Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor have any affiliation with the franchise. All I claim to do is write fanfiction for it. I do not own Peter Pan nor claim any affiliation with it; all I do is write fanfiction.

I was extremely tired when I wrote this. I just got a flash of inspiration and jotted down the main idea in my notebook. Came back home and typed it all up. I know Chapter 3 of 'Murder of Crows is late; I'm still working on it, please just hold out for a little longer and enjoy this HP blasphemy.

Harry is to Wendy as Tom is to Tinkerbell

Big panning shot. The sound of silence as the many magical people, evil and good, just watch the two figures kneeling down in an epic energy spell duel.

Personally I always found that if you sat on your knees, they would really hurt after a while. You'd have to keep shifting your legs into a different position and your arse tended to get really sore as well. Anyway, on with the story.

It is the final battle. The end of the whole war, following the old saying, cut off the head of the snake and the snake will die.

Generally that applies to a great many living things in the world, except worms but still, good on you.

The spells recoil and both figures' arms recoil as the great energy withdraws. The snake has been killed; the Longbottom has had his triumph. Such revelation shocks the two combatants before they notice each other again.

The evil one, the Dark Lord, he-whose-name-is-too-damn-long-and-really-hard-to-remember-and-also-sounds-rather-silly, that man looks at his opponent with eyes wide and yellowed teeth glaring. He's got no lips either, weird.

The Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, the-one-that-has-such-a-bloody-boring-name-that-we-have-to-spice-it-up-with-titles, that kid is covered in dirt as if he fell from the sky and rolled in it to complete the battle look. His glasses are still intact, unfortunate sod can actually see the train wrecked boffin in front of him.

Voldemort (Vole of Death in other languages) rasps out,

"Got any last words mate? Don't be casting no spells either!"

The forces of good slump, all witnesses about to gather up their deck chairs and retire to their fortress of love. They can't actually cast spells now that the Evil One said they couldn't, that'd be cheating.

The boy Harry, also known as Potter (he who pots things) thinks of last words. Something that could kill that isn't a spell. The adrenaline is still in his blood, overriding any form of logic and he recalls a piece of literature from the time when he was small and giant spiders fell onto his head, a time when belief meant something.

Grinning at the thought of this actually working and musing in his head that he had a pretty good run of luck considering seven years of death, and says,

"There's no such thing as magic. I don't believe in Dark Lords."

Voldemort dropped dead.

The End.