Written for the Pairing of the Week Competition for Oliver/Harry. Word Count: 736.

Oliver Wood enjoyed Quidditch: everyone who was anyone, or at least anyone who followed British Quidditch, was aware. Wood was the Catapults' Keeper, and a fine one, too; professional Quidditch players always enjoy Quidditch.

But Oliver, who was soon approaching his thirty-first birthday, was realizing something: every game was the same. Every shot was the same, every move was the same, every swerve, every hit, every catch. Over and over again, speeding up to the left, turning to the right, reaching his hands out to grab the Quaffle, dodging a bludger, doing a flip or two. See the Quaffle, catch the Quaffle, listen to the spectators' loud encouragements. Whooshdingcheer. Whooshdingcheer. Whooshdingcheer.

It was a hot day in July, about a week prior to Oliver's birthday, and this belief, that he was doing the same thing over and over and over again, was exceptionally prevalent in his mind today. It was the date of a match against Puddlemere, his old team, and he was not looking forward to it; his friend Sarah had set him up with one of her work friends, and the sooner the game was over, the sooner he'd have to go on this date. Surely, what's-her-name would realize sooner or later that he was gay – it was a wonder Sarah hadn't yet – and he'd be able to leave, but he really didn't want to be there in the first place.

So he pulled on his Quidditch robes in a rather reluctant manner, slowly adjusting and readjusting them as if they were required to be perfectly symmetrical on his body, mounted his broom, and flew out onto the pitch with his six teammates.

The game, again, went as it always did. A Puddlemere Chaser's blonde ponytail trailed behind her like the tail of a comet as she accelerated towards him and lobbed the Quaffle in a direction that at first appeared to be left but that ended up as right; in the blink of an eye, Oliver pivoted his broom, sped forward, and pushed the Quaffle away from the hoop, passing it towards Stanley, the nearest Catapult Chaser. Nothing new.

But as the Quaffle was making its way to the other side of the field, Oliver noticed something that he normally didn't see: a face. Usually he didn't notice faces; there was simply a crowded mass of color and skin that shouted praise to him as he caught the shot of an opposing team. But today, he noticed the distinct round glasses and messy black hair belonging to the man sitting in one of the boxes only ten meters away from Oliver's current location at the left goal post.

Oliver grinned at his old Seeker, and Harry grinned back, waving slightly, despite not having seen Oliver for a decade. Wishing somewhat to converse more through eye contact and hand gestures, Oliver began to wave back before noticing that Harry's head was turned and was talking to a man sitting next to him.

Oliver continued to play, going through the normal routine. Something was different, now, though. He wasn't only playing for a nameless, faceless crowd of people.

He's the last one to leave the locker rooms at the end of the match (which they won, 410-80), and Harry's right outside the door.

"Oliver!"

"Hullo, Harry," Oliver greeted his old teammate, who was definitely quite a bit older than the thirteen-year-old he remembered the boy as. Though short (as he always had been), Harry could pass off for Oliver's age. It was strange to think it.

"How've you been? Congratulations on the match, by the way."

"Oh, I'm doing well – nah, it was no big deal, Quidditch is really the same thing every match. I was expecting a win. You, how are you?"

"All right, I suppose."

"Good, good, that's good. It's been a while."

"We should go out for coffee sometime. Catch up a bit, you know."

"Yeah, of course."

Oliver hesitated for a moment, wondering if Harry's offer was merely friendly or whether it was something else. He'd never thought of Harry as a romantic object, but then again, he'd never thought of Harry as gay, either. Harry was probably only asking as a friend, anyway. But what if - ?

Oh, what the hell. It wasn't as if he'd see Harry again; they hadn't seen each other for years. Oliver turned to Harry, leaned forward, and kissed him.

Then he promptly Disapparated.