After basically dying twice from the killing curse Harry is impotent. Fleur leaves him because she wants children. He lives by himself and is a broken man, watching the families of his friends grow up. Always on the periphery. Always alone. He tells himself he will be a good uncle, a good godfather, but all he has ever wanted was a family to call his own. Over the decades he pulls away, slowly but surely. When he does, it takes weeks before anyone even thinks to ask “where is Harry?” When he dies, the asphyxiating, oppressive solitary confinement of his life crushes his chest to smithereens. He feels his end creeping upon him so he goes to the place he associates the most with the feeling weighing upon him. Harry Potter, age 89, dies in the cupboard under the stairs of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.