Pete’s head hurt.  This was the trouble with too much yelling and not enough eating.  He continued plowing through the apple as Millie drew nearer and plopped down in front of him looking completely dejected.  So much of this match rested on her tiny little shoulders, and Pete felt like he had to build her up in a meaningful way or they might as well just call Hooch over and forfeit right off.  He massaged his greasy forearm as he bent his head towards her.  

“Millie,” he said to her.  “You know what they’re doing out there right now?  They’re lighting up the torches all around the stadium.”  They were the same torches that illuminated their team practices every evening, though Pete expected them to be a bit more abundant for a match than what were usually lit up just for them.  “Sun’s going down.  Tell me, how do you think the heat from the fire will affect the fog?  Think for a minute, now.  And tell me how the Snitch will look different in the firelight than it did in the weak sun.”

Pete motioned for somebody to pass him a sandwich and he pitched his apple core into the trash in the corner with a loud clang.  It rattled and spun until the can tipped over.  “What I’m thinking,” he went on, “is you might want to stick close to the perimeter of the pitch for a bit as it gets darker.  You’ll stand a better chance of seeing the Snitch when it passes in those parts.”