Everywhere he went, people looked at Harry. Sure that was nothing new, but before the war they were stares of awe or of hope. Now, well. Now he didn't want to think about it, so he stopped going out.
He understood of course, why people might stare or look at him the way they did. Sometimes a child would point in shock or ask their parents if that really was Harry, because surely the real Harry Potter wouldn't be hanging around those sort. Would he?
As if it were a choice.
Most of the time, parents would laugh awkwardly and tell their children to look away. But sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they would mumble under their breath about "responsibility" and "wasted potential," and sometimes they just stared him down.
Disappointment and pity reflecting back at him through tired eyes. Eyes that saw today because of him.
He would see eyes sometimes, in his dreams. Cutting, piercing eyes. Venomous, evil eyes. Voldemort's eyes naturally. But sometimes there were others. The soft green eyes of his mother, the shock of blue he always associated with Dumbledore. Ginny's eyes. Fred's eyes. Hermione's eyes. All of them haunted him. If not in his sleep, then when he was awake.
"You've got to do something, Harry," Hermione would often say. "You can't just stay at home forever." Usually he said nothing. His friends had been through enough without having him to worry about, and after all they were really all he had left. But there was only so much he could take. Why should he have to sit here and listen to what people thought of his life? Why did he have to do anything? Hadn't he done enough, what with saving the world from an evil psychopath? One day he voiced that thought, a little louder and with a few more bloodys than he intended. And he may have even broken a lamp when he had said it. And some dishes. It was an accident though. His magic had been erratic lately. It seemed it came and went as it pleased.
Hermione looked hurt. "Let's just go," Ron had said. They both left quietly, and while Harry felt all of eleven years old again, he hadn't gotten another lecture since. In fact, Harry couldn't quite remember exactly when that had been. Was it last week or the week before? Maybe it had been a month. All the days blurred together.
Harry didn't get many visitors, but he would receive owls and gifts at his door. Chocolates from Luna, care packages from Mrs. Weasley with food and blankets. So many blankets. Hagrid sent him the odd baked good now and then too. And even if he didn't know exactly what was in a rock cake, he was always grateful it was there when he remembered to eat.
Hermione would still drop by after work when she had the time with books and treats, and she would catch him up on her life over a cup of tea. Sometimes they listened to the radio, or she would read to him, but there was never room for silence. She didn't allow for any. Harry knew his friend made people uncomfortable. But it didn't seem to bother Hermione. Not unless there was silence. She would usually stay until he fell asleep or until Ron finished Auror duty.
Ron still made a point to invite Harry to quidditch matches, even though Harry said no everytime. Harry appreciated that. Lately, Ron spent most of his time with George and Angelina, helping them plan the wedding. He was going to be the best man. George had asked Harry to be a groomsman, and he wanted to — but he knew his friend wasn't invited, so he had to decline.
Ginny would sometimes send him postcards from her quidditch matches. Those hurt the most. He knew Ginny wanted to start a family. He wanted that too, once upon a time. Back when he could still see a future past the war, one that didn't involve his friend.
He should have known better. All he wanted then was for the war to end. For his nightmares to be contained to sleeping hours. The possibilities seemed endless. He would go back to school, complete his N.E.W.T.s, and join the ministry with Ron and Hermione or go pro like Ginny. McGonnagall had even hinted at the possibility of a teaching post in his future once or twice.But that was before the war had ended. He couldn't have imagined the exhaustion, the pain. The years it would take to rebuild the world he had worked so tirelessly to save. He didn't know he would feel so defeated after such a monumental win.
It was then that his friend started following him. First it only visited at night, but gradually it began to appear in the days too. He tried to get rid of it, but he couldn't summon a happy memory strong enough to do the trick. Eventually, he couldn't recall any happy memories at all without quite a bit of effort.
His friends had tried to help too, of course. Hermione with her research, and Ron with his sheer force of will. Nothing helped. Harry had been to the best healers in the wizarding world, and every now and then a potion seemed to work, at least temporarily. But his friend always found a way back to him.
He stopped going out when it became clear that the dementor wasn't going anywhere. He hated the stares. The pity. The disappointment. The whispers of wasted potential.
So he stayed home, and he stopped caring that his friends didn't visit him anymore. After all, he had someone to keep him company.