The warning came as a whisper in the back of Harry's mind.
Not from technology.
From magic.
High above the atmosphere, something ancient and mechanical shifted position. A dormant orbital weapons platform—controlled by the remnants of the Enclave—aligned itself with the Commonwealth.
On the bridge of the Prydwen, Brotherhood scribes panicked.
"Massive energy spike detected!"
"It's not nuclear—it's orbital!"
Harry didn't need the scanners.
He looked up.
Through steel and cloud and radiation, he could feel it.
A spear aimed at the earth.
The Orbital Strike
In a hidden Enclave bunker, a commander gave the order.
"Fire."
From space, a beam of concentrated solar energy lanced downward—brighter than the bombs that ended the world. It tore through the clouds, carving a burning line toward Boston.
Toward Harry.
Toward everything he now ruled.
Brotherhood soldiers braced for annihilation.
Institute sensors screamed overload.
Settlers across the wasteland looked up at a second sun.
Harry removed his helmet.
Green eyes blazed.
"So," he murmured softly, "this is your final answer."
He planted his boots into the deck of the Prydwen.
Raised his wand.
And spoke words no wizard had dared attempt since the Founders of Hogwarts.
"Protego Universalis."
The Shield of the Last Wizard
The sky shattered.
Not literally—but reality bent.
A dome of golden energy expanded outward from Harry, stretching across the Commonwealth. It covered the Prydwen. The ruins of Boston. The Institute below. Settlements beyond the river.
The orbital beam struck.
And stopped.
The air screamed.
The ocean boiled miles away.
But the shield held.
Harry poured magic into it—limitless, controlled, refined. He was no longer a student. No longer just a survivor.
He was a maxed-out wizard in a world that had forgotten what magic truly meant.
The beam fractured.
Split.
Redirected.
With a flick of his wand, Harry twisted the energy upward.
Back into the sky.
The Fall of the Enclave
In orbit, the Enclave platform's systems overloaded.
The redirected beam struck its own focusing array.
Metal melted.
Satellites shattered.
The platform exploded in silent fire above the earth.
In their bunker, Enclave officers stared at dead screens.
One whispered:
"That's impossible."
No.
It wasn't.
Not anymore.
A New Order
The clouds cleared again.
The golden dome faded slowly into harmless sparks.
Across the wasteland, people emerged from hiding.
Brotherhood knights knelt.
Institute scientists stared upward in awe.
Even raiders felt it—a shift in power.
Harry stood at the edge of the Prydwen, wind catching his robes beneath the indestructible armor.
His Pip-Point chimed softly.
ENCLAVE ORBITAL THREAT: ELIMINATED
INSTITUTE REACTOR: STABLE
BROTHERHOOD STATUS: LOYAL
ALL VAULT ACCESS: CONFIRMED
Every vault.
Every blueprint.
Every faction.
His.
But he didn't smile like a conqueror.
He looked out over the broken world and said quietly:
"No more war."
He lifted his wand once more—not in destruction, but in creation.
"Reparo Terra."
Across the Commonwealth, small things began to change.
Soil slowly detoxified.
Water cleared.
Radiation pockets faded.
It would take years.
Maybe decades.
But for the first time since 2077—
The wasteland was healing.
And so the legend spread:
Not of the Boy Who Lived.
Not of the Sole Survivor.
But of the Wizard in Indestructible Armor.
The ruler of steel and sorcery.
The last wizard of the old world—
And the first hope of the new one.