Dolls, by pseudonym blue
Disclaimer- I had an idea. Harry Potter had an idea. J.K. ROWLING HAD AN IDEA, and it doesn't belong to me. This isn't for profit.
After the war, Harry Potter had nothing. By way of material things he was beyond well off, of course; he owned the house at Grimmauld Place and was the sole heir of both the Black and Potter fortunes. Yet there are many different kinds of Nothings, and the particular Nothing that afflicted Harry Potter was of the more internal sort, the kind that spoke of humanity.
He was alone. Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Remus, everyone was gone, nothing but imaginings, now, and empty graves. The Death Eaters had burned the bodies on the battlefield, corpses slung onto the rising fires as easily as if fires were always started with bodies in place of tinder. In Harry's mind it was as if they had never been. If he couldn't see or feel them, they didn't exist- it explained his misery over the summers, at least. The mind was dull and easily tricked- he knew the world by touch, and his world had gone, literally, up in foul smoke. All that was left, all that he knew was himself, flighty and flawed and curled inward against all outside things.
Kreacher had been killed shortly after betraying Sirius, and the house had gone further to ruin. To Harry it seemed poetic, the dust and decay; it fit with the general state in the world, or his world at least. The walls of the room around him were faded, once royal blue silk. (Harry had chosen the room because the blue-grey color had reminded him of the way the sky would look some days with a cover of clouds.) Something that had once been magnificent, towering, the unsinkable ship- something as powerful as the House of Black, Tojours Pur - left to rot, treasures forsaken for things more new. Harry could almost sympathize with the purebloods now. He had watched for five years as the dust gathered around him, around a piece of history. He could imagine their helplessness as their world changed.
It might not make much sense, but Harry had a reason for staying in that house. He knew that, outside, there were people, and people meant touch and touch meant sanity- but he couldn't face them. (He knew he was thin and pale, unhealthy from lack of food and sun. He fixed himself dinner every day, and he drank water and pumpkin juice. He had food sent to the house by owl, and in the same manner he purchased books as a way to while away the time. He didn't want to eat, didn't want to go outside.) He wanted to stay in his safe house as a memory to Sirius. It helped him to stay in solitude, it taught him things. He would read aloud in order to maintain his voice, and he would study and learn new spells and learn about history. Being alone helped Harry to learn things about himself. His favorite color was blue, not green; once he applied himself, he could brew potions; and, most importantly, he was a homosexual. He had realized this at around nineteen, when he had looked out a front window of the house and had seen a group of men, seemingly a few years older than he was, and felt a miserable need to leave the house and talk to them. It was pathetic, he knew. However, seeing as he had felt nothing for the human race but an abstract longing for over a year he decided that this particular impulse ought to be investigated. It had led to the realization of his yet-to-be-acted-upon sexuality. He was lonely, really, but he had known solitude before and could say from experience that it was the only thing to ever truly stay with him. Harry Potter missed people and tired of being alone, yes; it did not mean that he would go back to society so soon. In fact, it wasn't until late September three years later, at twenty-two, that he came up with his crazed idea, and he didn't begin the preparations for weeks after.
A/N- My first published fanfic! I'll update soon. The semi-scattered writing style is excused because my Harry in this story is sort of off from the war and being alone. Sorry for the super long paragraphs. Pleade review with what you think! ':)