Harry stood looking out towards the courtyard. One of many at the huge manor. His daughter was running around, giggling merrily as she chased a starter broom.
There were no other children playing with her, only toys. Magicked toys. Ones that she would never talk to, learn with, befriend.
Anyone who could have been with her died out with their parents.
The Weasley's, he'd murdered; cold blood as it was. He watched her smile, chasing a butterfly that had been conjured.
Sirius had disowned him, wasn't hard to see why.
It wasn't real, but at least the facade could fool him another day, and then another. After all. He'd accepted it from the start.
Fin.
Because my fantasy is over. Time to go ruin another universe. Ta-ta