23
Harry Potter's eyes flew open. He knew he should have closed the blinds. It was the middle of summer, and the sun rose before he did.
I am twenty-three years old today. Harry smiled. He'd made it through another year. It had been easy. In the past year, he had not feared for his life even once.
Harry smiled wider, remembering there had been a time he thought he wouldn't live to twenty, would never marry, and certainly never become a father. Now, here he was, with a beautiful wife lying next to him, and a two month old son, who (thank Merlin!), was asleep.
Harry stood up, stretched, and walked to the other end of the room. He leaned over baby James's crib, taking in the tiny human with his crop of red hair. Looking at James, Harry filled with a joy he couldn't contain. Laughing aloud, he reached in and stroked James's little head.
"James Potter," he whispered. "How glad I am to spend this day with you."
Suddenly, Harry's smile faltered. When he said James's name aloud, Harry thought of the baby's namesake. He wished James Potter senior could be here, could hold his grandson.
You were never twenty-three. The thought hit him like ice.
Today, Harry was older than his parents. He had always looked up to them, seen them as capable adults who had lived good, if too short, lives. Now, he was painfully aware that there was almost nothing good about living to twenty-two. Harry had so much life in front of him—raising Teddy and James, hoping for more children, doing valuable service as an Auror. Someday, Harry hoped to admire James's own babies. At his age, Harry's parents had been buried in Godric's Hollow for months.
For the first time in ages, Harry replayed what happened the night they died. They protected him, not even thinking of themselves. He ached, realizing how much they had lost. For him. They shouldn't have done it. He would not have blamed them for abandoning him when they found out what Voldemort wanted.
Tears leaked down Harry's face. If he lived to be ninety, his parents would seem like children. In that moment, he didn't want to know more than them, to surpass them in any way.
Ginny stirred, and Harry quickly tried to wipe away his tears. She didn't need to see him like this.
But Ginny, with her springy athleticism, jumped to her feet. She was by his side in an instant. Her hands were on his shoulders, her face bright. "Happy birthday, Harry." When she looked into his face, she said: "What's with you?"
Harry answered shakily, "I'm a full year older than my own parents."
Ginny nodded and draped her arm over his shoulder. Her support gave him strength as they stood in silence, watching their son sleep. Harry lifted James up, feeling his son's warmth. Ginny ran her hand through the baby's soft hair. "Thank you, James," Ginny whispered. "Thank you, Lily."
Harry smiled again and drew his son closer. Though his sadness lingered, he knew he was on the way to enjoying the day once again.