

Hermione emerged from the adjoining room, still in her reading robe, sensing the tension.

Harry read the letter silently, eyes scanning the elegant cursive.

“Strangers seen near the coast. Asking about Forks. About vampires. About magic. Not the usual nomads. They’re organized. Quiet. They know what questions to ask.”


Harry folded the letter and looked up slowly.

“They’ve started.”

Hermione frowned. “Volturi?”

“No doubt,” Harry said. “They’re not brave enough to strike openly anymore. But spies? Yes. This is how they work.”

Carlisle looked grim. “What do we do?”

“We don’t panic,” Harry replied. “We prepare.”

He turned toward Hermione. “We need distraction wards. Sensory veils. Everything short of combat barriers.”

Hermione nodded, already halfway to her study. “I’ll start layering protections tonight.”

“Teddy will need to stay closer to the mansion,” Harry added. “They might try to approach him to test our responses.”

Carlisle exhaled slowly. “I’ll inform Esme. The rest of the family will stay alert.”

A modest grey sedan pulled into Forks late one afternoon. The vehicle had been rented from Seattle under a different name and driven carefully through the surrounding forests. It carried four occupants—only one of whom had any true business being in Forks, and even she didn’t know the full truth.

They arrived together. But they would not remain together. That was the first rule of infiltration.

By the edge of town, the car rolled to a gentle stop.

The human woman, dressed in a brown coat and glasses, adjusted her leather satchel and turned to the driver—the vampire with golden eyes.

“From this point on, we separate,” she said in a voice that was polite but sharp. “No one will believe I’m here doing cultural research while surrounded by people who never blink.”

The vampire gave her a flat smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll blend better without you, too.”

She stepped out onto the gravel shoulder, took a deep breath, and began walking into town. Her real name was Dr. Ivy Kestrel, a trained anthropologist who had once studied ancient texts for the British Museum. But now, she was in the service of Aro, held in place by a carefully crafted magical compulsion. Her mind remained her own—mostly—but she would not disobey him. Not until her task was done.

Her goal was deceptively simple: find a way into the magical world of America.
And for that, she would need the trust of one family: the Potters.

Aro had done his research thoroughly. He knew Hermione Granger—now Hermione Black—was not only Harry Potter’s wife, but a renowned scholar in her own right. If there was a doorway into the American magical community, Hermione would know it.

Ivy’s cover was airtight: a visiting historian interested in rural towns and their cultural preservation. She’d already contacted the Forks library under this pretense and had arranged an appointment with one of the town's local record-keepers. Her plan was to build trust, weave herself into the town’s social web, and eventually “accidentally” meet the Potters.

What no one knew was that her satchel was lined with magically sensitive parchment, enchanted to absorb and translate passive magical residue—designed by the Volturi’s stolen magical engineers. She didn’t need to break into wards. She just needed to get close.

Back where the car had dropped them, the other three agents began to scatter.

Riven appeared to be in his early twenties, with shaggy dark blond hair and a soft-spoken demeanor. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans and had the posture of someone trying to appear harmless.

His ability was rare and invaluable: a mental shield stronger than anything the Volturi had seen since Bella Swan. Even Aro could not read him.

His task: infiltrate the Cullens, present himself as a wandering nomad interested in the vegetarian lifestyle, and earn their trust. He would claim to admire their restraint, their philosophy—and ask to learn from them.

“I’ll approach Esme first,” he told the others earlier. “She’s the heart of that coven.”

He carried with him a background story, complete with forged documents, detailing a solitary existence of wandering the forests of Alaska and Canada. But underneath it all, Riven's mind was fully aligned with the Volturi. And they needed him where Edward’s telepathy could not reach.

Maltheon had been turned centuries ago. A tall, silver-haired man with ancient eyes and a soft voice, he was genuinely a vegetarian vampire—a rarity even before he was recruited.

He would not lie much. His presence would seem natural to the Cullens. A peaceful nomad with old-world values, passing through.

His mission wasn’t to infiltrate—it was to observe, to remain in the periphery and report to the Volturi spy if anything changed. He would speak little, listen much, and note every visitor, every strange scent, every magical ripple he could detect in the earth and trees.

Lysara, the silent observer, would play the most dangerous role. A powerful vampire with pale brown skin, quiet footsteps, and hollow eyes, she would remain unknown to Forks. She would stay hidden in the surrounding forests—listening, watching, and reporting.

She was never to make contact.

Her job was to predict when Harry and Hermione let their guard down—when their house wards flickered, or when the magical child left the safety of home.
She would move in shadows, her scent cloaked by old Volturi elixirs designed to slip past even wolf noses.

And when the time was right, she would act.

By the next morning, Ivy had secured a cozy corner room in one of Forks’ historic inns. She walked through the town square, polite and inquisitive, noting everything.

She smiled at the barista in the café.

She greeted children on their way to school.

She admired the town notice board and asked thoughtful questions about the local history museum.


The gold-eyed vampire stood on a hill overlooking the soft lights of Forks. Below, children played, unaware of the cold eyes watching them. His partner, sat sharpening her knives beside a tree.

“You see anything worth noting?” the dhampir asked without looking up.

“Plenty,” the vampire whispered. “But not what I expected. They seem… peaceful. Unified.”

The girl scoffed. “Peace is a mask. Every empire wears one before it burns.”

Further down the slope, the human woman quietly wrote in her notebook under the dim glow of a lantern.

Subject appears to hold territory as sacred. Locals unaware of magical presence. Will approach town library under false pretense.

And by the bus stop near the main street, the young vampire smiled as a boy handed him a festival flyer from the week before.

“Thank you,” he said kindly, as his eyes gleamed faintly red. “I’m very… curious about this place.”

Ivy Kestrel had always loved old towns. The way their silence told stories, the way bricks and trees held memories no one noticed anymore. Forks, however, was different. It didn’t just hold onto its history—it guarded it.

She wandered the Forks public library in the early hours of the day, her notebook already filled with handwritten observations.

"Founded as a timber town in the early 1900s… Native alliances played key roles in land agreements… Floods, economic collapse, recovery… still rich with forest and legacy…"

The librarian, Mrs. Callahan, an elderly woman with a voice like parchment and spectacles bigger than her hands, was delighted to have a researcher in town.

"You’re the first person to ask about our founding families since the paper ran that anniversary article," she said, leaning over the archive drawers.

“History speaks loudest when no one listens to it anymore,” Ivy said gently, smiling. “And I try to listen.”

She spent hours there—poring over handwritten ledgers, old land transfer records, and yellowed newspaper clippings from the early 20th century. She was fascinated by the tension and cooperation between early white settlers and the Quileute tribe, particularly during the first timber boom.

But she wasn’t just reading. She was watching.

She took careful note of how often “the Black family” appeared in town records.

That afternoon, Ivy stood before the Phoenix Sports Equipment Factory—a low, modern building made of red brick and steel, humming with industry. Smoke puffed softly from its exhaust towers, and the parking lot was packed. Native women came and went through side doors with lunchboxes and tool belts.

She entered the front lobby, clipboard in hand, wearing a professional smile. The front desk was manned by a cheerful young woman wearing a Phoenix-branded hoodie.

“Good afternoon,” Ivy said with gentle warmth. “My name is Dr. Ivy Kestrel—I’m a historian working on a cultural preservation book about towns in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve been hearing incredible things about this factory—how it’s been revitalizing the local economy and providing work for tribal families. I was hoping someone might give me a short tour—or perhaps an interview?”

The woman blinked in surprise. “Wow, that’s... rare. We don’t usually get visitors who know that much.”

“I try to do my homework.” Ivy gave a small, genuine laugh. “And I’d love to speak with some of the women here, if they’re comfortable. I’ve read that the Quileute culture has unique skills when it comes to crafting.”

“I’ll see who’s free,” the woman said, lifting the phone.

As she waited, Ivy let her gaze scan the space—clean, efficient, with hints of Hermione’s organizational style. There were posters about community education programs, native art workshops, and a flyer mentioning the Forks Annual Festival, hosted yearly by the factory itself.

So this is how they’ve integrated, she thought. Magic, money, and influence—woven into a town so small no one would suspect it.


Moments later, a tall woman in her mid-50s emerged from a hallway, wiping oil from her hands. Her features were strong, her eyes sharp.

“I’m Sue Clearwater,” she said. “You said you’re writing a book?”

Ivy extended her hand. “Yes, and I’d love to hear your story, if you’re willing.”

Sue didn’t trust easily, but she knew better than to ignore someone sniffing around their land.

She led Ivy through the factory, pointing out the custom carving stations, the automated assembly lines, and the youth apprenticeship board.

“These kids need something solid to grow into,” Sue said. “Harry and Hermione understood that. They built the place with that in mind.”

“You speak of them like they’re close to the community,” Ivy prompted.

“They’re more than close,” Sue said without hesitation. “They’re part of it.”

Ivy nodded thoughtfully, jotting in her notebook.

“And do either of them come here often? I would love to request a brief interview.”

Sue smirked a little. “Hermione drops by now and then. Harry… usually keeps to himself. But you’ll see them eventually, if you stay around long enough.”

Ivy made a mental note.

So Hermione visits. That’s my way in.

Sue’s voice cut back through her thoughts. “You know, most historians don’t bother with our side of things. You sure you’re writing a book and not working for some development company?”

Ivy offered a look of mild offense. “I understand the suspicion. But I assure you, I’m a historian first. I write stories people forget.”

Sue gave a slow nod, though her eyes still held watchfulness. “Then you’re welcome to sit in on one of our weekend weaving circles. You’ll learn more there than in any textbook.”

“I’d be honored,” Ivy said.