therealpm

*Peter works steadily thoughout the day.  His meeting with Jo is moderately productive, although he's slightly worried when she tells him Bryant has been snooping around.  He doesn't have enough magic to maintain a detailed glamour for more than a few minutes, but transformed he should be unidentifiable.

He therefore spends the afternoon under the blankets of his bed, attempting to practice the transition and make it as rapid and fluid as possible.  To his surprise, it is far harder for him to locate and draw up the wolf's form than it had been a few days ago.  He eventually manages to switch back and forth, but the effort drains him far more than it should and he drops off to sleep soon after.*

*Peter sits at his desk, steadily working his way through the mound of briefings on his left and occaaionally transferring on to a much smaller pile on his right.  They would be more balnced, but he is not permitted a computer, and Cable has conveyed the view that spiky, scribbled shorthand requires an unacceptably long time to translate.  Peter is therefore writing everything out painstakingly in longhand, a task about which his wrists have been complaining bitterly for the past couple of days. 

He takes a sip of the potion and grimaces at the taste.  Its effects, along with the return of some of his magical ability have made transformation a far easier (though no less painful) process.  Occasionally Peter transforms, just for the variety of seeing the cell through wolf eyes, but there is little to do (he refuses to play with the squeaky toy Sally bought) and he soon turns back to return to the briefings. 

John has been absent, since the inspection.  The only members of the Speaker's office Peter has seen have been occasional glimpses of the deputies through the bars.  One of them, Lindsay, at least tries to speak with him, but Dawn just fumes in silence and a small Tory with whom Peter is not familiar cowers so far back against the corridor wall that Peter nearly didn't spot him at all.

He meets regularly with Jo- she is pleasant company, though never misses an opportunity to remind him of what she perceives as Labour's deficiencies on a number of issues.  He wears a suit and tie to hide the collar when she visits, and if it seems odd to her, she never comments.*

*Peter wakes up several times during the night.  The bright sodium glare of the streetlights regularly tricking his brain into thinking it's dawn.  Eventually, he gets up, grabs a spare blanket and hangs it on the highest window bar he can reach.  It doesn't block all the light, but enough to let him sleep until morning.

The morning is not a happy one, Peter's mental stock taking: 'Owner: one.  Practically incurable disease: one.  Means to contact George: zero.' does not lend itself to cheer.  Now that he's less furious, he can feel his magic roiling beneath D'Souza's binding, giving him a continuous need to figit or find some other outlet for the pent up force.  He paces the room.*

Peter wakes up with a shiver and a groan.  The air is cold and the rough carpet does nothing to ease the ache in his limbs.  He raises an eyebrow at the darts and rope strewn on the ground.  Whoever brought him here was clearly taking no chances.  He supposes they may have stripped him for same sort of security reasons that apparently lead them to tie him up and drug him, but he is baffled by the mud, grass and... blood stains covering his skin.  What the hel happened last night?

He shivers again, and forces himself to stand up and inspect the cell.  His legs scream pain, as though he'd been running for his life, but he hadn't, had he?  The last thing he recalled was asking Alastair to hang the curtains.

Alastair.

Well.  It wouldn't be the first prank the man had played on him, though it was certainly the most elaborate and he had to give the ginger tribble an A* for effort.  Clearly he had far too much spare time in retirement if this was how he chose to spend it.

A brief exploration with his magic confirmed that he was warded as well as locked in.  The Alastair prank explanation was beginning to look distinctly flimsy.  A look out of the window confirmed it: parliament square.  Creative and persuasive as Alastair was, there was no way Black Rod would allow him to use part of the Westminster palace for a prank.  John, Frances, Betty, or any of the other magi who'd gained seniority through speakership throughout the years, then. 

Peter mentaly enumerated all the times he'd annoyed each of the likely candidates.  If this was Betty then this most likely was a prank, and after being laughed at thoroughly, he'd be given breakfast, some trousers and allowed to leave.  If it were Frances or John... well... Peter just hoped that neither had discovered his little trick of miniturising The Machine's components.  He didn't fancy being detained at their Speakerships' pleasure- getting out of it generally involved a lot of grovelling (from what he'd heard, anyway) and the thought really didn't appeal.  He reflected gloomily that the intruder the night before, cloaked from scrying, should probably have tipped him off to being 'wanted' by a particularly powerful sorcerer.

Turning away from the window, he sat knees drawn up to chest in front of the fireplace and set a magical fire burning.  If he was going to be confined here, and/or humiliated, he may as well be warm.