It is only hours later that Auror Dawlish reappears. There is nothing that I have prepared to tell him. Hestia told me about potential questions he could ask, and I am trying to run them through in my head. If he is going to interview me, doesn't Hestia have to be here? Wizarding laws are quite different from muggle laws. Wizards, to some degree, still torture inmates by using Dementors.

Auror Dawlish doesn't enter. I try to preoccupy myself with practicing spells. Truly, I try to do anything but think about what he is going to ask of me. It shouldn't worry me. I have committed no crime, that I can think about. I have done nothing wrong. The worst part is, I'm more worried about the possibility that the aurors are going to catch Draco than I am that they are going to realize the huge cover-up involved by their war heroes.

Instead, it isn't him that enters the room. My healer does. I feel bad that I don't know her name. Usually, I am good with names, but she said it to me in a thick Eastern European accent, and I didn't have the heart to ask again. She explains that due to the monitoring that they have done over the past forty-eight hours since my arrival, they know that I am going to be able to at least manage my own health in wizarding society. So, they are releasing me, rather than inter me in St. Mungo's Ward for maledictions.

Only then does Auror Dawlish join us. He explains that the ministry is going to be providing me emergency housing as a victim of crime so that I do not have to live with strangers nor travel back to North Ireland to live with Terry. The aurors want to keep me close. So, they are transferring me to a shelter where victims of crimes are housed until they are safe.

Honestly, I think the hospital doesn't want to deal with any more reporters. I don't blame them.

"It's mostly muggle wives of wizards in protection," Auror Dawlish tells me. "Often, they are more afraid than witches, because they feel like they have fewer resources, and they cannot tell anyone about the nature of their husbands' abuses."

"Is that not... a bit extreme?" I ask. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but is there no other space that I can be housed?"

"It's very secure," Auror Dawlish says. "We would not be able to put you up in an inn and ensure your safety, as I'm sure you understand."

"Is there a reason to believe that I am unsafe?" I ask.

"Until we understand the motives of Blaise Zabini, it is entirely possible that someone else will come after you," he presses.

I try to read his face as he tries to read mine. Maybe he believes the story that was fed to me; some Death Eater or Order secret is in my head, and someone might be desperate enough to get to me and crack it.

They wouldn't be cracking my head like a safe though.

After that, Auror Dawlish wants to apparate me to the location. The healer insists I cannot. She explains, in complex magical terms that I do not understand, that part of my injury involves the cramming of two sets of memories in my head. Some part of apparating jolts the filing cabinets which Blaise set up, and rather than jumbling and scrambling them, it puts them at risk of shattering.

The location where I am to go is not connected to the floo network for security reasons and seeing as portkeys are worse than apparition for my head and I don't remember ever flying on a broom, we have to take a more muggle method. Auror Dawlish escorts me in a muggle cab. There is only a brief second that I am outside before I am squished into the back beside him. He doesn't grumble, which at least provides me with some relief.

Even though it is raining, I roll down the window. Auror Dawlish glares at me, but I ignore him. I lean my hand outside and feel the raindrops on my skin. My shoulders relax. They hadn't seemed tight before, but now they are relaxed.

"It's windy," he finally says after two songs have played on the muggle radio.

"I know," I say. The small misty rain is settling on my nose. Misty rain is truly the worst kind of rain. I do not like haze, be in physical in the fog or rather mental. Yet, I do not find myself filled with rage like I normally would be. Usually, I'd rather it drizzles or even pour.

"The wind makes it cold," Auror Dawlish continues.

"I haven't been outside properly in quite some time," I point out.

Auror Dawlish shuffles in his seat beside me, "I thought you had only been at the Boot residence since the nineteenth of November."

"It is December fifth, is it not?" I turn my head to look at Auror Dawlish.

"The Boot residence is quite remote. I'm sure you could've gone outside if you so desired without being caught," Auror Dawlish continues.

"Yes, well I certainly didn't have the opportunity to feel the wind in my hair while driving, did I?" I counter.

He quiets. I wish he were worse at his job.

Eventually, we pull up to an unsuspecting flat. He uses his wand to unlock the door, and I follow after him. We step into the lift. From there, he presses the button for the seventh floor twice, the button for the third floor three times, and the button for the seventh once more. Then, another button moulds in the metal, leading to a basement. The auror presses on it, and we head down to the ground floor.

Finally, we get to the ground floor. There is a woman with sharp features but a soft smile awaiting me on the other side. Auror Dawlish does not even step off the lift and instead heads back up.

"I'm Parisa," she says, "Auror Dawlish told me you would be arriving. What would you prefer to go by?"

My body almost flinches. No one has ever asked. It has never seemed to matter to anyone what I would prefer. I can feel my mouth opening, only slightly. The name Marty is almost on my tongue, but surely the name Marty Turner will be in the papers tomorrow, and then people will ask questions. Marty is a more notable name than Jane.

I suppose that might be why Blaise chose it for me. Plain Jane.

"Louise," I tell him. It is my middle name. At least, I think it is both Marty's name and Jane's name. At the very least, my head will turn when I hear it, and I won't think of Blaise forcibly shoving Jane into my skull until my head was ruined forever.

Not forever. For now.

"Right," she says. We begin to walk down the hallway. "Now, I would be lying if I said that we had a lot of space down here. While this is the shelter for all of the British Wizarding World, including Ireland, there are only five floors. That may sound like a substantial amount of space, but each floor doesn't hold more than twenty residences, so really, there can only be about a hundred occupants in here at once.

"There are only a few floors which concern you. This floor is for mixed-gender families. Below us is a floor for mixed-gender residences, so men and women. Below those, we have a floor for women and children, for just women, and then a floor for muggle women. I wanted to ask if you would prefer the floors for women, mixed-gender residences, or muggle women. Each suite comes with a personal bathroom, though the kitchen and recreational space are communal. Just know that if you chose the floor for muggle women, we ask that you do not use magic in communal spaces, just as that can be upsetting for our residences."

I nod my head, but then scrunch my nose, "why am I eligible for the floor for muggle women?"

Parisa stops walking. She turns to look at me. It is only then that I realize how quiet the hallway is. It is still before dinner, but there is not much noise. The rooms are probably magically silenced. This floor is supposed to house children. We are underground. They have no windows.

"Well, we here believe that you ought to have control over your full story," she says.

"Auror Dawlish told you though, did he not?"

"Yes," she says. "I'm not going to lie to you, Louise. I know the relevant details, and also about the risk of supporters of You-Know-Who arriving. However, I wanted to give you the opportunity, given your history, to choose to live in a magicless community, should that suit your needs."

"Okay," I say. I suppose that there would be fewer people down there who will read The Daily Prophet. "Lead me to the floor for muggle women. Also, down there, it's okay if you call me Marty. I just... I was worried about attention since I know my name's been in the press."

"Right," Parisa smiles. "Marty."

As we come down, Parisa shares a bit more about herself. She is both a muggle-born and an immigrant.

"Were you... safe during the war?" I ask.

"Oh, yes," Parisa says. "I stayed with my muggle cousins in Belgium. So many of us left Iran during the Islamic Revolution, and so I had a better feeling about when fleeing is necessary than a lot of others."

Soon enough, we are in my room. She lets me know that I can set up an appointment to meet with mind healers that they provide, and I am also free to request grocery items, but the pantry is stocked and I can take whatever I please. She also tells me that, since I have no clothing, they are going to be bringing me some jumpers and trousers. I could get witch robes if I so choose, but it would be best if I wore muggle clothing on the muggle floor. I let her know my sizes.

After that, Parisa heads out. She pauses in the doorway.

"You can leave here, just so you know," she tells me. "We do not believe in forcing you to stay. I will say that we cannot provide you with protection outside of these walls. Unfortunately, I will have to tell Auror Dawlish if you leave, but understand that I have the best of intentions."

Then, she heads out. In the tiny room, equipped with only a dresser and a bed with barely any room to walk between them, I sit down. My heart feels heavy. This bed is small, and once again, too small to imagine Draco beside me.

~~~~~~

I cannot believe how close we are! It's killing me. As always, let me know what you think in the comments. I am so excited!