Sometimes Percy hated sleep.  He had never been to suffer the slavery of the night where anything and every part of him could appear in the most imposing form ever.  In fact, he dreamed rarely.  Sleep had always been what the body desired, rest, and in recent times a refuge.  But nothing was every complete and on occasion he did dream.  And then they were nightmares, visions of only what a time among the Death Eaters could show.  He had never been in deep, just to the outskirts his opposition from the Ministry had forced him.  But he had still seen things, heard things. 

That night, the dream was vague, a rush of colored flame and black cloaks and low voices.  He was nowhere in the dream, a meaningless presence that drifted about the icy dream-bodies.  And then he existed, just enough to feel the sting of the flame that cut into his arm, again and again.

"Good morning, Mr. Ignatius."

The flame was gone, the Death Eaters were gone, and Percy was sitting up yelling like a child.

"Honestly," retorted Valentine's voice, her body but a blonde and brown blur above his couch.  "You don't have to scream."

He reached for his glasses, somewhere on the floor.  He felt them once, but only managed to send them rolling further.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you last night.  I need to talk to you.  I have something.  Winston loves, I thought you might agree."

He managed to retrieve his glasses and set them firmly on his face.  "You could have waited until I came to the office."

Valentine jolted, nearly slipping from her position on the couch back.  "You can't be serious!  How foolish would that be?"

"No more foolish than you sneaking in here.  Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

A look of near-sympathy passed over her face as she shook her head.  "Oh, grow up.  No one cares.  It's barely dawn as it is."

Percy climbed to his feet, tucked the blankets into the hide-a-bed, and rolled it back into the couch.  "That's what makes it awful."

"I don't even like you that way, John."  Nearly an insult in bitter taste.

Annoyed, he sat back on the newly folded couch, eyes away from Valentine.  "You're getting off-topic.  You came to see me about something?"

"Yes!"  He heard a rustle of parchment.  "I made these last night! I was at the tavern and good ol' inspiration just struck me.  Here.  Read."  She dumped the parchment into his lap.

He stared at them, not even moving as one sheet slid from the haphazard pile onto the floor.  "What are they?"

"Letters!"

She wasn't going to go away.  With a sigh, he picked up the top sheet in the stack and read.  It began mid-sentence—evidently a continuation of the fallen one.  He picked that up and read it.  "It's to Jason Gunnion."

"Uh-huh."

He scanned the letter again.  "It's in. . .it's in Dormand's handwriting."  He half-wondered if that was Barty Crouch Jr.'s true scrawl.

Valentine clapped excitedly.  "Perfect!  You're following perfectly, Percy!  I've always been good at forgery, did it all the time in my school days, you know.  Then I also picked up this completely disapproved-of charm that further completes the forgery.  No one could tell Dormand didn't write this!  The handwriting is perfect, these should distract Mr. Gunnion for at least a month!"

Percy turned around to stare at her.  "You keep switching my names."  In horrified realization he remembered she had did the same thing the night before;  he had been thinking too much about Penelope and Crouch to notice.

"So you finally noticed."  There was no embarrassment for her to hide, just a knowing smile and a tilt of her head.  "I was waiting for you to know, Percy Weasley."

His name.  Penelope had said it, Remus had said.  No one else was. . .allowed to!  "How did you--?  You overheard Penny. .."

"She helped.  She and that new guy in town, that Lupin fellow.  They try to be careful, and they were good.  But no one can be perfect."  She picked at a piece of lint on the couch and flicked it disdainfully to the floor. 

"You know who I am?"

She shrugged ambiguously.  "Not really.  Dormand's new secretary.  Or someone fleeing from either side of the war.  I had a feeling when you first came here."

So there went the idea of hiding.  To think he couldn't even manage that much.  "And you let me stay?"

"Don't worry.  I can't figure out many details.  And then there was Dormand's personal story of redemption."

"What redemption?" he muttered.

It was almost satisfying to see surprise creep into Valentine's face.  Some secret had escaped her spying.  "What?"

He flipped through the letters, reluctantly admiring the brilliant plan.  If only it would work. 

"Percy, you're not telling me anything."

"It's just a theory we came up with."

"We as in you, Penelope, and Mr. Lupin."  She sniffed.  "I want to hear it anyways."

She was involved as well.  She had every right to know.  He shook his head and handed back the letters.  "These are good, Valentine.  Really good.  And I'll tell you.  I just think Morsley should hear as well."

"Of course he should!" she sang.  "Get into some real clothes and I'll meet you outside."  She stuck the letters into her robe pocket and ran out the tent flap.

Percy felt the beginnings of a smile on his face as he hopped in the shower.

By the time he emerged, the sun was climbing into the sky and a small group had mustered past his tent near the beginnings of the woods.  Evidently Valentine had saw fit to bring Brogan Marchent as well as Winston Morsley.

"I thought we could take a walk in the woods," Valentine explained.  "A bit more privacy there, from prying ears."

Percy's eyes met Marchent's, who only frowned.  Percy didn't want to repeat the experience of the other night.  Again came the question. . . how was Brogan controlled then?

"We can't go into the woods," Brogan said, echoing Percy's thoughts.

Valentine whirled at him with a stunned laugh, adding whatever lightness she could give.  "What's wrong with the woods?  They're perfectly safe."

Morsley choked back a laugh.

Marchent seemed to take that as offense.  "We can't go there.  At least. . . at least not very far in."

To place where he had attacked Percy and Penelope.  Percy locked eyes with him once more. 

"Brogan, you were attacked down there yourself," Morsley said in sudden realization.  "That's where. . . the dragon was.  But that was much farther down."

Valentine let out an irritated sigh and plopped down on the grass.  "Fine, then.  Mr. Ignatius, tell us that theory here."

Marchent raised an eyebrow.  "Is this the one Lupin came up with?"

"The one," Percy confirmed.  He set into the theory, the puppet-like control of the soulless, almost relishing the look of horror on Valentine's face.  He even mentioned Crouch in passing, referring to him as a forced victim once again of polyjuice potion.

Morsley shook his head slowly.  "If you're right. . .and it makes so much sense.  But if you're right, we've been under someone else's command all this time."  He looked almost sick.

"Not a happy thought," Valentine said slowly.  She ripped the Gunnion letters out again.  "Does this mean these things are any good anymore?  Did I make these for nothing?"

Morsley gently tugged the parchment from her hands.  "I think they just might cause enough positive confusion for us to work with, assuming Gunnion is controlled.  But then again, he could be a pawn like us."

That seemed to placate Valentine.

Marchent said nothing.  Of course he had heard the theory already.  But his silence seemed more than that.  He didn't look at the others, but stared down into the woods, his face like stone.

Valentine watched him worridly.  "Brogan?  Are you okay?"

He gave a dry laugh, vacant of any humor.  "I get it now.  It makes perfect sense. Didn't yesterday, but I suppose I just had to be here.  Last night, last week. . ."  Again, the bitter laugh.

"Mr. Marchent?" Percy started.

"There's something down there," he said loudly, climbing to his feet.  "It's where I was attacked. . . it's what I was to block you from last night.  We're not allowed down there.  But at least I saw more than you."

Morsley leapt up, body rigid. "Marchent, what are you talking about?  You wouldn't know anything about. . . whatever!"

"I know enough."

Knowing terror passed over Morsley's face.  "Ignatius, help me.  Grab his arms."

Percy fumbled through his robes for his wand.  Physically holding the man wouldn't help.  Percy had seen this before, common in the Death Eater society.  "He may need to be stunned."

"There's not enough. . ."

Marchent whipped stray hair from his face.  "Don't worry, I won't be attacking any of you this time."  The voice wasn't his.

"Damn everything," Valentine muttered.  "He's crazy."

And with a bang he was gone. 

Percy finally found his wand.  Too late.  "Does he do this often?" he asked the other two.

"He gets mad," Valentine said slowly.  "But never like this."

Percy thought of the time Marchent had stormed from Dormand's office.

And then Marchent was back, another figure with him, Dormand in a full-body bind. 

"Close your eyes, Miss Munk," Marchent growled, pulling a knife from his robe.  He raised it, and lowered it with a sickening thud into Dormand's stiff chest, once, twice, three times.