*Peter stares at the ceiling, bored out of his mind.  The expenses story has been satisfactorially steered away from John, and now he has nothing to do.  He tugs at the restrainst again, no luck.*

*Peter paces the cell.  His legs ache from yesterday, but unlike his human form, his wolf form seems more inclined to walk it off rather than curl up in bed.

John had tried the dog food again this morning, and was once again rebuffed until he caved and brought down two packets of sausages, the potion and a bowl of fresh water.  Peter had tried to follow him out the door, whining that this cell was far too small for an adult wolf, but John clearly hadn't been paying attention as he'd nearly closed the damn thing on Peter's nose, leaving Peter to scratch forlornly at the wooden surface.*

*Peter stares at his desk, filled with smug satisfaction.  He's finished the briefs.  All of them.  Even the extra ones the civil servants dug out of the back of an old filing cabinet in order to keep him busy.

He stretches and winces as his joints pop.  Far too much time spent hunched over a desk, but really, what else was there to do?  Besides read Alastair's laughably inaccurate and self aggradising diaries, of course.

He cups his chin in his hands and sends a tendril of magic out to explore the wards.  They've died back a bit since John's panicked reinforcements a few days ago, but they're still far stronger than they'd been before.  Still, no wall was without its weak spots.

Careful not to draw Lindsay's attention, Peter closes his eyes and tentatively explores the wards a little further.*

*Peter sits at his desk and sulks.  He's already paced back and forth across the room 60 times (he counted), and is now waiting for the hour before he'll do so again.  It's become a bit of a ritual, something to break up the day and stretch his legs in the confined space of the cell. 

He glares at the stack of BIS work still left to do.  The stream of paper is seemingly neverending, and that's part of the problem.  There is never any sense that he has completed something- achieved anything indeed except knocked down one more briefing to a digestible size, with a thousand still to go.  He makes no decisions, alters no part of government policy, merely reads in, concatonates and writes out a one page summary in what is now perfect longhand.  He is bored out of his skull.

Peter hasn't tested the wards since Paddy was last on guard- all the guards since have been magical and rather more inclined to enquire as to what he is doing than previously.  He supposes John has warned them to be extra vigilant and the lack of even an illusion of privacy grates.  He hasn't managed to de-spell the phone either, and the knowledge that it has taken over a week to fail to do something he would normally be able to complete in under 10 minutes is yet one more frustration on top of the pile.  It is growing incresingly difficult for him to maintain his temper, to keep to the social niceties and not just snap at the next comment, change into the wolf and howl at the door.  But for now he bides his time with pacing and thinking up excessively creative means of revenge.*