SWEDISHA/N: Okay, I couldn't keep my fingers from this so I'm attempting a character I never dared to. . . For The Sharmand Challenge or Day by Day challenge as I will call it held by Sinistra Black over at HPFC! The challenge was the seven deathly sins. As usual, I do not own, as usual I hope that you enjoy. . .

P.S. If spotted and seen, do correct my English. I'd be delighted.

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Victims of War (or May the Third)
By: Lumos Maximum

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"It's sinful not to be grateful when the opportunity of life has been given to you after all casualties, death and tragedies that have been poisoning every vital part of life as we know it. Celebrate life because that is a gift given to you by those who guarded your interests. I believe that there is only one phrase you should use today and that phrase is thank you."

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Gluttony

It's over, Neville reasoned as he tied his tie for the third time this elevator ride. He wanted to look sharp for the first time that his parents would see and remember him. After all, the war was over and she, that evil witch who was the reason of this, was dead. Evilness was demolished from the face of this earth and nowhere to be seen and surely that would make the illness wear off and make them remember who he is again. . .

The elevator reached the top floor and casually, without reporting his presence, he wondered down the small corridor to their private room. Some nurses gave him a weak smile while others patted his back before they had to run down the hall to take care of the many people on the more urgent floors. This floor was where the long-termers stayed, hence the cosyness and the unfitting familiarity in the otherwise sterile environment. These patients were the doomed one, he overheard the nurses say many times during their coffee break when he was a child, right before they padded him on the head, gave him as many cookies that he liked and told him that what they said before about dooms had one exception and that was his parents.

"Hey mum, hey dad," Neville greeted when he opened the red door that led into his parent's hospital room. The little room smelled like his parents and was filled with all the drawings he made for them as gifts since he knew how to work a pen. Shamefully he plastered the newest to the addition on the wall, a picture of him and them in the memorial later this night with linked hands and sad but hopeful faces.

When he turned to explain his actions he saw his father meet his gaze with curious eyes that were filled with pride. He knew that his father remembered him; he must've read the papers, Neville reasoned, when he saw the headline "HEROES OF THE WAR" on the Daily Prophet next to his father's bed. The blush started to creep out, his father might've expected Harry Potter to be his son but here he was – nothing like the hero – but ordinary enough to look for a dad and need one too.

"Oh – you might've thought that your son was Potter," Neville started and watched his father's curious eyes break contact with his and turn bored. Ashamed he stared at his hands instead.

"We'll he's great and all, and I do know him so I could introduce you one day," Neville said in a hurry so that his dad wouldn't think less of him. "But I am your son. See, we have the same hair and nose."

"Dad?" Neville called when his father didn't reply. When he did dare to look up he saw his father observe his shoes. It was always the shoes. . .

A feeling of despair consumed Neville. He had wished to be nothing more than heard and remembered for all the seventeen birthday cakes his grandmother baked him and for all the seventeen birthday cakes he singlehanded baked and consumed to make the wishing accuracy increase. He believed in birthday wishes, shooting stars and lucky coins and amulets but they never worked, life never worked.

"After everything, the war is over and this – It's not fair," Neville burst out loud, much to his own chock when he saw the pain in his father's unknowing face.

"Tell me my name," Neville demanded now and shifted his attention towards his mother who always seemed to be the one closest to know who he really was. Her dark eyes, just like his, were observing the anger he now showered them in with dim eyes. She was not there, not really, and that hurt more than the moment of disappointment he thought he spotted in his fathers eyes. Instead of showing any kind of emotion she stretched out her hand to comfort her son. In her hand laid a neon-pink, bubblegum wrapper with the care only treasures and children should be handled in and as the greatest gift on earth she presented him the wrapper.

He grabbed the wrapper, turned around and threw it in the bin, promising himself to never believe in anything this foolish again. It was with tears that he left the room and let his legs take him to the familiar nurse's room where they had their coffee breaks. He would spend hours there, being padded on the head, eating cookie after cookie until the feeling of throwing them up came and being told that there was one exception in this world and this part of the hospital and that was his parents.

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Q: Should I write the six other sins for Victims of War(May the Third)? ... You know what, don't answer that, I will so you'll know who said the quote above.
Oh, and thanks for reading!