The war was over.
No more orbital fire from the Enclave.
No more shadows pulling strings from beneath the earth.
No more corrupted magic storms tearing the sky apart.
For the first time since 2077—
The wasteland was quiet.
The Gathering
Harry stood on the flight deck of the Prydwen, now permanently anchored above a rebuilding Boston. Not as a warship—but as a symbol.
Below, banners of every major faction fluttered side by side.
The sigil of the Brotherhood of Steel.
The emblem of The Institute.
Representatives from scattered vaults once built by Vault-Tec.
Free settlements. Former raider tribes who had chosen farming over fire.
Even the Dragonclaw rested peacefully beyond the city walls, no longer a monster—but a guardian.
Harry removed his helmet.
No glowing storms.
No alarms.
Just wind.
Elder Maxson stepped forward first.
"We once believed technology alone would save humanity," he admitted.
An Institute Director followed.
"We believed control would rebuild it."
A vault overseer bowed his head.
"We believed isolation would protect it."
Harry looked at all of them.
"And we were all wrong," he said calmly.
The Arcane Commonwealth
He lifted his wand—not to cast a spell of war, but of unity.
A symbol formed above the city: a wand crossed with a gear, surrounded by a protective circle.
"Steel. Science. Magic. Humanity," Harry declared.
"Not rivals. Partners."
Through his Pip-Point, he transmitted open access to purified energy grids, agricultural blueprints, water restoration systems, and defensive ward schematics.
No secrets.
No hidden weapons.
No monopolies.
The Brotherhood would defend, not hoard.
The Institute would innovate, not replace.
Vault communities would open their doors.
Settlements would share resources instead of raiding.
For the first time, factions became one coalition.
Healing the Earth
Years passed.
Radiation continued to fall.
Crops grew where ash once lay.
Children were born under clear skies.
The Prydwen became a floating academy—knights training beside scientists, and both learning basic defensive magic.
The Institute transformed into a center of research for clean fusion and arcane stabilization.
Vaults became cities.
And Harry?
He did not sit on a throne.
He walked among the people.
Sometimes in armor.
Sometimes without it.
Always watching.
Always guarding.
The Last Scene
One evening, Harry stood at the edge of Boston Harbor as the sun set over clean water.
The purified nuclear core within his armor glowed softly—not as a weapon, but as the heart of a new world.
A child ran past him laughing.
No Geiger counter clicks.
No distant gunfire.
Just peace.
Elder Maxson approached quietly.
"You could have ruled by fear," he said.
Harry smiled faintly.
"I already defeated a Dark Lord once. I won't become another."
The wind carried no ash now.
Only salt and life.
Above them, stars shone bright and unobstructed.
The Boy Who Lived had survived the end of the world.
But more importantly—
He had ended the cycle of it.
And in the silence that followed centuries of war, one truth remained:
Magic did not conquer the wasteland.
It healed it.