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It's amazing how much wind two stone of flying two-year-old can knock out of you when one hits you in the chest, all knees and splayed hands, shouting, "Happy Birthday Dad!" at the top of his lungs at six thirty in the morning.
Harry says, quite elegantly, "Oof." And then also, "Ow," and "How about we don't break Dad's ribs, James, sit over here." Ron, because it is before noon on a day off, grumbles something and hides his head under a pillow.
"Dad how old? Dad how old?" James demands. He's a skinny small child, with scrawny legs and elbows and ribs you can see even if he does eat almost as much as either of his fathers. And he tends to think understanding comes with repetition, even if he hasn't exactly got the words or the grammar right yet, which can end with him shouting incomprehensible gibberish at whatever parent is closest in total frustration with the inability of adults to read his mind.
"He's thirty-two, and be careful or you'll make Mummy spill," Hermione says, with two mugs in her hands; she puts one of them down on her bedside table and bends one knee to lean over the wriggling child and give the other to Harry. The smell of coffee obviously makes its way through cotton and feathers, because Ron's head emerges in a mess of red hair.
"What," he says, as Hermione settles into a sitting position against the pillows and picks up her own coffee again, after handing Harry his glasses, "don't I get any?"
"It isn't your birthday," Hermione replies tartly, "you hid your head under the pillow when your son came in, and I haven't got three hands."
Ron gives her a look of mild disgust and pushes himself out of bed, pulling his sleep-shirt into some kind of order that wasn't going to strangle him. "You're a witch," he complains. "It's called magic, you don't have to carry it in your hands." He stumps out of the bedroom and down the stairs and only makes a mild growling sound when Hermione calls, "You can grab the basket of presents from the table in the hall then, Ron," in her sweetest voice.
"Good morning," Harry says, amused. He manages to get himself sitting with a surprising lack of spilled coffee, given how much James is insisting on helping, and identifying coffee and cup and Dad's and Mummy's and light and everything else in the room with the glee of someone just figuring out how to use words. Hermione leans over and aims a kiss at his cheek but, due to momentary James-spilled-coffee-avoidance, kisses his temple instead.
"Happy birthday," she says, and pulls out the paper he hadn't noticed she had tucked under one arm. "Have a surprise."
He groans and lets the paper spread out over his stretched-out and blanket-covered legs, but she laughs. "No," she says, "it's a good one."
It takes him a moment to figure out what she means, because it takes a moment for relief at the fact that he (and his day of birth) aren't on the front page, or the second page, or in front of the "Life" section to coalesce into the realization that it's not there at all.
As he realizes that, Hermione leans over, leafs over another page to the "Obituaries and Notices" section and points to a small square of text. "Just there," she says, happily.
Harry realizes he's grinning. "That is fantastic," he agrees just as Ron comes back with a basket full of wrapped things in one hand and coffee in the other.
"What is?" he demands.
"Harry's birthday has been almost totally ignored by the Daily Prophet," Hermione says, "and thank you for bringing those up."
Ron snorts a half-laugh and says, "I hate to tell you, mate, the Quibbler's run a full story with pictures.
Harry ineffectually glares at him. "Shut up," he says, as his husband sits down on the bed and puts the basket by Harry's legs, "let me enjoy my joyful lack of notoriety."
"Dad no," James says, because even if he can't actually manage to say shut up yet he knows his mother's rules about appropriate language already. Harry puts a hand on James' head in a sort of non-verbal I love you but shut up and James pushes the hand away before sorting his hair out.
Ron grins. "They'll probably have forgotten by the time you're ninety," he says, managing to actually hit Harry's face with the kiss. "Now hurry up and open your presents already," he adds, because Ron still hasn't developed more patience than a five year old.