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10 year old Harry hated birthdays. He got nothing, said nothing, and went on being ignored. Just like every other day of the year.
15 year old Harry hated birthdays. He got some letters from Ron, Hermione, Remus, and few others. However, he never had a birthday party, and definitely never got anything from his aunt and uncle.
18 year old Harry hated birthdays. The war had just ended, and he surely didn’t feel like celebrating. Sure, he got presents, and sure, he got more love than any birthday so far, but half of Hogwarts was dead. He felt the grief, and so did everyone else. How could he celebrate that?
20 year old Harry tolerated birthdays. He was an Auror trainee and had better things to do with his time. Like, for example, stare at Draco Malfoy’s ass while definitely paying attention in Criminal Restraint Methods 101.
22 year old Harry sort of liked birthdays. The war was just past 4 years ago, he had plans for a 3rd date with Draco Malfoy, he was an official Auror, and Ron and Hermione’s little Rosie was quite cute. He supposed birthdays weren’t the worst thing in the world.
25 year old Harry loves birthdays. He’s newly married to Draco Malfoy, talking about adopting a child, free his job as an Auror (finally!), and babysitting little Hugo on weekdays. He had pub nights with both Gryffindors and Slytherins. He played Quidditch with Teddy at least once a month. He truly relaxed for the first time in his life. This birthday, he sat on some island that Blaise owned and drank margaritas with his husband and Ron and Hermione and his friends. Harry didn’t know (and never would) but almost one quarter century ago, little baby Potter was discovering his own love for birthdays. His mother and father and Remus and Sirius were all there, so Harry was happy. And so, just like baby Harry, adult Harry sat with the people that he loved, and loved him back just as passionately. And that was enough.
Harry Potter loved birthdays.