Traitor Swain
A/N I was in a sad mood and I thought about how Byron felt about his sister. This is pretty short, but I'm kind of proud of it. 46th Witch and Wizard fanfiction! If you're reading my iCarly fanfiction, I'm so so so so sorry, but I'll get to it! Enjoy! Or not.

I hear the screams every night. Everyone's heard them at least once. But I always hear them. Always.

I know that they're screaming from a nightmare about the prisons. I know they dream about their friends dying all around them. I know that they hear little voices saying that it's their fault that everyone couldn't be saved.

But I also think they're lucky. They're only haunted by the past in their dreams. I'm haunted all the time.

I remember her giggling and shouting at me to push harder as I pushed her on a swing, trying to help her touch the sky. I remember her squealing because I was tickling her sides without mercy. I remember her dancing. She always loved to dance. And I always loved to dance with her while she complained that I was a lousy partner.

I remember her yelling at Dad. I remember her begging Mom for answers. I remember her trying to reason with me at night about the New Order. She hated it. I didn't understand.

At times like these, though, with the screams ringing in the still night air, I mostly remember the horror and betrayal on her face the night they came. The night they told her that I tattled on her about the things she told me under the cover of darkness. The night she learned her own big brother, the one who was practically obligated to protect her, had turned her in.

I always hear the screams because I can never really sleep. I always hear her whispering to me about the N. O. like she used to. I always hear her asking me why I supported it.

And then I look up and around frantically, wanting to find her to tell her that I was part of the Resistance now. I try to find a glimpse of curly, brown hair or sparkling eyes. They never stopped sparkling. Whether with tears or joy or passion, they never stopped.

But I never see anything. She's never there. She's not there to slap my arm because I was being thick. She's not there to roll her eyes at some obvious comment I made. She's not there to threaten me in a very Wisty-like manner. And she's not there because of me.

Each batch of kids that arrives, I look through them for a just a hint of her favorite silver necklace and wry smile. I know she's almost certainly dead. Dad even took out the family to celebrate the day of her execution. But I can't help hoping. I can't help but hope that those eyes are still sparkling out there, somewhere. It's the only thing I have left now.

I've really earned my nicknames. Slimy Weasel, Traitor Swain. I deserve them, really, but while I listen to the screams and the crying and the attempts at consolation (Yeah, try telling a kid here that it was just a dream. Because it wasn't. It was real), I wonder what she did to deserve the idiot that was her brother. The idiot that was me.