Author's Note: A brief oneshot for Whitetigerwolf's Wrong Boy-Who-Lived Challenge, which asks for a WBWL-verse in which Harry actually gets along with his family, with optional Squib!Harry.

Recent Cambridge graduate Harry Potter jumped, nearly spilling his tea, as his parents returned cursing from their Order meeting. "What's wrong?" he asked, setting the cup down in its saucer. "Is it Jamie? Has his condition worsened?" He and his brother might not always have been on the best of terms - exacerbated as much by Harry's Squibhood as by his brother's celebrity status - but Jamie was still his brother. "Is he -"

"Oh, Merlin's beard, no, that's the only good news," his father said, dusting the ashes of the fireplace off his trouser leg. "The healers have given him a good prognosis - they think he'll finally wake up soon. Brain damage minimal, they say - he might need retraining in some basic tasks, but he'll still be himself."

"That's... that's wonderful." His parents had been halfway comatose themselves after Jamie had suffered such severe injuries on the front lines - the healers had initially said it was a miracle his body was still breathing at all. To say nothing of the morale of the Wizarding war effort...

Harry peered at his parents; they seemed far less delighted than they ought to have been. "What's the bad news, then?" With about every catastrophe having occurred imaginable in the seven years since Voldemort's return, it was hard to imagine what could put them in such an irate state.

His father's mouth worked without words coming out, and then he swore and banged his fist on the wall. "That damned senile old man... I'm going to go to my parents' bloody tomb and beg their forgiveness for ever having anything to do with that great, bloody..."

His mother, always the more sensible one, looked at Harry with weary eyes; tears trembled on the rim. "Oh, Harry." She looked at him for a moment longer, then mopped at her eyes with her sleeve. "He - Oh, I hate him. Now he's decided his infallible determination of Jamie as the Boy-Who-Lived was wrong all along-"

"What?" Harry sputtered, involuntarily interrupting his mother. "Then - Wait, who could possibly be the Chosen One otherwise? Neville?" The Longbottom heir was nice enough, but he'd never seemed -

His mother choked and wiped back fresh tears, shaking her head. "Oh, Harry... my poor, dear son... Now he thinks you're the Boy-Who-Lived."

"WHAT?"

"I don't know the least thing about magic, beyond what I've picked up just from growing up with magic parents," Harry said irately, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Order members gazed back at him expectantly. "I studied chemistry, not Potions. From what I know of the most basic Muggle science, the simplest magic gives me hives just trying to figure out how you violate every law in the books and walk off smiling. I can't fight in your damned wars."

"But you are prophesied, Harry," the old crank at the head of the table said, his eyes gleaming madly. Harry sat back and rubbed his eyes.

Yeah, his mother's scheme seemed about right. As soon as Jamie was awake and could be moved, they were all fleeing to Australia and applying for amnesty.

Voldemort strode into the Ministry, noting with amusement the vacancy of the atrium. Not even Dumbledore had bothered to show up - and certainly not that poor, idiotic "Boy-Who-Lived". Pity he'd wasted his time torturing the boy rather than killing him when he had the chance. That would be remedied.

Of course, Lord Voldemort was not a complete fool. He knew this looked for all the world like a trap. Yet none of his spells had detected any signs of magical treachery, and thus he was satisfied.

He was just turning to his Death Eaters and assigning them different portions of the Ministry to conquer when some instinct made him turn around.

That instant, the statue at the center of the Ministry atrium exploded.

The locket thrashed and burbled, but hydrochloric acid did its work.

"I almost feel sorry for the thing," Sirius commented as a tarry substance seeped out, then fell apart like everything else. Harry only snorted. "Well, take the cup I inherited from dear cousin Bella, then."

Lily nudged the diadem Jamie had retrieved from the Room of Hidden Things five years ago... for an inanimate object, it almost seemed to be trembling.

Aww, poor thing. Was it just like all the Muggleborn children its living avatar had butchered? It must be terrified.

"Potter!" Voldemort sneered, having accepted the boy's challenge. The Squib's challenge. Did he truly think that absurd suit of armor - or whatever it was - would protect him from Lord Voldemort's wrath? As soon as their duel began, his life would be ended. He had already dropped the oversized canister he seemed to have intended to use as a weapon, and it had already broken open on the ground. "Do you think you can defeat-"

Sweat broke out on his skin, and he blinked at a sudden sheen of tears over his eyes. Feeling very strange, he began again, "Defeat-"

"I already have," said the insolent Squib as Lord Voldemort crumpled, shaking uncontrollably. He tried to undo the curse that was somehow torturing him so, but his wand fell from his trembling fingers. The breath would not fill his lungs. As a burning sensation swept over his skin, his body drooled without his consent, and drooling soon became vomiting. And he. Could not. Breathe.

"You know, I had reservations about even deploying this against your followers," said the Squib from somewhere very far away. It was getting hard to hear - to do anything, in fact, other than be consumed by the collapse of his body. "There are some things you don't do to human beings. But you aren't human, are you, my lord?"

If the boy said any more, Lord Voldemort did not hear. He was beyond hearing.

Harry shook his head as he looked upon the ruin of a Dark Lord. His body could not live, and yet he could not die. Whenever they tracked down all the Horcruxes, Voldemort's death would come as a mercy.

Tracking down how to manufacture nerve agents had been quite tricky... and had likely landed his false identity of 'Jim Evans' on many governments' lists. Fortunately magical assistance helped to close the gaps in the processes, and it had succeeded in disabling the Dark Lord. After he survived the explosion through a contingency Portkey, there was no point taking chances.

He turned around as his parents walked up in their own biohazard suits. He gave them the thumbs-up and pointed to the fallen Dark Lord; his father grabbed the convulsing, gagging wreck and Apparated to a secure location, while his mother took him by the arm and Apparated him to a safe location where their suits could be removed safely.

Perhaps Dumbledore's lunacy had some merit after all, even if this wasn't what the old man expected to be the way to vanquish the Dark Lord.

They were still moving to Australia.

Author's Note: Sorry it wasn't longer, but I tend to lose confidence as a story drags on. Also, on account of not having majored in chemistry, I couldn't use the cleverer exploits that a real chemist could devise and had to go for the simple and flashy stuff, so I figured it was best to make it short.

Couldn't decide if Harry or his twin should be the Horcrux (or whether there even was a Scarcrux in this AU), and it didn't matter anyway. Voldemort is in no state to try anything on anyone anytime soon.

Challenge conditions reproduced below:

Requirements:

- Must be a Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived story, with Harry's sibling as the wrong child

- James and Lily must live

- Harry must have a good relationship with his sibling and parents

- Harry cannot be in a M/M slash pairing

Recomended

- FemHarry [declined]

- Squib Harry [accepted]

- Non-Hogwarts attending Harry [accepted, on account of Squib Harry]

And now for a gratuitous noncanon omake for all the people who think Dumbledore's the real menace...

Omake:

Liquid nitrogen to the phoenix and horse tranquilizer to the old man's lemon drops.

Ah, now the Dark Lord was truly vanquished!

"And that's for twenty years of your horseshit!" Jamie slurred, aiming a kick at the unconscious Dumbledore. Still not fully recovered from his coma, he stumbled and had to be supported by his brother.

"Son, don't do that," James scolded as he picked up the old man by the ankle and started to drag him out of the office. "We don't need him waking up before we can sling him in the old folks' home."

"Sorry," Jamie said sheepishly.

"Besides, you're only fourth in line to kick him while he's down," Lily reminded her son gently. "Well, sixth, technically. His brother insisted on being first, we're second and third, and the Longbottoms have the honorary fourth and fifth positions... though, poor dears, I'm not sure they're aware enough to appreciate it. Then you and Harry get a shot. And then everyone else..."