The Quidditch pitch had never looked so welcoming—the grass a glistening green, the sky a bright blue, and John's uniform a proud yellow and black.

Watching his team take the field for their first practice of the season served to reinforce John's confidence. This was their year, and he couldn't be more satisfied as a Badger.

"You're smiling so much I'm starting to think someone slipped something into your pumpkin juice at breakfast this morning."

"It's called optimism, Greg. Give it a try."

Greg scoffed before mounting his broom.

Greg Lestrade, the broad-shouldered Beater, had made the team alongside John in their second year. Naturally, he considered Greg to be his closest companion after all that they'd been through together. Their first two years on the pitch had been brutal. With poor leadership and only a handful of decent players, Hufflepuff had lived up to its reputation by coming in fourth again and again. That's when John inherited the title of captain, much to his surprised. He had always viewed Greg as the stronger player between the two, and with his stride and classic good looks, he certainly appeared to be more of the leadership-type. But John got the title, and with it, the responsibility to resurrect a downtrodden team. The very next year, John and Greg managed to get Hufflepuff to a distant second place behind Gryffindor. Just last season, they had been cruelly close to winning. A couple points off, in fact. Everyone in school had anticipated a Hufflepuff victory, and the worst part was, they would have succeeded had it not been for Slytherin's "Secret Weapon".

This weapon, John knew, was the biggest threat to them this season. (It was also likely the reason for Greg's negative attitude.)

But John's spirits were high as he rose off the ground on his Nimbus broom.

"Alright. We all know our last game together was a bit, well, disappointing. But the past's the past, right? We've still got most of our returners, and try-outs last week only added to our ranks—" he paused to smile at their only new player, Molly Hooper, a wickedly quick little fifth-year Chaser. "I've been doing my research all summer for new plays and drills. I have nothing but confidence that this is our year to win the Cup, and nothing's gonna hold us back."

"Nothing?" muttered their Keeper, Anderson, in a sour tone.

"Nothing." John confirmed. "Now, three warm-up laps!"

7 brooms (including John's) took flight, circling the pitch. He hung toward the back in order to keep an eye on his team. Lestrade was in front with Molly close behind, matching his speed with great ease. Then fell his other Chasers: Sarah and Andy. Behind them, at a more leisurely pace, Anderson flew alongside Beater Mike. The team looked good. A solid pack. John's chest swelled with anticipation.

On their second lap, John spotted them: the herd of green entering the pitch. He swooped downward, coming to a low hover just in front of the Slytherin team.

"Hey, how about you get those knockers off the pitch and let a real team practice!" It was Sebastian Wilkes whose voice rung out from the crowd. He was an ugly fellow. One too many Bludgers to the head, John suspected.

"Now, now, Seb, no need to be hostile. What sort of sportsmanship is that? John Watson." Jim Moriarty spoke to him like they were old nursery school pals though they hardly knew one another. A popular and pure-blood 6th year—they flew in different circles, literally and figuratively. But not today.

"My practice just started. Slytherin can take the pitch in an hour and a half."

"That's not fair. We reserved the pitch last week."

John exhaled. This time he was face to face with Irene Adler, her pretty lips pouting in annoyance.

"Well, nobody told us that and this is our normal practice time. You can't just kick us out."

"We'll be playing tomorrow! Your lot's first game isn't for another week!"

Greg and the others had finished their lap and started to gather behind John. "Is there a problem?"

"No one's talking to you, Handsome," said Irene.

Jim made a little circle around her. "Easy, Kitten. Retract those claws." Irene's eyes screamed with annoyance but she said no more, so Jim turned his full gaze toward John. "The word is that Hufflepuff is the team to beat this year. Especially after coming so close last season. It was what, a matter of 30 points?"

"25," John replied through gritted teeth.

"25. Heartbreaking, isn't it?"

John made a point of saying nothing in return.

"Right. Well, we'll be out of your hair then."

"What!?" howled Sebastian, Irene, and a few others in unison.

"You heard me. We want our opponents to practice. Think how positively boring an easy win will be?"

The majority of the Slytherin team stared at their Captain with a mixture of confusion and annoyance—but mostly annoyance.

"Moriarty—" Sebastian began.

He was cut short by a sudden, fierce shout from his leader. "WE WILL LET OUR OPPONENTS PRACTICE, understand? And we will condition in the meantime. Everyone, to the courtyard! Ah, ah, ah. Not you, Holmes, you're staying with the Hufflepuffs."

Every set of eyes on the pitch—Huffelpuff and Slytherin alike—turned to Sherlock Holmes, the "Secret Weapon" of the Slytherin team. A boy made of sharp angles, pale skin, and inquisitive eyes, Sherlock made the squad as Seeker last season, though it quickly became clear that he was much, much more than just that.

"He can't stay here," said John firmly.

Jim's mouth formed a perfect O-shape. "Where is that Hufflepuff hospitality?"

"Get off my pitch."

Jim's eyebrows dropped. His mouth formed a hard line. And in these alterations, all the kindness vanished from his features. "There's no rule against him observing."

John tightened his grip around his broom. He wasn't a violent wizard, but something about Jim Moriarty gave John an inkling to reach for his wand. But Greg flew a little closer to his side, and in a fierce whisper, said, "John, he'll see us play eventually anyway. They're just trying to get beneath your skin."

Greg was right, of course, but it didn't keep John's blood from boiling.

"Alright, Hufflepuffs," he said, jaw-locked. "Let's hit the sky!"