Harry Potter was at the end of the day a man who had gained much and lost much more. He gained the deathly hallows, respect and more fame than he ever wanted.
He lost his ability to sleep soundly at night. He lost his sense of privacy. He lost his friends, his family and he grew apart from those who remained. Most of all, he lost a part of himself in the forest.
As it would turn out resigning yourself to an untimely death that never came, and might never, changes a person. He used to fit in with Ron and Hermione like a piece of a puzzle, but now he's all rough and jagged edges and they don't seem to know what to do with him. It's not from a lack of effort on any of their parts... The things that used to come to them naturally just feels forced now. Laughing, joking around, Hermione scolding him and Ron for one reason or another just feel forced to Harry.
So he leaves. He packs his essentials without magic, it's not hard after being on the run for a year. He gets a run down, shabby motel room and he withers away.
Harry Potter is nineteen years old when he started to feel stifled, suffocated by an overwhelming sense of numbness. Harry is nineteen years old when he closes his eyes on the ratty mattress and heaves his last breath after months of agonizing apathy towards his own state of being. Harry Potter was a man who had lost everything he cared about.
Harry Potter opens his eyes and the first thing he sees isn't his motel room. The first thing he sees is the open sky, with hardly a cloud in sight and for the first time in months he desperately longs to fly. For the first time in months Harry wants.