Francesca sat on Aldon's desk, swinging her legs as if she were a child. John was sitting across from her in Aldon's grand desk chair. The air around them was still—they had barely spoken in the last three and a half hours, but then again, they didn't need to speak. They had never needed to speak, not if they didn't want to, and both of them were too tired to go to the effort of words.

Neither of them had slept much. John had sensibly caught a few hours of shuteye, while Francesca had barely managed to doze against Aldon's shoulder. They had seen the troops off, then taken refuge in Aldon's study so that Francesca could watch the wards with a platter of hot, bitter tea and tasteless biscuits. Francesca's stomach was a roiling ball of pain and anxiety, and John was frowning in worry. Even Bubbles, sitting on a cushion beside them, seemed to have caught the mood—the pink ball of fur and fluff was grumbling in discontent, a noise that Francesca had rarely heard from him.

The mood was in the study was repeated throughout the manor. Through her connection to the manor, Francesca could see that Christie and the rest of Blake & Associates were gathered in her rooms, still awake and playing a half-hearted, distracted game of cards, their emergency bags packed by the door; Cho Chang, Aldon's new assistant, was curled up an armchair and staring sightlessly into a fire. The rest of the manor was empty, as still as the grave, and she couldn't even see the house-elves fluttering about at their work.

There was a repetitive snapping noise—the sound of Francesca flicking open the ring box and closing it. She had pulled the ring off as soon as Aldon had left, but she had kept the box in hand. Over three and a half hours, she had taken the time to examine it many times, and she stopped for the umpteenth time to look at it.

John kicked her in the foot. What are you thinking? You're not seriously…

No. Francesca sighed, flicking the box closed. I want him to come home, and sometimes I think—maybe if I plan on saying yes, if I promise the universe that I'll marry him, he'll come home. But the spirit of war isn't something I can make a deal with, so it's just—it's stupid. It's stupid, but I just want him to come home.

You can want him to come home and not want to marry him, John replied practically, frowning slightly. They're different things.

I know. Francesca shook her head, breaking eye contact for a moment and reaching for her cold cup of tea. "I haven't lost my head, John. You know me."

"I know." John snorted. "Though you can do better than Aldon. He's such an ass."

Francesca giggled, a lighter noise cutting through the silence, and caught his eye. You'd say that about anyone I dated.

Faleron was better. Politically there's the fact that he's a Republican and he's from the South, but I could have gotten over that. John grinned. You know, depending on whether he changed his politics.

Francesca burst into laughter, though it was short-lived. And a revolutionary Lord from England with a past alcohol problem isn't better?

Even with the revolutionary aspects, he's ridiculously conservative. Probably not much better than a Republican. Even with that thought, John was smiling. He's much funnier, though. Better for teasing than Faleron. Have you decided what you're going to say when he comes back?

When, not if? Francesca sighed, looking down, the moment of light-heartedness disappearing in a heartbeat. If he comes back, yes, I know what I'll say. But if he doesn't—

If he doesn't, we're getting the hell out of Dodge, John replied, his smile replaced by a hard frown. Portkey to Heathrow, then we're taking off for New York.

Francesca shut her eyes. "Yeah," she murmured. "Or France. Most of Blake & Associates is already in France, so I think Christie will go there if we lose England. At least for awhile. Most of the people who work at Blake & Associates are British though, so long-term Christie will probably set up in Ireland or Scotland. Wait!"

"Wait?"

But Francesca wasn't looking at him anymore, nor listening. She was focused on the wards—there was movement at the wards, and her heart was leaping. Either this was the enemy, and Francesca had to get ready to make everyone evacuate since she didn't have any clue how to do a ward battle, or it was Aldon and the rest of the army. Her hands went flat on the desk, and she shut her eyes again and looked through senses that were not her own.

For a second, she couldn't see anything, just Aldon's careful lines of warding around Rosier Place and their grounds. But then she felt the touch of his mind against hers as he stepped across the threshold. It was Aldon—Aldon who looked completely unlike himself in jeans and a leather jacket, a rifle slung across his shoulders. But he stood proud, and his smile reflected both victory and exhaustion.

"They're back." Francesca felt her face breaking into a smile, the brightest smile she thought she had in her. "Aldon is back."

XXX

Aldon was a new man. It was a new world, and he was a new man who had a million plans. It was as if the whole future had unfurled before him, a wide-open expanse of opportunity, a place where he could make his wildest dreams come true. And what he wanted, most of all and at this moment, was sitting in his study and waiting for him, his ring in her hands.

He had said that she didn't have to give him an answer. He had said that, but truth be told, he wanted an answer. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had a hierarchy of answers he wanted from her.

The top of that list was "Yes." Enthusiasm would have been nice, but he would also accept shy blushing and general fluster. There was plenty of money in the vault, and Francesca could have the wedding of her dreams. He couldn't imagine that she hadn't made a thousand plans for her own wedding, and he could make them come true. It would be the event of the season, a bright point to counterbalance the darkness of the past year.

The second of that list was "Not now." That was not an ideal answer, but it was an answer he could accept. It was why he had phrased his question in the exact manner than he had chosen to do so. He had wanted to give Francesca options aside from yes or no, because not now was not no, and he wanted to make sure she had answers other than no.

"No" was, of course, the worst possible answer. Aldon would go to very far lengths to avoid hearing the word "no." Indeed, Aldon was fairly certain that he had just planned and fought a war largely to avoid hearing the word "No." That's certainly what Lina would have said, were she not still rounding up enemy combatants for processing at Malfoy Manor.

His study was a welcome place, and Francesca launched herself at him the moment he walked in with a happy cry. He caught her, staggering slightly under her weight, and he could feel her tears as she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Happy tears, he guessed, and he embraced her tightly in response. She smelled like strawberries and cream and, heedless of any audience, he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head.

John cleared his throat pointedly, standing up from Aldon's desk chair. "Brother in the room, remember? Go any farther in front of me, I might need to throw down with you."

"I've proposed." Aldon didn't look at John. "Twice, even. The second one is an open offer. I think that secures her honour."

He heard John snort, but he had eyes only for Francesca, who had pulled away from him. She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.

"I'm so, so glad that you came home," she said, beaming even though her tears. "So glad."

"And?" Aldon waited, a daring half-smile on his face. "Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

She grinned, a little impish, and took a step back. His ring box appeared in her right hand, and she held it out to him. "Ask me again when I have a driver's license. And a four-year college degree. And when the first publicly available ACD is on the market."

Aldon's jaw dropped, but she was already leaving the room.

"Time to see who else made it back." John smirked, walking over to pat him on the shoulder. "That's what she was thinking, there. She's going to ruin you, you know."

Aldon sighed, shook his head, and put the ring away in his pocket. Not now was not the ideal answer, but at least it wasn't No. "Strangely, I look forward to it."

XXX

Hannah hummed, skipping out of the Portkey Hub at Queenscove. She had so much to tell Blaise—Blaise had been chomping at the bit to be involved in at Malfoy Manor, but considering he was still on four Potions daily to heal the complex spell-effects from their last mission, he had been barred from combat. Hannah hadn't been there either, but she had promised to bring him news, and she had swung through about half of the other safehouses this morning and Malfoy Manor convincing people to give it to her. Stormwing Avery had chased her off the field almost as soon as she had arrived, but not before she had caught Ron Weasley, looking battered and bloody but still satisfied, to give her the word.

The Queenscove Healing Wards were a zoo, and Hannah could feel herself becoming more sombre even as she walked in. The injured were coming in groups of twos and threes; the infirmary as more crowded than Hannah had ever seen it before.

Across the ward, Neal spotted her and smiled a hello before turning back to his patient, and Hannah was glad to see that he, too, had made it back. She didn't know him well, but since Blaise had been at Queenscove, she had been there nearly every day to see him. Neal was friendly, always taking the time to check in with her when she came, even if she knew her way from the Portkey Hub to the Healing Wards by now.

Blaise was in a corner of the room, staring avidly at the people who were being brought in. Through their soulmate connection, Hannah could feel his own desperate anxiety and worry for his friends. She took a seat beside him, taking one of his hands in hers. "D-don't focus too hard on the people here," she said, with a small smile. "Other injured people are also going to Potter Place and the Healer's Guild in Diagon Alley, and a lot of people are being treated right at Malfoy Manor."

"So?" Blaise turned to her, his sharp words and affect blunted only by the gentle expression in his eyes as he looked at her. "How is it? How is… everyone?"

Hannah sighed. "Bad news first, or better news?"

Blaise grimaced. "Bad."

"Your mother's dead." Hannah paused. "Ron Weasley was part of the Stormwing group clearing out the remains of Malfoy Manor. They found her body. I'm sorry."

Blaise sighed deeply, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I didn't expect anything different, to be honest. She hadn't been well in a very long time. Inside the Manor, you said?"

"Yes." Hannah squeezed his hand. "We think—we think someone on the inside killed her, a last act of defiance or something, but we don't know. It could be anything. The shifter alliance can help you arrange the funeral if you'd like."

"No." Blaise shook his head. "I mean—I shouldn't. I can handle it."

"You can hardly leave your bed," Hannah pointed out with a small smile. "Accept help when you need it, Blaise."

Blaise winced, but he left the topic alone. Hannah could understand—Blaise's mother had somehow been a part of the reason why Blaise had been raised outside the shifter alliance, so he didn't think it was appropriate to ask for help. But shifters didn't hold grudges, especially against the dead, and Blaise would learn that later. "Do you want the b-better news, now?"

"Please." Blaise smiled, squeezing her hand back.

"There were fewer casualties than expected—a lot fewer." Hannah grinned, though it was tinged with a bit of sadness. There could be no war without casualties, and even if Hannah was happy about their victory and the world they would make, there were still losses. "The Shifter Alliance lost another two—Kenneth Grayson and Deborah Harkness—b-but everyone else survived. The dhampir unit are still sweeping for vampires, but Alex mentioned that he thinks that with Voldemort gone and whatever agreement they had finished, any remaining covens will flee within the next two weeks. Harry is fine. Shell-shocked, but she's fine, she headed right into the Alleys to see her friend Leo and to check on the Lower Alleys. Your friend Pansy is fine—oh, she was a spy for most of the war, did you know?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow, smirking. "If she was a spy, of course not."

"Not even any suspicions?" Hannah grinned, teasing.

"Well." Blaise shook his head wryly. "I can't say I didn't have my guesses. It wasn't in her character to do most of the things they said she did in the first place, so it doesn't surprise me at all. What about—"

He hesitated, looking way again, his dark eyes growing sad.

"A-about?"

"Millicent and Theo." Blaise didn't look at her. "I know—Well, Millie was probably a spy, but I know that Theo was on the other side. I'd like to know what happened to them. And anyone else we went to Hogwarts with, too."

Hannah nodded. She had expected these questions and had gone out of her way to find answers for them. Millie had been the harder of the two—she was with the foreign delegation and had been since last summer, and it had taken rather a lot of pressing for Aldon to tell her what he knew. "Your friend Millie is fine. S-she's been passing information from the foreign delegation to Aldon all year—most of the delegation is at best neutral anyway, Aldon expects they'll quickly come into the service of the new government, whatever that looks like. But T-Theo…"

"Theo?"

"Theo was on the battleground at Malfoy Manor." Hannah sighed, looking down at their linked hands. "He survived, but he's being held with rest of Voldemort's supporters while they decide what to do with them. No word on that yet."

Blaise nodded slowly, a sad look coming into his eyes. "At least he survived. He can learn to adapt to a new world—I think. Is that everyone?"

"I—I hope so," Hannah replied, her smile faltering a little. "Susan, Ernie, Neville and most of the Hogwarts students in our year survived too, at least as far as I know. I don't know for sure, I lost track of a lot of people. I guess—we can always see who returns when we go back to Hogwarts."

"When we go back to Hogwarts," Blaise echoed, a small smile tilting his lips. "Do you think you will? A Hogwarts that's open for everyone, of all blood statuses, for people from three separate countries?"

"Yes." Hannah grinned. "In fact, I—I'm looking forward to it. It'll be d-different, and it'll be hard at first, especially with the first few years of Muggleborn and Irish students, but I think it'll be good. I'm looking forward to meeting the students who wouldn't have been able to come to Hogwarts before, and some of the upper-years will need to be there to help smooth their way. I—I can help with that."

Blaise squeezed her hand. "Then I'll be there, too. With you."

XXX

Rebuilding was hard.

Archie pushed away his pile of notes for the day, his eyes blurry with his own scribble. It wasn't just rebuilding places, though that was hard enough; the state treasury was effectively empty, and even with people slowly starting to return from abroad, current estimates were that the population of the former Wizarding Britain had decreased by nearly a third. Most of them, fortunately, hadn't died—more than half of those gone were the populations of the newly independent Wizarding Ireland and Scotland, and there were a large number of refugees too that hadn't yet returned. In terms of deaths alone, current estimates were for around six thousand dead, mostly in the massacres in the Lower Alleys and Wales.

Money from abroad and especially from the BIA was key for rebuilding. Hermione had been instrumental in negotiating the agreement to fund the rebuilding program, which had been tied to the passage of a re-naturalization program guaranteeing citizenship in Wizarding England for any newblood or halfblood born in Britain who had been pushed abroad under the Muggleborn and halfblood exclusion laws. The primary difficulty of the agreement hadn't been the substance of it, which had seemed natural to everyone involved, but had more to do with the fact no one knew who had the authority to agree to the plan at all. Eventually, Uncle James had just called it all ridiculous and agreed to it in the exigencies of the aftermath of the war and said that the Wizengamot could call him to task about it later.

Archie was drowning in daily arguments about the structure of the new Wizengamot. One third of the seats were meant for the nobility, but there was still an open question about what that meant. Did it mean that the nobles formed their own class, able to elect their representatives among themselves, or did it mean that all nobles were entitled to a seat in the Wizengamot by right of inheritance? Most noble Lords preferred the latter and, considering a complete accounting of all extant noble houses in Wizarding Britain came to under two hundred seats, the latter was even possible.

But under that approach, what happened if, like Queenscove, an heir appeared out of nowhere and raised one of the defunct houses? Did they automatically have a seat, or were they fixing the seats here and now, never to change? Or, if they did have a seat, would two more seats then have to be added to the non-noble representatives to fulfill the agreement?

And what their other promises? What about the Alleys, which was represented by the non-noble Rogue, but which was magically a noble house or something very like it? What about the shifters, who had been promised greater representation in the new government—were they to be granted hereditary or guaranteed seats as well? For the non-noble seats, how would electoral regions be drawn? How would elections be arranged?

Then there were their own personal griefs. Six weeks later, and Archie was still wrapping his head around the list of the dead. Uncle Remus was gone, buried at Potter Place—he, Dad, and the rest of their extended family were still mourning the loss. Derrick Holden, one of Archie's friends from AIM, had died; Marcus had taken his first and only loss in the war, with Roger Davies killed in action as he threw a bomb through a window of Malfoy Manor. Lady Augusta Longbottom was dead, along with her son Frank Longbottom, and the young Lord Neville Longbottom was now negotiating on behalf of their House. The Weasleys themselves had escaped further tragedy, but Percy had lost his closest friend, Audrey Smith, in the last battle. Percy still froze, an empty look on his face every now and then when he paged through his notes at the negotiation table when something had reminded him of her. Penelope always covered for him when it happened.

Harry was already planning a monument for the dead, to be put in the rebuilt Alleys, and the Lady Ross had said that a similar monument would be raised at Hogwarts. A third would be put in Wales, on the peak of Snowdonia, particularly honouring the Welsh dead. The Irish had committed to assisting in cultural renaissance efforts, and in spirit they would be putting the Welsh agreement into effect. The Welsh and the Irish were not the same, but Saoirse had said that they had enough in common that the Irish renaissance efforts would likely be of help.

There was so much to do. Every day was packed, with few days off, and he was more tired than he had ever been in his entire life. And that included the war.

A knock came at his door, and Archie turned in his chair to see Hermione standing in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers in her hands.

"Hermione. What's up?" Archie grinned, pushing his notes for the day away. "What have you got there?"

"Forms for AIM," Hermione said, holding them up. "I didn't—"

She cut herself off with a sigh, walking in and handing him the papers. Curious, Archie looked them over. There was a form for deferring another year, another form for an outright withdrawal, and the third form was an application for independent study. Archie paged through them all, his heart slowly sinking.

AIM would start again in two weeks, but there was no way that he could go back now. He was too deeply tied to the negotiations, and they wouldn't be done in two weeks. They might not even be done in a month, or two months, or six months. The minute one problem ended, another one began, and for some reason half of the people involved didn't seem to be able to talk to each other unless he was there to calm everyone down and remind them that they had more in common than they didn't. He had already missed a year of schooling, and another year was—

Well, he had a few credits from last year. If he gave up on his specialization in infectious disease, he could probably finish a qualification in general Healing in a year and a half, though the classes he needed for infectious disease would take him the full two years. But he couldn't leave now, and he probably couldn't even leave half a year from now, and he didn't know when he could go back. He was needed here, in England.

"Hermione…" he said, looking up. She had to be in the same boat—the BIA needed a liaison in England, and she was the one that both sides trusted. Her history with the BIA was unquestionable, straight from her first year at AIM, but based on her experience in the war, the old nobility still listened to her. Most of the BIA were British newbloods and halfbloods who lived internationally, and the many of the old nobility was still inclined to dismiss them entirely for living abroad, though they could not help the reasons for their emigration. "What are you doing next year? For AIM?"

Hermione looked away. "I've put in an application for an independent study plan," she said softly. "I'm dropping my specialization. We have enough credits for a general Healing certificate with the two Emergency Healing credits we got last year—I expect if we make an argument, we can get a couple more for Spell Damage or Curses and Countercurses or something for last year. Then it's just general studies, and we can do that by agreeing to an independent study schedule by correspondence."

Archie nodded slowly, thinking it over. It wasn't ideal—it was not what he wanted, because he had always wanted to be a Healer, and he had wanted to be a Healer as fast as possible. That was why he and Harry had taken the risk of the ruse, why he had gone to AIM in the first place. The irony that it had ultimately led to a world where he was not a Healer, and where it would take him much longer to become a Healer didn't escape him.

But it would be a better world. It would be so much work, and so many people had died, but it would be a better world. He could spend the time later for his specialisation in infectious disease when things had settled down. He was needed here, and for now, that was more important than Healing.

"I'll do the same," he said, pulling the application for independent study to the top of the pile. There were huge boxes for written explanations, and Archie felt himself deflating at the thought of the essays that awaited him. But it would be for the best, and he set the papers down on his desk. "Nothing for it. I don't know when I'll be able to go back."

Hermione smiled. "I don't think we'll be able to go back," she replied, a little sadly. "Not if we want to see this through properly. The war was the easy part, Archie—this is where the hard work, the work of creating a stable society where everyone can live freely and without fear, begins."

Archie sighed. "I suppose our own plans are a small price to pay," he murmured, with a small smile of resignation. "If we do this right, 'Mione, it'll be worth it. It will absolutely be worth it."

XXX

ANs: And there we have it! The entirety of rev arc, done! For this one, I have a slightly longer list of people to thank: meek_bookworm, of course, for betaing pretty much everything over the past three years (which when you consider it is actually a ridiculous task), various subject matter experts (REW, JAP, SHL) especially for the legal sections, Tolya for the Russian swearing, mercuryandglass for breaking down the grammar of how house-elves speak, Tamarisk for chats on R2P, what military scales look like today, and how a military functions, and FeatheryMinx, graveExcitement, beelzebubble_tea, liryian, fin and so many others for fanarts, comments, and endless encouragement.

By way of inspirations, I'd specifically like to call out the homegrown resistance movements fighting fascism and authoritarianism around the world: from the citizen journalists of RBSS who risked their lives to sneak footage out of the ISIS-controlled city of Raqqa during its occupation (most of them are either dead or refugees now), to Rappler Media in the Philippines continuing to call out the excesses of Duterte's government despite ongoing threat of state-sponsored violence, to the thousands of people who dedicate their lives to fighting the good fight, whether it's in state-sanctioned avenues like the courts or otherwise. "Do you remember when you wanted to set the world on fire? Because I still do."

What comes next? Well, rev arc as a whole closes here-anything else likely to come out will be part of Flashes (if you're on ffnet) or the Rev Arc Plus Extras series (if you're on AO3). Anything else that comes out will likely be a one-shot, extremely self-indulgent, and probably the result of a specific request by someone. Do I have ideas for where my characters go from here? Of course I do, but I probably won't write most of them out unless specifically asked for them. That said, if there's a specific character you want to see more of or a prompt you want to leave, drop it and I'll certainly consider it! Otherwise, I have other ideas floating around, and will probably move on. Thanks for reading!