therealpm: (Haters to the left)
Millarbell Household

EDIT: reposted here.

*Fiona is in the midst of writing another irate letter to Michael Gove when the doorbell rings. She goes downstairs to answer it, shoos Molly away from the entry with her foot, and opens the door to find a courier waiting outside.*

*She knows they haven't ordered anything, so she's instantly wary- you wouldn't believe the shit some people feel entitled to send Alastair- but she relaxes when she sees the milk bottle he's set down on the step. Peter has obviously decided to keep Alastair for longer and has sent her the milk to make up for it. (Fiona knows better than to imagine that considerate gesture came from her partner.) It's mildly irritating they didn't consult her before changing their plans- Christ, they've probably gone off with Tony after all; there was some article about him in the Guardian this morning- but at least she doesn't have to go out for the milk.*

*The other package is more mysterious. A Christmas gift from Peter? Still, whatever it is it probably isn't an Iraqi flag soaked in blood. With a mental shrug, Fiona signs for it, tucks the milk bottle under her elbow, and takes the mystery box inside.*

Millarbells under the cut )

D'Souza's Office

*It's been a frustrating few days. The IT problems have persisted and multiplied, and her only comfort is that the House of Commons is every bit as affected as the Lords. If it were just the Lords afflicted the problems with the monitors and the annuciators might be added to the endless queue of deferred maintainence projects in the Palace of Westminster, accompanied by a few sniggering jokes about the eldery and their fabled discomfort with technology. But the Commons are ~important~. If MPs can't see the day's business on their office monitors they won't know when they have to come into the House to vote, which means they have to stay in the Chamber all day and actually listen to the debates. And of course ~that~ constitutes a national emergency, in their eyes.*

*John is under immense pressure to find a solution and fast, which means that Frances has an ally, albeit a pompous, ineffectual one. She hasn't yet managed to trace the interference back to Peter- indeed, she can't detect any hexes behind the IT problems at all- and John is no use at all when it comes to tracer spells. But the House of Lords adjourns tomorrow, which will give her a chance to concentrate on setting a trap for the arsonist instead of putting out the daily fires, and meanwhile John has promised to confront Peter. Frances isn't optimistic about the outcome of that meeting- Peter has John wrapped around his little finger and if he refuses to undo the hexes at her behest it seems very unlikely he'll do so at John's- but it can't hurt. She hopes. At the very least, John might be able to wring some information out of Peter that will help them to block the spells.*
More Speakerly business under the cut )

Any edits required, let me know in the comments.
therealpm: (smug)
*Peter skims through Hansard. He's been far too busy plotting revenge attending to House of Lords business to watch the debates today, but with the statement on the equal marriage consultation and Treasury questions, it seems reasonable to invest a little time digging out the choicer quotes. Especially if he's expected to turn up to the Lords for those sort of things.

Most of the debate is pretty predictable, but towards the end Bercow takes a point of order. Most odd; there's still a statement to go.

As he reads through the exchange, the corners of his mouth begin to turn up, until by the end he's sporting a full blown smirk. It's not just that Osborne was made to sit there and be reprimanded for his disregard of parliamentary procedure, but that it's done in such a way as to make Bercow's dislike for the man painfully obvious. Peter is reminded of nothing so much as Jack's tendency to growl, and even nip, when he spots a long-lens camera. A sort of dogged, over-protective loyalty that's as endearing as it is amusing (he buries the pang of resentment he still feels every time he sees someone mocking his George. It's a tenacious habit but one he is determined to break). He gets out his phone.

Text from 07### ######


interesting performance with Osborne yesterday. I'm touched.

therealpm: (headscratch)
*He's almost finished setting up the hex for tomorrow (Frances is persistent, a simple phone block will not be enough), when he remembers the still rather pitiable state of his wards.*


*He finishes the spell, then dashes off a quick text.*

Text from 07### ######


change of plan. Coming over this evening. Prepare the spare bedroom.


*He's pretty certain John still feels enough residual guilt to maintain the apartment's wards against an angry Frances.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter's head feels groggy.  He's been taking the new painkillers for three days now, and has spent much of his time in a supine haze, unable to feel any pain.  At first he was able to concentrate enough to hold conversations with The Machine when John was out of the room, but as time progressed he became steadily more detached- floating free in his own imagination.

Today, though, John is late with the painkillers and the opiate fog is beginning to wear off.  The pain in his veins and accompanying feeling of being nibbled from the inside out has died down since the beginning of treatment- Peter supposes that either he has become accustomed to it, or his wolf form has mostly died and there is little left for the mixture to attack.  What is new is a feeling of dampness under his shoulders, sacrum and heels, that sticks and stings when he tries to move.  He turns his head and sniffs.  The sheets smell appalling and he can just see a spreading sickly yellow stain out of the corner of his eye.  He gags, and tries to call for someone, but his mouth is dry.  Rattling the restraints does little beyond reminding him of the bruising on his wrists and ankles.  He tries to shift from the dampness slightly, and resigns himelf to waiting.*
therealpm: (Downcast)
*Peter sits on his bed, shuffling through the sheaf of papers and waits.*
therealpm: (Default)
*Peter sits back in his chair and smirks smugly at the stack of papers in front of him. John's gift of a TV had been a greater boon than he'd expected. In his panic, John hadn't placed any wards on the TV at all, and so it had been a simple matter for Peter to 'adapt' the TV and the remote control to allow him to communicate with The Machine via a tele-text style interface. Peter did wonder whether anyone would notice, given teletext had been cancelled for a while, but apparently it appeared innocuous enough to pass under his guards' radars, and now, the fruits of The Machine's labours are stacked neatly before him on the desk. He hasn't had time to do more than frantically scribble down notes, but even this preliminary reading has suggested several new ways in which the potion might be improved, or at least rendered less likely to kill him; and who knows, if he survives this, he might even be able to get a paper out of it.  Grinning with anticipation, he picks up the first sheet and begins to work.*
therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp.  Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*


*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*

Text received from 07### ######


my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend.  Cancelling not an option.  At least one of the events is after dark.

therealpm: (I'm listening)
*This time, Peter is awake for the transformation.  It's unpleasantly painful and as his human mind takes over again, he finds himself wishing mostly for sedatives.

His clothes are torn to shreds, again, but the blankets are warm and with a little shuffling, can be extended to form a human sized bed.  He glares at the basket in the corner.  His wolf form clearly wasn't impressed with it either as it's been thoroughly chewed.

There is a stange smell emanating from the region of the door, Peter ignores it.  The shower was installed far too late in the day for him to have a chance to wash the miscellaneous grime off yesterday evening, but it's looking very tempting now.

After completing his ablutions, Peter sets the fire in the grate burning again, looking slightly askance at the chicken leg, and curls up under the covers once more.  It's slightly more comfortable than yesterday and his limbs are less painful, but the sunlight coming through the bare windows makes it difficult for him to drift off to sleep.*
therealpm: (annoyed)
My Hero
It is time that I finally leave frontline politics completely and instead devote my time to a far more worthy cause:
turning this journal into a tribute page for the greatest Lord ever to grace the upper chamber.
I am also jealous of his hair and will spend the next year trying to emulate it perfectly.

Don't turn my MPs into animals again, Peter, or this will be just the start. - John
You realise, John, that this means war?
therealpm: (Bercow incoming)
*gets out of taxi*

*walks into the Houses of Parliament*

*wanders down several corridors before reaching the Speaker's Apartments*
therealpm: (headscratch)
What the devil...?

John, is this anything to do with Sally?
therealpm: (Thinking)
what is a suitable silencing spell for use on children?

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