Pete had played around at Quidditch in the fog before.  In his backyard, where they lived way out in the middle of noplace, they used to get on their brooms in the mornings and go out in the damp mists and fly like crazy.  But flying a real match in it was a different story.  The action seemed to move faster and slower than usual, all at once.  On one hand, Bludgers and fliers appeared on short notice, making them seem so much faster.  And yet, there seemed to be longer pauses in between, giving him the sense of waiting around a lot.  The normal rhythm of a match was absent.

As soon as Hooch called for the break, Pete fell silent and went straight to the locker rooms.  He set his broom against the wall and dropped his bat and immediately started stripping off his kit in the common area.  He undressed until he was bare from shoulder to waist and pulled a can of magical muscle reviving ointment from his locker, which he opened up and began rubbing liberally over his batting arm.  Sinking onto the nearest bench, he tried to speak to the team, but all that came out was a hoarse grunt, his voice spent out.  The ointment smelled of cloves and oranges and felt greasy under his fingers as he smoothed it over his skin, just sitting there, trying to work the fatigue and soreness out of his muscles.  

“You’re all doing great,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet.