Their disgust is always met with indifference. He cares little for their shyness and averted eyes, that persisting inability to look at his deformed face. Some of the scars are too jarring and ugly, not all have a strong stomach. He understands that, accepts it.
He ignores the curious stares; their morbid fascination is not worth his time or worry. They can gossip all they want; the hurried whispers have no effect. The important know all that needs to be known, the rest are hardly important.
Children are even entertaining in their youthful naivety, a welcomed change. He can overhear their excited voices, trying to guess which of Death Eaters he bravely fought to get such a hideous collection. Their vivid imagination brings glorious duels to life, for they know little of the grim and ominous colours of war.
Yet commiseration is like a knife to the belly. He neither needs nor wants their pity. It feels disrespectful in face of everything sacrificed for peace, prosperity, and freedom. The unnecessary sadness directed at him is infuriating. There is no shame in those scars. They are badges of honour! Vivid proof that he had fought for a cause!
Those carvings forever imprinted on his face are a constant reminder of his strength and the fire in others he had helped inspire in those cold, dark times under Voldemort's rule. Those are tokens of victory over the tyranny. There are pain and loss written into the deep cuts, for many have died in battle, even so, the scars are a constant, welcomed remainder of his friends and comrades who had fought alongside him against terror and hate. To regret them would be to regret his actions, his voice, and his bravery.
Pity means that it was wrong to be a true Gryffindor.