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

[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.*