Fake
The last memory that Harry Potter has of his parents is one that he invented himself. The night before his first Christmas at Hogwarts, he pressed his cheek against the window nearest his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor common room. The glass was iced over, cold on his face, and as he enjoyed the cool shock, he imagined his mother hanging clothes over a space heater.
She would have had a routine. …First robes, then sweaters, and the smaller items last. And each time she hung something, she would have turned around to smile at him; she may have even patted him on the head and paused to comb her fingers through his inky-black hair.
He imaged himself standing at the great height of about two feet tall, staring up at Lily, their eyes locked and the world around them frozen in time. He imagined his father in the next room over, standing up an artificial Christmas tree and haphazardly tossing ornaments on as he went.
In his head he saw boxes tumbling all around the man he could have grown to be like.
In his head he saw the biggest fallacy that had ever been laid before him.
Fin.