20th September, 10 am. Prison cell.

[therealpm]

*Peter sits at his desk and stares at the courtyard outside, drumming his heels against the chair legs in a way that he hasn't really been bored enough to do since secondary school.  He's finished the paperwork along with his breakfast, drunk the potion, read and reread all the books and is now waiting for Dawn's shift to end so that he can investigate the wards again (she has a nasty habit of checking that he isn't doing anything he shouldn't, something that Lindsay is too trusting and the Tory too terrified to do).

He considers shape shifting again, but although with practice it's got easier, it's still very tiring and he doesn't like having the collar on display for anyone passing by the cell to see, so instead he sits at his desk, drumming his heels, and waiting.*

Comments

[lord-fowler.livejournal.com]

*Norman comes wandering back with his arms full of books. He could levitate them, but between that and the invisibility spell he would need to accompany it the sorcery required would be more taxing than simply carrying them. He's envious at times of wizards like John and Mandelson who have so much power that they can afford to squander it on trifles, but then, the need to spend his magic with care has probably taught him to use it more wisely.*

John? I've brought the- John?

*The only person present appears to be the werewolf, and the wards still have that moth-eaten look along the bottom. Norman heaves a sigh and wishes it came as more of a surprise.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*At the sound of Norman's voice, Peter wanders over to the door.*

He's left.

*He smirks, and leans against the wall, looking through the door, then notices the spellbooks. He hasn't had a chance to read a spell or potions book in weeks and his palms itch at the thought of being able to delve into some proper magical research again. He indicates the book with a tilt of his head.*

Anything interesting?

[lord-fowler.livejournal.com]

Detection spells and tracers, mostly. I suspect you would find most of them below your level.

Although under the circumstances perhaps it would have been more useful to bring John the DEFRA regulations on werewolf containment, or a dictionary containing the definition of "to guard". I knew they shouldn't have abolished the National Service.

*Norman checks himself- he shouldn't be complaining about John to Mandelson, even if the boy has proven himself next to useless. He can give him the spellbooks later. He sets them down on the table and comes over to inspect the tattered wards, but there's nothing he can do to repair them. Any attempt on his part is likely to damage them further. They'll need the original caster to set them right.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter shrugs*

Perhaps, though potions were always more my area of expertise.

*He holds out a hand.*

May I see?

Oh, John already has those. I can't comment on whether he has read them.

[lord-fowler.livejournal.com]

*If he has he certainly has not retained them, Norman thinks, but he keeps that thought to himself.*

*He raises an eyebrow at Peter's outstretched hand, but if the sole suspect in the Case of the Damaged Wards thinks he's getting a how-to guide for casting spells that will avoid detection, he has another think coming.*

Do you need anything else for the afternoon?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter huffs and crosses his arms*

Reading material. I would hardly leaf through Campbell's drivel were alternative and novel literature available.

[lord-fowler.livejournal.com]

*That's what he was annotating? Despite himself, Norman feels a twinge of sympathy for the Labourite.*

I see your predicament.

*He looks over his pile of books, but except for the packet on rural broadband provision, which is his own reading for the afternoon, none of them contain material he can trust Mandelson with. Even the most simplistic texts cover elaborations on the basic tracing spells that Mandelson may not know. Still, it must be some kind of human rights violation to lock a man in a room with only Alastair Campbell's diaries for company.*

*There are always a few abandoned newspapers scattered around the deep leather sofas in the Smoke Room, and at least it's on this floor and on this side of the building. Even reaching that far will be a substantial drain on Norman's energy, but the damaged wards should still be sturdy enough to hold Mandelson and maybe having some entertainment will make him less inclined to breach them.*

*Norman gropes around the room with his mind until he locates a few newspapers and gathers them up, summoning them to Mandelson's cell. They appear in the air over his bed and fall onto the duvet with a rustle of pages. A Financial Times, an Economist- he can't identify the others from here, and there's no telling how old they are, either, although in his day the staff used to clean up the room fairly regularly. Of course, in his day they had to empty the ash trays; they won't need to do that anymore. They ought to rename it. Well, he hasn't been by there recently- perhaps they have.*

There. That should keep you busy for a little while.

*He walks over to the desk, collapses into the chair, and takes up his broadband packet.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter whips round at the sound of the newspapers landing on the bed, and his eyes light up. News. Proper news about the world outside, not the carefully edited stuff fed to him via briefings. He barely notices Fowler collapsing into a chair, but absentmindedly thanks the man, then settles down happily with the first broadsheet.*