31st July, 2015
“When I turned 11, I drew my own birthday cake adorned with little candles in the dust of the ground I was sleeping on. When Dudley’s clock showed it was midnight, I blew all the dust away, like you would birthday candles.”
“Did the dust get in your eyes? When I blow dust away, some of it always gets in my eyes.”
“Well, I wear glasses, James, so nothing got in my eyes.”
His son giggles in bed, wriggling under the weighted blanket he uses to sleep. It has always been hard for James to get himself to sleep, and as the years drones on, it’s become ever more apparent to both him and Ginny. Harry suggested sleeping droughts but Ginny had refused, saying James was too young for potions just yet. Hence, the weighted blanket. Harry thinks it’s too big for James, he thinks that his eldest looks doubly small in it. He thinks James has some trouble moving under it, when his face grimaces and he squiggles around like a worm to get himself comfortable. But James can’t sleep without it.
Harry sits beside his son’s bed. The room is quite bare at the moment, with a closet, a trunk of toys, an old broom in the corner and a lone crayon drawing on the wall of Lily and James, by his daughter. There are three paper cards on the bedside table beside the night lamp, though they aren’t James’s. Harry was given a card by each of his children earlier that day, and had carried them around for the entirety as if they were a lifeline pinning him to the ground. One by James, one by Al, and the other by Lily.
Having recently been converted from a spare lounge to a bedroom for him, James’s room was yet to match the rambunctious character of the boy who resided in it. His son is happy with it nonetheless. James had claimed he was too old to be sharing a room with Lily and Albus, and though both Ginny and Harry knew he was being dramatic, Ginny decided they would give him his own room, as his upcoming year at Hogwarts would surely bring on a multitude of growth spurts and hormones. Ginny was adamant about James’s room, but Harry had been initially unsure. James would be going to Hogwarts in a few months anyways, he doesn’t truly understand why James needs a new bedroom now. But Ginny was certain of it, so Harry had gone along. He doesn’t like arguing with her, and James deserves it anyways.
“Hey dad, tomorrow, will I get a new broom?” James asks, his eyes alight with boyish excitement. It makes Harry feel nostalgic.
“That’ll be ruining the surprise, if I tell you.”
The night lamp dims with James’s mood. Whenever he gets sleepier, the room gets darker. The night lamp, however, is not dimming very quickly at the moment. Harry suspects it’s pre-birthday elation, something he has never really experienced. He found birthdays were quite ordinary, now especially more than ever.
Up until his 11th birthday, he had always feared and hated the last day of July. It was a reminder of how insignificant he was, how unappreciated and despised he was. No one had cared, and he had always known it, but it was always more personal on his birthday.
Following his birthdays from 11 to 17, they were days where he could truly treasure having survived another year. It was always uncertain if he would ever make it to the next year, or the year after. Every year it seemed he would cave. Every year the odds had been stacked against him. But every year he had succeeded, and there was a sense of pride in it, and a sense of awe from everyone around him. He was remarkable.
But not anymore. Now he is looking down at his son, who is excited for his birthday simply because he will get presents and simply because he can lord it over his little siblings that he’s an extra year older once more. It is so simple and beautiful. Harry is looking down at his son and wishing he could know what that felt like.
Maybe it’s a sign of doing something right, if James felt like this. This is what a child should feel, he guessed. Maybe that’s a sign that he’s being a good father. Or Ginny’s being a good mother. It’s probably Ginny just being a good mother, if he’s honest.
“I hope it’s a broom, I want to beat Louis in a race just once,” James says wistfully. His cheeks are flushed red with warmth, and it makes him look so alive and lovely. “And I want to show off to Fred. And I want to try and get into a Quidditch team this year, like you did.”
Harry smiles, heartened by James’s admiration. It was either greatly emboldening or severely depressing, seeing how much his kids look up to him. Sometimes he feels the same pride and belonging he quietly yearns for, sometimes he feels afraid and cowardly, like a fraud who doesn’t deserve any of their love.
When they grow up they will see him for who he truly is, and they’ll hate him for it. James especially, he thinks.
The warm feeling in his chest quickly dissolves.
“Don’t worry though Dad, I’ll like any present you give me,” James says quickly when he sees the smile drop from his face, mistaking it completely. “You already gave me this room, so I don’t really mind what you get me. Oh, but I hope you cook something tomorrow. Don’t tell Mum but your food is really the best.”
Harry’s heart sinks further.
James quickly tries to make amends.
“It’s okay if you don’t have time for it, though,” he says, trying to seem unbothered by shrugging under the blanket.
James’s hair is splayed over his pillow, a messy brown mane that Harry wants to reach out and try to smooth down. He knows it’ll be useless, though, because he has his own hair as fair precedent.
His little hands come out to rest on top of the blanket, gripping it.
“As long as you’re here, I don’t really mind,” James says.
Harry wonders, for a brief moment if Ginny is outside hearing them. If she’s waiting until he walks out of the room to kiss her son goodnight and howl obscenities at him after. He hopes for it as much as he resents the thought, because he knows he deserves it.
Harry also wonders if the reason he feels so reluctant for July 31st is not only because it’s a blatant reminder of his creeping age, of all the time that separates him from his glory days, of all the time that he feels he’s wasted, but also because it’s the day before August 1st, his eldest child’s birthday. A reminder that James is growing closer and closer to figuring it out for himself, to realising that his old man isn’t as great as he says he is. James, that with every year, will grow farther away from him. Harry is so scared to lose his love, it makes him want to pack up and just run away before it all starts to inevitably burn around him.
James, who’s turning eleven years old tomorrow. James, who only asks for him to be there when it happens.
James’s ever-present smile falters, and his gaze wavers with unsurety. Harry braces himself.
“You’ll be there, won’t you?” He asks, his voice small.
Harry sighs, and then he says, “Yes, I’ll be there.”
“You promise?”
James holds his small pinkie out.
“I promise,” Harry says, intertwining his own finger with James, before placing a kiss on it. The night lamp dims slightly.
Harry stands up, his knees aching only slightly.
“Now, get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, an even bigger year ahead of you.”
He leans down and places a kiss on James’s forehead, and another on his head, breathing him in. Harry tries not to think about James’s eighth birthday, and pushes the memory away with more resolve than he’ll dedicate to anything else. James pulls his blanket up to his chin, ignoring how hot it’ll be tonight.
When Harry pulls back, James’s smile kills him. Because Harry used to smile like that many times in his youth. To Dumbledore, to Sirius. To his parents in the Mirror of Erised.
It’s plastered, fake, but hopeful despite the circumstances. James’s eyes are almost dimmer than the night lamp.
He knows.
Harry turns away.
There’s a promotion coming up. He can smell it.
Harry’s never been one to adhere nicely to the rules. It’s never worked well for him, and though he admires Head Auror Hingley, she’s taught him a lot about the job and has worked hard for her position, he can’t help but anticipate her retirement soon. He knows it will happen. He doesn’t know exactly when, but it’s most likely some time this year. And then, perhaps he won’t have to comply with unneeded regulations anymore. He won’t have to follow the orders of a superior and their unnecessary demands.
Perhaps he could make the rules again, and he’d never have to wait on the sidelines as Hingley demanded he take breaks from his job. He could provide for his family and do what he knows best. Protect and defend the world. Perhaps he could have his own army again.
He needs the promotion. Hermione can put it in as many good words for him as she wants, but that’ll all be for naught if he doesn’t prove his dedication to the job.
There’s supposed to be a full-day case of tracking down a Voldemort enthusiast, a previous Death Eater that has been experimenting on serpents in hope of recreating a Basilisk. High hopes, but a dangerous wizard enough. Harry doesn’t know when he’s to be back, but he expects he may have to sleep in the office, and he knows he’ll have to wake at the crack of dawn. It’s important that Harry be the one to apprehend him. Voldemort directly concerns him, after all. And he can feel it in his bones how much he looks forward to the hunt for the man. He awaits the moment where it’s just him and some other villainous person he must stop, some other insane witch or wizard who wants to kill him, who threatens to kill everyone he’s ever loved.
Harry has to be the one to stop it. No one else can do it but him.
In the end, it’ll help everyone, but he doesn’t expect James to get it. Maybe he’ll understand when he’s older, maybe he won’t at all.
Ginny doesn’t, which is fine. It hurts, but it’s fine.
Harry starts to pace his way out of his son’s bedroom, grabbing the door to shut quietly behind him when James speaks up.
“Happy birthday, Dad.”
The room is dim now, and Harry feels he’s smiling into the void when he replies.
“Happy birthday, James.”