He carried the knife Marchent had given him for two days, a hot and throbbing pain near burning like a flame through the pocket of his robe. Percy didn't know why he had picked it up—a single, thoughtless motion he couldn't be held responsible for.  He had never relied on weapons, ever, not even as a child when as much as a pocketknife would be understandable.  He just wasn't a weapons person.  Oh, he had held them all, daggers, poison, but never had there been what he felt for that knife.  Several times he tried to pull it free of himself and throw it somewhere, but each attempt was in vain.  He would touch the handle and feel fire.  Fire and the hurt of losing Penny and the things Marchent had told him.  Each time they made more sense.  Penny, the real Penny, was gone.  How dare her body be used as a puppet!  It was all kinds of blasphemy.  To kill that puppet, to plunge that blade into what had been Penelope Clearwater, would be nothing more than vengeance served, putting Penny to rest, another motion of destruction against Voldemort and whomever he had placed in charge.  At least, that's what Percy decided in the end.  He couldn't escape logic and reason.

            He didn't know if Valentine Munk and Winston Morsley knew what had happened.  Perhaps Marchent had told them, during one of the strangely awkward moments with him.  It didn't matter.  Valentine and Winston gave Percy a respectful clearing while still including him in their plans.  Valentine's excellent forgings were sent off to Jason Gunnion; hopefully he remain far away. 

            And Percy had his own contribution to make.  After two days, the decision was clear:  He would kill Penelope.

            He waited for her for hours outside the now-empty tavern till she finally emerged, seemingly innocent and cheerful as she hummed a tune.  He hung back, hood drawn, not letting her see him.  She headed down the street, towards the woods no doubt, still humming, sunlight catching itself in her soft brown curls.  She was so beautiful, he thought lamely as he fingered the dagger in his pocket.  Extremely beautiful.  She seemed so much more than what Dormand had been.  Nothing less than a beautiful, vibrant girl.  If he hadn't seen her eyes. . . the knife sent a sickness through him, and he forced himself to grip the handle all the more.  Remember her eyes, he told himself.  Don't be a coward.  Remember her eyes.

            Penelope entered the trees, still humming her little tune.  Percy stalked after her.  Every emotion drained from his body until he might have been the Dementor's victim.  It was so easy, really.  She didn't sense him at all.  It would be so quick, maybe even painless for her.  And then it would be over.

            And then what?  He cringed as fresh heartache rushed into his blank self.  He had already lost everything, everyone. . . he swallowed and pushed the pain back out.  He had to feel nothing, have nothing, for this to work.  He couldn't give into a rage like Marchent did.  He would be calm.  Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the path.

            Penelope's song ended as she froze, obviously hearing motion, the turned.  Her face paled in what surprise could be given.  "Percy."

            Percy squeezed the knife, feeling its imprint in his palm.  She saw the knife—he could see its reflection in her empty eyes.

            "What are you--?"  She frowned, angry, and reached for her wand.

            He was faster, pulling his own out with his free hand and pointing it directly at her.  "I have the wand and the knife.  Don't you dare move."  His voice was perfect.  But he couldn't cast anything on her.  He just couldn't.  That would be an insult to her body.  He was already to kill her. . . what could be worse?  Could anything be worse?

            She still drew her wand, but let her arm dangle at her side.  "So. . . you're betraying me?  Because this isn't funny.  I know you don't do stuff like that.  You betray me."  Her voice shook.  "I thought you loved me."

            He didn't love this.  "I don't know what's controlling you, but. . ."  He couldn't think of anything, and the words died off, meaningless.  He bit his lip.  "Accio wand!"  Penelope's wand tore itself free from her hand and sailed through the air to Percy. He grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket.

            The loss of her wand seemed to diminish all threat.  With a sob, she sunk to the ground, brown curls falling over her face.  "How can you do this to me?"

            Old stories of Snow White flashed through his mind, the girl in the woods, the huntsman ready to kill her.  It was coming true.  The knife fell from his hand, making a soft clink as it struck the earth.  He couldn't do it.  After all this. . . seeing her now. . .he couldn't do it.  The trees slowly spun around him, mocking, while he stood perfectly still, staring at Penelope who stared right back at him, tears in her empty eyes.  Empty and yet. . . a touch of the light, wishful thinking, perhaps?  He didn't have long to consider before someone approached.

            Brogan Marchent.  He had evidently come to see if Percy could go through with the murder, could really kill Penelope.  And he didn't look pleased.  The knife on the ground, the crying Penelope, the awkward Snow White scene left unfinished, a bad fairy tale gone wrong.

            "You couldn't do it?" Marchent ranted.  He picked up the knife and tried to hand it back to Percy, who refused it.  Percy couldn't touch it.  He didn't dare take it.  And yet with what he knew of Brogan….

            He waited too long, too late to avoid what he should have seen coming.  He had left the knife in the hands of Brogan Marchent, hands that caressed the knife a moment before their body charged wildly at Penelope, blade sharply glinting in the sunlight.

            A terrible flashback to Crouch's murder. . .

            It was like lightening.  A single scream from Penelope, a single plunge of the knife, a rush of redness in Percy's eyes as his muscles twisted.  Then Marchent, suddenly weak, stumbled back, blood dripping from the blade.  He slowly turned his wild eyes to the horrified Percy, who had no consciousness of stepping in, and tore his knife-weilding hand from Percy's grip.

            "She's dead now," Marchent said softly.  "It's best this way.  I killed her in one stab."

            Percy felt blood sleep from his arm; Marchent had cut him during the struggle.  It wasn't much, but he felt all strength go with it.  "Just get out of here," he snapped.  "Get the hell out of here."

            Panic, the now-familiar realization, spread over Marchent's face, and without a word he apparated.

            Percy collapsed to the ground, dizzy in body and mind.  Penelope lay next to him, motionless.  Marchent had called her dead, but Percy had thrown himself in. . . without her soul, did it matter?  He couldn't kill her himself. . . he let some lunatic do it.  He was a coward.  He knew he should be feeling more than these thoughts with their detached emotions.  But there was nothing, just deadness inside of him and some strange closure.

            But she still breathed.  He didn't see it at first, but her mouth fell open, gently pulling at the air, her chest faintly rising.

            "Penny," he murmured.  The would, he saw, was not fatal.  Not even terribly deep.  A slash in the flesh of her lower elbow.  He didn't claim to know healing, but. . . she would be fine.  Her body, anyway.  His own breathing quickened as he tore fabric from the edge of his robe to press against the wound.

            She gasped once, then stirred.  "Percy?"

            She could speak.  At least, as a puppet could speak.

            "Percy, I'm so sorry.  This wasn't supposed to happen."  Her eyes fluttered open, softly blue and alive.

            Alive.  He gazed into them, scarcely believing what he saw.  It couldn't be true. He had seen. . . but no.  These were Penelope's true eyes, full.  He nearly dropped the blood-soaked cloth as he bent his face over hers.  "Penny, you're here.  The Dementors. . ."

            "Mm."  She smiled weakly.  "Finally.  That damned Imperious Curse.  It's so hard to fight it.  But I broke it.  I'm so sorry. I knew I scared you.  But I wasn't allowed to fight it.  She brought in the Dementor, but it didn't attack me.  She said as long as I remained under her control and didn't fight the Imperious. . . oh, this hurts."

            Laughing softly, he pulled her into his arms.  She could be lying.  That was a possibility.  But she couldn't be.  He knew how the curse worked. It was all in the eyes.  This was really her.  "Can I make you feel any better?"

            Her smile broadened.  "Kiss me."

            And he did.

            Remus wasn't prepared to yet return to Dragon's Tooth, but he soon would be.  He planned only to bring a few members of the Order with him.  There would be less chaos that way, surely.  He trusted Penelope to have some semblence of control there, herself.  He'd bring people he trusted, Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a few others.  None of the Weasleys.  That wouldn't be fair.  It'd happen sooner or later, what with Tonks soon to be involved.  But until it did. . .

            Overall, he liked Penelope's plan.  Explain everything.  Get it out in the open.

            But if it was such a good plan, why did he feel such apprehension?