𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

" song to the siren "

✤ ✾ ✤

. . . AUGUST, 1976

ONLY THE DIM kitchen light kept her company at this hour. The clock on the wall revealed the time: one thirty-four in the morning. The radio on the counter had been left on; a habit of her dad's. She switched it off just as the late-night host of RTÉ Radio One was beginning to speak.

Maeve's head spun with relief. Declan's closed at two on Thursdays, but it was never the end until all of the patrons had their last drinks and finally filtered out. And then there was the cleaning until the smell of ammonia bloomed in her lungs. Declan had dismissed her early from all of it. He was in a remarkably good mood; Liverpool had just won a match.

She kicked off her shoes and untucked her black shirt from her equally-stained black pants. Opening up the fridge, she began to pull out various meats and block of cheddar cheese. She pulled a box of crackers from the press and dumped several on her plate.

It was only the tick of the clock and the sound of her chewing that filled the room as she ate. Briefly, she closed her eyes and let her mind swim in the quiet.

A clatter of something falling outside cut through the silence.

Maeve stood and abandoned her food. First, she hoped it was an owl cutting through the darkness with a letter. A letter from Sirius Black, specifically. It was August twelfth, exactly 19 days since she had heard anything from him. But then the sounds continued, too loud for an owl.

New scenarios began to filter through her mind. Death Eaters, Dementors, the Dark Lord himself. Or, it could be a rogue sheep and you're scaring yourself for no reason, she chided. The neighbors had complained only yesterday that one of the lambs had made it onto their lawn.

Her wand was in her desk drawer. By the time she made it upstairs, it might be too late. And so, armed with all of Mairead's boxing knowledge, Maeve walked towards the back door.

Bare feet met the dew of the grass in the yard. The noises were coming from the patio attached to their overgrown mess of a garden. Heart hammering, Maeve took a step forward.

She held out her hand and braced for the worst. "Lumos."

Light engulfed the corner of the garden next to the outdoor fireplace that had been part of her dad's short lived pizza making hobby. They normally just used it as a fire pit for roasting sausages in the summer. Tonight, though, there was a boy climbing out of the soot. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the bright light.

It was Sirius Black.

"Sirius." Maeve stared at him. "How–? What are you doing here?"

Over two weeks of unanswered letters, and now he was standing in front of her. In Ireland. Sirius Black is standing in my backyard.

He coughed, meeting her eyes with that smile that could have melted glaciers. "Tried to get to the Potters–" another cough "–something went wrong, your name was the first one I could think of."

"Lucky, then," Maeve said. Their fireplace wasn't even registered in the Floo Network. It had been ages since it had even been used for travel.

For what felt like a very long time, they just stared at each other. Even though he was still covered in charcoal and ash, it was obvious that the summer had changed him. He was now unmistakably taller. His hair had been cut up to his ears in an uncharacteristically uniform style. There was a certain sharpness to him, as if someone had attempted to hone him into something he was not.

"I'm sorry, Maeve," he blurted.

"You're sorry?" she repeated, bewildered.

"I got all of your letters. I got everyone's letters." He glanced behind him and Maeve realized he had dragged an entire trunk through the Floo with him. "I just knew I needed to do it on my own. I never would have gotten out of there if I didn't."

Maeve nodded as her brain scrambled. "Let's go inside. We can get the trunk when it's light out."

Her mum had gone to London to spend a few days with Aunt Josey and Aoife, and as far as Maeve knew, her dad was asleep. Sorcha wouldn't be home for three days. Still, she was extra careful as she opened the door to the house.

At the top of the stairs was a box of charity donations and Maeve rummaged through for an old pair of pants and a shirt of her fathers to give to Sirius. She showed him where the bathroom was and left to clean the soot off of the staircase.

Sirius had, according to his friends, spoken about running away for years. If things had gotten worse, it wasn't too surprising of a thing. She had seen what it was like at the Christmas party. No one could fault him for wanting out. Unfortunately for him, he had ended up in the wrong country.

When she returned upstairs, Sirius was not in the bathroom. A few frantic seconds later and she found him standing stock-still in the middle of her bedroom.

The room was more of a mess than usual; her long shifts at the pub hadn't given her much time to think about cleaning. Chemistry books were stacked in piles on the floor, and clean clothes were piled in her desk chair. Shells, rocks, marbles, stray guitar picks, and all manner of trinkets covered her dresser.

But Sirius noticed none of this. He had paused in front of a Rolling Stones poster, touching it with an outstretched hand as if waiting for it to move.

"I haven't ever been to Ireland," he told her without turning around.

"Really?" she asked, discreetly kicking some dirty clothes under her bed.

"My parents weren't ones to travel outside of their own circles. I always wanted to come here, especially after hearing you talk about it. Not like this though," he said, finally turning to face here. There was a purpling bruise on his cheek, as well as the beginnings of a black eye.

"Sirius," she breathed. "What happened to your eye?"

"Do you mind?" he asked, pointing at the floor. She shook her head no, and he laid down on the rug.

Maeve laid down next to him and stared up at the ceiling where glow in the dark star stickers still greeted her. "My ma will be home tomorrow morning. Er, today, actually. She can get you to the Potter's house," Maeve offered.

"I am sorry, Maeve. I didn't mean to come here."

She smiled softly. "I don't think I've ever heard you say sorry for something that wasn't your fault."

He turned his head to look at her. When he smiled, she could see his lip was split. "It won't be happening again."

"Right." Maeve swallowed hard. "Will you tell me what happened, please?"

"I owe you that, I suppose." He turned to stare up at the ceiling again. "I was going to go quietly, had it all planned to sneak out when no one was home. But my mother had a dinner party and I just couldn't keep my mouth shut. She told me to go, so I went up to my room and got my trunk. She caught me as I was coming down the stairs." He lifted a careful hand to drift over his cheek. "I made it all the way to the fireplace but Regulus ran in and was yelling and begging me not to leave. I tried to get to the Potters but then I started thinking about what I was doing, showing up out of nowhere, and I just panicked."

"It's alright that you came here."

He sat up and finally took in her appearance. "What were you doing awake at this hour, anyway?"

"I just got home from work," she yawned.

He leaned forward. "You smell like chips and beer."

Maeve laughed quietly. Even with the bruises, he looked remarkably noble from this angle. "Do you ever worry you're developing some dog-like traits?"

Sirius just shook his head. "No."

It was a long time before either of them said anything else. Her brain had become muddled from lack of sleep, the thought that she had forgotten to punch her timecard at the pub, and the knowledge that Sirius was laying on the floor next to her. His chest fell and rose in an ebay rhythm and she thought he might have fallen asleep.

The dawn chorus began outside of Maeve's open window. Songbirds called out in the early blue light.

"Come on," she said as she stood up.

Sirius's eyes flew open. He looked shocked, and then at ease as he remembered where he was. "Where are we going?" he asked, voice hoarse with sleep.

"I want to show you something."

His lips twisted into some semblance of a grin as he followed her back down the stairs and through the garden. Maeve pushed open the backyard gate and walked out into the knee-high grass of the field. Crickets jumped and chirped as they walked. The heartbeat of the hawk leapt within her and she swallowed the desire to brush her wings against the light breeze. Guilt came next. She still hadn't told Sirius, and now it seemed too late to ever say anything at all.

A willow tree sat in the middle of the field, folded into the rolling hills of the valley. They sat together beneath it and watched as the sun rose over the distant sea and coated the Wicklow mountains in shades of purple and gold. The sheep bleated behind them, but otherwise the only sound was the wind.

"It's-it's brilliant," he told her. He blinked once. "You get to see this every morning?"

Wind tugged at her hair. "Sometimes with Aoife gone I get lonely. But in the mornings I come out here and wait for the sun. It's peaceful."

He breathed deeply, as if for the first time in days. "Maybe I'll just stay here. Watch the sun with you."

Sunlight reflected in his eyes. She had never had any desire to share this with anyone. It was her spot, a solitary practice that would be tarnished by company. But there was something so comforting about having him there next to her. She no longer felt the nag of worry, even though she was barefoot and still in her uniform and in a few hours she would have to explain all of this to her parents.

For now, though, it was just the two of them.

✤

. . . NINE HOURS EARLIER

THE trunk was already packed.

In it sat his essential items. Clothes, books for school, the vinyl records that his mother hadn't confiscated. Letters, photographs, and the few things he wanted to remember. His favorite scarf. Money that he had been hiding away. He had tried to pack light and to do so quietly over the course of a week, but it hadn't been easy. Kreacher had almost definitely been rooting around in his things more than once.

Sirius's resolve had turned after he had sent a letter to Maeve detailing the story of Regulus pocketing a letter from the library. He still wasn't certain why he had sent it at all. It was just so easy to tell her things, to take them from where they festered in his chest and send them out over the ocean. It was selfish. She likely thought he was going mad.

Or, rather, she knew he was. Remus certainly did, and so did James. Even Peter had sent a letter worrying about him. Owls swooped in each day with mail but Sirius couldn't find it in himself to pick up a quill. He remained in waiting, reading in bed and biding his time.

There was a knock on the door. Quickly, Sirius slid his book under his pillow and stood. Without waiting for his answer, his mother was already turning the knob. Her pale, severe face poked through. She had once been beautiful and was still incredibly vain, but time and anger had worn away at any youthfulness that remained.

"You will be on your best behavior tonight. Comprenez-vous?"

The dinner party. There were so many of them, he had almost forgotten. Outside on the roof, rain began to patter.

He bit his inner cheek until he tasted copper. "Yes."

Walburga Black raised a brow. She didn't believe him, she never did. "Wear a nice shirt, please. If you come down in one of those ridiculous band t-shirts again–"

"I won't." He wouldn't, because they had all gone missing from his closet. Kreacher's doing at his parent's request, no doubt.

Walburga lingered a moment longer in the doorway, her hawk-like gaze sweeping over his room. Sirius stood stiffly, fists clenched at his sides, daring her to say more. She didn't, but the tension lingered like static in the air before she finally closed the door.

As soon as she was gone, Sirius exhaled shakily and sat back on the bed. He reached again for the book beneath his pillow, though he knew he wouldn't be able to focus on it. The rain outside grew heavier until torrents slashed against the window panes.

Downstairs, the sound of guests arriving cut through the storm. Sirius could already imagine the evening: tight-lipped smiles, venomous compliments, and the constant, underlying current of superiority that made his stomach churn.

When he finally forced himself to join the gathering, he descended the stairs slowly, tugging at the cuffs of the plain white button down he wore under a long suit jacket. He caught his own gaze in the mirror at the landing. His hair had been cut short last week at his father's demand. I won't have my son looking like one of those ridiculous Muggle hippies.

His mother's eyes found him immediately, narrowing in judgment but saying nothing. The guests—draped in finery that practically screamed their blood status—barely acknowledged him except for polite nods. He scanned the room. Regulus was seated dutifully by their mother, looking every bit the perfect heir.

Course after course passed before his eyes. Roast quail, foie gras on brioche, sole meunière. It all tasted bland as ash. When dessert finally arrived Sirius tuned back in to the conversation at the table. Tarte Tatin was his favorite.

Orion Black was currently speaking about work, which was how the evening always went. Walburga asked him to refrain, and he was able to hold it in until the dessert course. Their guests for the evening worked at the Ministry as well, so it was at least relevant.

"I myself helped to write those rules," his father was saying. Sirius had missed the first part while he stared at his tart. "But I doubt they will pass. Too many in the Ministry are still blind to the fact that it is a matter of their own safety."

"And to think they want werewolves to hold a position in the workplace, much less in society," the man, Ambrose Rosier, chortled, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. "They should be leashed."

Sirius's fork clattered against his plate, drawing sharp looks from around the table. Walburga's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Something to say, Sirius?" she asked, her voice deceptively calm.

He held his gaze with hers. Danger crackled against his teeth. He had always enjoyed this surge of adrenaline too much for his own good. "Only that it must be exhausting, keeping track of who's worthy of your approval."

A tense silence fell over the table, broken only by the clink of a glass as Orion refilled his wine, studiously avoiding eye contact. Walburga's voice was a hiss. "Enough."

But Sirius wasn't done. "A werewolf existing in the world? Scandalous, truly," he jeered. "But I suppose it's easier to blame the wolves at the door than to admit the call is coming from inside the house."

Ambrose went red. His wife, who looked at least twenty years his junior, was watching the exchange with amusement. Regulus was looking at Sirius with wide eyes that said only one thing: Please stop.

"Sirius Black," Orion snapped, looking up from his wine, "you will apologize this instant."

"For what? Speaking the truth?"

His mother slammed a hand down, the sharp clatter of porcelain reverberating through the room. "Leave this table. Now."

Sirius pushed his chair back, standing to his full height. "Gladly."

The room erupted into whispers as he stormed out, his pulse pounding in his ears. He didn't stop until he reached his room, slamming the door behind him. He threw off his suit jacket and yanked off the ridiculous ascot. His trunk and its leather handles were already waiting for him. In blind faith, he grabbed it and started dragging it down the stairs.

It's time to go. He had dreamt of this for years, thought about how it might feel to walk away from everything. Nothing had prepared him for the hollow pit that would open in his chest, warning him that he was making an incredible error.

His mother intercepted him at the bottom of the staircase, her face twisted in fury. She glanced at the trunk. "What is this?"

"You told me to leave. I'm going," he smarted, continuing on down the stairs.

"You think you can just leave this family? Leave your duty? There is nowhere in this world that will want a degenerate child like you. We have given you everything and still it isn't enough."

Sirius met her glare, defiant. "You have given me nothing."

Her hand flew out before he could react, the blow catching him across the face. Pain exploded in his cheek, but he didn't flinch. His body stayed rooted, unyielding, as though her hatred had burned him solid.

Behind her, a voice broke—small, trembling, and familiar.

"Don't go, Sirius! Please!" Regulus ran forward and grabbed him by the arm, as if it might make him stop.

"Regulus." His voice had already lost all of its resolve.

"Don't you see!" Walburga shouted, reaching for her pocket. "Your brother has always had more sense than you. Listen to him, if you won't listen to me."

Sirius met the eyes of his little brother. The brother who had followed behind him until he was outpaced. He still looked so young. There's something good in him, even if he doesn't know it.

Sirius wrapped his arms around Regulus and for the first time in years, Regulus returned the gesture. Tight, like it might be the last. He felt Regulus shaking against him, his skinny frame rattled with quiet sobs.

Regulus's voice was muffled against his shoulder. "It'll be fine, you can still apologize to them."

The fireplace was too far away. Sirius would drag the trunk back upstairs, say his apologies, suffer through the few weeks that remained until the start of the term. Repeat the same gestures at Christmas, next summer, for years into the future because no matter how far he ran he would always be their son.

But the life they wanted for him was not enough.

"Do not leave me here." Regulus's nails dug into the flesh of Sirius's arm. Tears swam in his dark eyes. "You can't do this! Don't you have any idea what they have planned for me?"

"I'm sorry, Regulus," Sirius whispered.

"You've never cared about me," Regulus spat. "You don't even have a clue what your own father–!"

"Quiet, boy!" Walburga reached out and pulled Regulus away. She held him back in an iron grip even as he struggled against her. "Do you not regret it yet, Sirius? Have you no love for your family? For your brother?"

Sirius stared at them and felt his body moving. He was walking away.

"SIRIUS!" Regulus screamed at the top of his lungs. Dishes clattered in the dining room as more attention was drawn. Walburga tried to clap a hand over her son's mouth but Regulus smacked it away. "Sirius, do not do this!"

Bile rose in his throat. He was leaving Regulus behind to rot in the cage. He couldn't save him. He couldn't save any of them.

Sirius grabbed a handful of Floo powder, but as he stared into the flames, panic gripped him. The Potters–what if they turned him out? He hadn't given them any sort of warning. His hand hovered, the powder already slipping through his fingers. Too late.

Regulus's scream echoed through the house, piercing and unrelenting. "You will regret this! Mark my words, Sirius Black, you will regret this!" The sound of her voice followed him into the flames, entwined with Regulus's cries—heartbroken and pleading.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and another name came to him. Maeve.

Then he was hurtling through the darkness, head over arse. Motion sickness stronger than an ocean wave gripped at him until he finally hit a solid mass of brick.

For a second, he didn't move, only listened. The only sounds were those of a summer night. Crickets, chirping frogs, a clean wind. Carefully, he crawled out of whatever it was he had landed in. Some sort of oven? The Floo had already deposited his trunk on the ground, glad to be rid of such an oversize item.

A door shut. Sirius turned around. Footsteps approached, and then, light.

✤

. . . NINE HOURS LATER

WHEN they walked back in from the field, someone was awake and shuffling around in the kitchen.

"You just sit here," Maeve said. She pushed his shoulders down and onto the sagging couch of the living room. Her eyes were darting everywhere. "I'll explain things. It's going to be fine," she said, mostly to herself. She brushed off her shirt and stepped towards the kitchen.

Sirius tried not to overhear the conversation. A man exclaimed loudly, "Mae! You're up early."

Sirius busied himself by staring at the room. It was a simple space with a hearth, two sofas, and a mixture of threadbare pillows and blankets strewn about. Above the mantle was a series of non-moving photographs. Getting up from his seat, he stared at each of them. Two brunette girls–Sorcha and Maeve as toddlers–wearing matching jumpers. A recent one of Aoife in front of the Ministry building with a proud smile. Sorcha standing next to a horse with the reins in her hand. Maeve playing the guitar.

Years and years of a life lived in a household where love was abundant. Jealousy staked through his heart as he stood there, a voyeur forever on the outside of having a home. Soot still stained his hands and he had never felt more unclean, more disgusted with himself.

A door opened and shut and a woman's voice joined the mix. Sirius strained to hear what was being said in the kitchen. It was almost impossible to decipher and with a start he realized they were saying short phrases in Irish. Sirius scowled. Regulus and his mother always engaged in the same behavior in German when they wanted to talk in front of him without him understanding.

"Sirius?" Maeve called softly. He turned to find her standing in the entryway to the kitchen, silhouetted by warm light. "Could you come in here, please?"

He walked into the kitchen to find both of Maeve's parents sitting at a wooden table. The kitchen, like the living room, was filled with remnants of activity. There was even a plate of cheese and crackers on the counter that looked almost untouched.

"So, this is the Sirius we've heard so much about," Maeve's father said in a thick Irish accent. Sirius glanced at Maeve, who's face had gone scarlett. "Mae says that you've, ah, run away from home, so?"

Maeve stared at him. "Da."

"I've heard of your ma," the woman, Maeve's mother, said sagely. She looked a great deal like Aoife and had the same auburn hair. "Anyone with sense would run away from that house. No one deserves such a thing. Do you need anythin' to eat? Maybe some tea?"

"Im alright, thanks," Sirius said, but his stomach beat him to it with a loud growl.

Maeve's father nodded once. "Breakfast it is."

Sirius watched it all with fascination. Aside from Remus's home, which he had only visited a few times, he was rarely in a working Muggle kitchen. Maeve's mother never even pulled out her wand, and it was clear that this was a household accustomed to life without reliance on magic. It made sense to him, finally, why Maeve enjoyed the simplicity of it. There was a kind of ease to moving back and forth, making a meal by hand.

By the time they sat down to eat breakfast, daylight streamed through the windows. Mr. Byrne was asking him tens of questions out of sheer curiosity (how on earth did you end up in our fireplace?) to which Maeve's mother shushed him. Maeve was uncharacteristically quiet, but she kept staring at him as if she was afraid he was going to bolt.

Sirius was almost afraid to ask the question, but he finally said, "Is Sorcha home?"

"She's staying with Marlene for two weeks," Maeve told him, sounding glad. "The McKinnons go to Skye every summer and Sorcha goes with them."

"It's certainly been peaceful around here," Mrs. Byrne remarked. "With Aoife gone and you at Declan's for half the day, it's fierce quiet."

Maeve finished her food and rinsed her plate off in the sink. "Don' worry, Sorcha and I will be back soon enough," she muttered.

Maeve's mother pretended not to hear her. "So, Sirius. You're trying to get to your friend's house? The Potter's?"

"Yes, it's in the West of England, Godric's Hollow," Sirius told her, sitting up straighter out of habit.

"West of England," Mrs. Byrne mused. "Well, there's a Portkey in the city that'll get us close enough to apparate. I can have you there by the evening."

Sirius's stomach lurched at the thought of traveling any matter of distance in the next 24 hours. But he wasn't going to impose. He had already burdened them enough.

"Wouldn't it be easier to go tomorrow?" Maeve said, somehow reading his mind as she put her plate back in the cupboard. "We could just take the train in the afternoon."

"I suppose. Is that alright with you, Sirius?" she asked. "I expect I should be heading into the office today, anyway."

"That's perfectly fine," Sirius said, trying not to sound too relieved.

Maeve's mother rushed off to get ready for work, and her father said something about going to a tree farm, which was a foreign concept to Sirius.

"A tree farm?" he yawned as Maeve piled glasses in the sink.

"They grow trees for Christmas," she explained, as if it were obvious.

"Ah," was all he said.

The paint on the cabinets was chipped, and the cutlery and plates were mismatched. His mother would have refused to sit at the rickety wooden chairs that sat around the table. The Byrnes were poor. Undeniably so. He had been taught that this trait was a marker of not only misfortune, but a lesser-than status.

It was wonderful.

"Are you tired?" Maeve asked.

"No," he lied, following her back into the living room. He would rather slog through this than fall asleep and be met by the terror of his dreams.

"You're such a liar," she yawned. Exhaustion sat hungrily in her hazel eyes. "There's blankets on the couch."

Sleep had suddenly become the only thing on his mind. The sight of the old couch draped with two quilts and a pillow was inescapable.

"I'm not that tired," he protested, sitting down in the nest of blankets.

Maeve took up a spot on the couch opposite to him and grabbed up a book off the coffee table. "Really? Well, you won't mind if we just sit here for a moment, then."

Sirius settled back into the quilted cocoon. His eyes felt like lead, but he refused to give in, instead watching as Maeve's hands turned the pages of her book. The faint glow of the table lamp reflected off her hair.

The next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes to the bright light of the afternoon sun. Maeve was standing next to the couch, her hair tumbling forward as she leaned down to check on him. He blinked groggily. Dark freckles dotted her cheeks from the summer sun.

This was a dream. He was still home in bed. His trunk would be sitting in front of his closet and when he opened his eyes, a new day in London would begin. But for now, dream-Maeve was standing over him.

"You cut your hair," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

She laughed softly. "I did."

"It's nice."

"You're still half-asleep, Sirius Black."

"No, I'm dreaming," he muttered. He let his eyes drift shut again, too tired to argue.

✤ ✾ ✤

a/n this is one of those chapters where the scene was part of my first bit of inspiration for this story.

this one is obviously the long awaited sad chapter. Sirius and Regulus's relationship is something that is going to become a sort of sub plot during their time at Hogwarts and their journey as siblings both mirrors and is the antithesis of Sorcha and Maeve 🥲

Chapter 23 was more of a divider than anything because the story is going to pick up in pace (just a bit!) heading in to sixth year and I wanted to almost create a buffer lol. I know I've been teasing bird-girl Maeve but have barely shown it and I promise it will have its time to shine so very soon! Sirius and the lads won't be the only ones who find out and that is all I am gonna sayyyy 👁️