A/N: So I'm in the middle of work, making pizzas and whatnot, when I realize, "Wow, I haven't written anything in a long time." And this popped up.

Disclaimer: And apply this to future chapters to save me the trouble please, because I own none of it. Thanks!

He was only eleven years old when he found out he wasn't like the other boys. And not just in the Boy-who-lived and uses magic sort of way. Other boys caught their breaths at a beautiful woman, or a really cute girl. Harry's breath stalled in his chest the first time he saw Oliver Wood's burly form as he followed McGonagall from his class. Even as Oliver and the professor went on excitedly about Quidditch and his new role on the house team, Harry hadn't been able to take his eyes off the older boy. Tall, with wide shoulders, and hair only just too short to really be called shaggy, the passion for the sport clear in his gaze.

Incredible.

But not normal. Not in the slightest. So he didn't say anything, only kept his interest to himself and allowed his eyes to stray to Oliver Wood only when the game allowed it.

It wasn't until two years later when he discovered that his feelings were less well hidden than he'd believed. They'd won the house Quidditch cup. Wood had been so elated that he'd hugged Harry, sobbing tears of joy into his shoulder that fair soaked through his quidditch robes. And later, in the locker room, when the others had left, a kiss that curled his toes. But Oliver would go no further. Harry was young and couldn't know what he was getting into. It was a tough life, even in the wizarding world. He refused to touch him, and for the rest of the year busied himself so that Harry only rarely saw him. Like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, just like that, Harry could feel better about the world and everything in it if he only could glimpse the other boy from across the room.

Then Oliver left, graduated and accepted onto a famous Quidditch team right out of school. Harry was happy for him, but for the first time, the difference in their ages truly struck. It was only five years, but it may well have been a century for as close as it brought them. Each year that passed, Harry made himself forget a little more of the feelings Oliver had inspired in him. He fooled around with a few other boys, those few in Hogwarts who could accept that 'not normal' was simply another way of life. Stolen kisses in darkened rooms, fervent sessions of impassioned groping. He could never bring himself to go further though, and by sixth year had given up on even going through the motions. His friends were there for him though, and it was enough. Hermione worried for him, as was her habit, and Ron tried to cheer him a few times by hooking him up with some distant cousin or other. Harry only smiled and moved the topic of conversation in a different direction. They had better things to worry about than his relationships. Like the war.

The war.

That horrid year, and that one battle. So much death. George was never the same, but then, neither was anyone else. And when it was over, the first cause to celebrate came only a pair of months later. Ron and Hermione were getting married, and from his spot at Ron's shoulder, Harry had a clear view. For the second time in his life, his breath caught in his chest. Oliver Wood was older now, his shoulders wider and the gangly form of youth filled in with tight muscle. His hair was shorter, and there were lines now around his eyes, but that smile was the same. And the first kiss he gave Harry after a solid month of dating and "getting to know one another again", still curled his toes in his shoes and left him weak in the knees.

"I can't promise forever," Oliver had said, "but I can promise that for as long as we're together, you'll be happy." It was so adult, so wonderfully mature, and Harry could understand. Nothing lasts forever. Even Voldemort, even Dumbledore, two men who had had such control over his life, were both gone. For the first time, Harry could make decisions on his own, and he was old enough now to know what he was getting into. So he dove in.

His birthday had never been a time of celebration, but rather a time of reflection, of looking back on the past year and assessing: am I a better man now than I was a year ago? And for the first time in six years, the answer wasn't what he'd been expecting.

So that morning, his elbows on the table and his coffee cup raised only inches from his mouth, he contemplated. Oliver sat as usual in his chair across the way, one hand holding the reports flew in daily on all manner of Quidditch matter- from new training techniques to rookie player stats. A coach now, he was determined to have all the information possible at his fingertips.

"Oliver," Harry called, not terribly surprised when the other man only lifted a brow and murmured a questioning sound without taking his gaze from the sheaf of parchments. "It's over, isn't it?"

He looked up then, confusion furrowing at his brow for only a moment before he sighed, setting the papers down and pushing a hand through his hair. Then he smiled, a sheepish grin that once might have sent Harry's stomach into a succession of somersaults that would have put the best members of Cirque du Soliel to shame. Only now, it was like looking at an old friend. That smile had no more effect on him than Ron's might. "I'm taking the job," he announced, setting his coffee down and pushing himself up from the table. Then he smiled at Oliver. "Thank you."

It seemed even to him a strange thing to say, thanking someone who had once been a lover for all the time they'd spent together, and knowing that it wouldn't quite be the same from now on. But Oliver nodded, as though he understood, standing and ruffling Harry's hair as he had so often back in school. "Thank you, too, mate."

And that was it. No hard feelings. No begging or pleading. Just the mutual understanding that first love, and young love, aren't forever. Harry felt better for it.

He scrawled a brief reply to the letter that had come every June for the last three years, but this time, rather than the one word negative he'd always sent, he wrote in a simple yes. Then he spent the summer gathering his things from around the flat he'd shared with Oliver, sorting "junk" from "keep" and shipping ahead everything he didn't need to make it through the last few weeks. Oliver threw him a goodbye-slash-congratulations party the night before he left and before he went to bed, gave Harry a hug that stirred nothing more that the love of a brother in him. How strange it was, and still so familiar. Perhaps because it was Oliver. Harry shrugged and put it from his mind, taking advantage of the train ride to catch up on the sleep he'd missed the night before. Hermione and Ron hadn't let him go until dawn was already peeking through the blinds.

He woke in time to see the castle rising from the distance, its windows gleaming through the foggy night like a lighthouse beckoning lost ships from darkened waters. And he smiled. No matter where he was, or what he'd gone through, it was the one place he could always return, where everything started, and stopped, and started again.

It was Hogwarts.

It was home.

A/N: It's a nice sentiment, I think. Reviews? Hmm?