It didn't matter, not anymore.
It wasn't the first time things had gone wrong--in fact, it had happened more than once. Harry snorted. And of course he had something to do with it, lucky as he was.
Everyone was being calm and tactful about it, but that was just their way of telling him, "You're a hero, we can't blame you. You saved us, we can't blame you. You're a murderer, we shouldn't kill you."
They didn't realize that all Harry really wanted was one drop of hatred, of jealousy, of something that told him he wasn't superimposed on every wizarding media source. Just one, to feed on, to let grow and spread, and thrive!
It hurt, in reality. Didn't people love to hate? Didn't someone love him enough to hate him? Or was he some nutter who had no better business than to stare aimlessly at passerby, waiting for a cry of "Murderer!You're no better than You-Know-Who!"
And Ron and Hermione, God he missed them, He couldn't even remember the last time they'd spoken to him without crying, without thanking him for letting their children grow up in a safe world.
Ginny had been much the same, her husband laughing and exclaiming every few seconds, 'I see why you were in love with him!"
They didn't see it wasn't Harry. They didn't see all that was left was a torn soul.