Harry Potter had won the war. The Boy Who Lived had managed to survive in body, but not necessarily in spirit.
When he had been 11, he found out he was a wizard. And for the first time, he had a place he could truly call home, and friends who loved him.
When he was 13, he had several parents—of a sort. The Weasleys, who loved him fiercely. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin—the people who had been closest to his parents. And Dumbledore—almost a grandfather.
But it was when he was 15—when he had just started accumulating this family for the first time—that that family started abandoning him. First, Sirius was killed, then Dumbledore.
But he still had the Weasleys and Hermione, didn't he? Those months that they roamed the forest, he felt Ron and Hermione's resentment towards him.
Then, there was the battle at Hogwarts, when the last vestiges of his support system were taken from him—Lupin and Tonks… and Fred. The Weasleys tried to treat Harry as if they still felt the same way about him, but it was obvious that seeing him reminded them of Fred's death. It was just too painful, and their visits had become fewer and farther between.
Harry and Ginny had tried to make a go of it, though, but eventually she couldn't deal with his morose behavior., and she eventually abandoned him, too.
As Harry sat alone by the fire at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by memories of loved-ones dead and gone, he realized that there was no reason to fight any more. He had finished what he was supposed to do—he had defeated Voldemort, saved the wizarding world. He smiled peacefully as he pressed his wand to his wrists and performed the spell to open his veins. After all this time, I'll finally have a family, he thought, as his vision became blurry…