Chapter Text
The attic was unbearably hot.
Stale air clung to the cramped space, thick with the smell of old wood, mildew, and decades of undisturbed dust. Sunlight streamed through the tiny circular window near the roof, turning the attic into what felt more like an oven than a storage room. Every breath Harry took seemed to scrape against his lungs, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded.
He’d only ended up there because he’d made the mistake of finishing every other chore Petunia had assigned him.
The kitchen had been scrubbed until every surface gleamed. The garden had been weeded. Dudley’s room had been cleaned, despite the mountain of dirty clothes and sweet wrappers scattered across the floor. Even Vernon had grudgingly admitted there was nothing left to do downstairs.
Apparently, that wasn’t acceptable.
Petunia had marched him to the foot of the attic stairs with narrowed eyes and pursed lips before shoving an old box into his arms.
“Get up there and clean it,” she’d snapped. “And don’t even think about coming down until every bit of that mess is sorted.”
As Harry climbed the narrow staircase, he heard her mutter under her breath.
“Lazy little freak…”
The words didn’t sting anymore. If anything, they just pissed him off.
Lazy.
The irony would have been funny if it weren’t so infuriating. Harry did nearly everything around the house while the Dursleys sat around expecting to be waited on. He cooked every meal, washed every dish, scrubbed every floor until it was clean enough to eat off, dusted every surface, did all the laundry, cleaned every room, and kept the garden looking immaculate. He spent hours pulling weeds, mowing the lawn, trimming hedges, watering flowers, and hauling bags of garden waste to the curb.
Meanwhile, Vernon spent most of his time planted in front of the television or barking orders, Petunia inspected his work like he was a servant instead of a child, and Dudley couldn’t be bothered to pick up after himself. Yet somehow, Harry was always the lazy one whenever he dared to sit down for more than five minutes.
At this point, it was clear that even if he finished every chore in the house, they’d simply invent another one to keep him busy.
Now, standing in the suffocating heat, Harry wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His oversized T-shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, and loose strands of black hair stuck to his face. Dust floated through the beams of sunlight every time he moved another forgotten box.
He carefully lowered one particularly heavy crate onto the floor before pausing.
His breathing had become uneven.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Harry rested a gentle hand against his abdomen, his fingers instinctively smoothing over the barely noticeable curve hidden beneath his baggy clothes. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice yet, but he could feel the subtle change every day.
A wave of nausea rolled through him without warning.
Harry swallowed hard, forcing it back before it could rise any further. The heat wasn’t helping. If anything, it made the constant sickness worse, leaving him feeling weak and exhausted after only a few minutes of work.
He took several slow breaths before opening his eyes again.
“I just have to finish,” he whispered to himself, more for reassurance than anything else.
The sooner the attic was clean, the sooner he could escape the suffocating heat. It wasn’t good for him under normal circumstances, and it certainly wasn’t good now—not when he was responsible for more than just himself.
Straightening with a quiet sigh, Harry picked up another dusty box and carried it toward the growing pile of things that needed sorting, determined to finish before his body decided it had reached its limit.
Harry settled into a steady rhythm, moving one box after another. Most of them held exactly what he’d expected—broken Christmas decorations, faded photo albums filled with pictures that never included him, Dudley’s outgrown toys, and piles of old clothes that Petunia had apparently decided were too worthless even to donate.
Every time he lifted another dusty crate, a fresh cloud of dust filled the air, making him cough despite his best efforts not to. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his arms were beginning to ache from the constant lifting.
After nearly an hour, the attic looked considerably emptier.
Harry leaned against one of the support beams, taking a moment to catch his breath. His stomach gave another uncomfortable twist, reminding him he hadn’t been allowed much for breakfast before being sent upstairs.
His gaze drifted toward the farthest corner of the attic.
Something looked…off.
Most of the floorboards were covered in a thick blanket of dust, but one small section looked cleaner than the rest, as though something had been placed there intentionally years ago.
Curiosity prickled at the back of his mind.
Carefully making his way over, Harry knelt down, ignoring the protest from his knees against the rough wooden boards. Several battered trunks had been stacked in front of the corner, creating what looked almost like a barrier.
“What’s all this hiding?” he muttered to himself.
One by one, he dragged the trunks aside. They were heavier than they looked, forcing him to stop every few minutes to catch his breath. By the time he moved the last one, his shirt was sticking to him with sweat.
Behind them sat a small wooden box.
It couldn’t have been more than a foot long. Unlike everything else in the attic, it wasn’t covered in years of grime. Someone had wiped it clean before hiding it away.
Harry frowned.
That alone was strange.
The Dursleys never cleaned anything unless they had to.
The box didn’t have a lock. Only a simple brass latch held it shut.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, his pulse quickened.
He flipped the latch open.
The hinges creaked softly as he lifted the lid.
Inside weren’t valuables or family keepsakes.
There were only a handful of papers tied together with a faded blue ribbon.
Harry carefully untied it, trying not to tear the brittle parchment. Most of the documents meant nothing to him at first glance. There were hospital forms, several folded letters with unfamiliar handwriting, and what looked like official government paperwork.
Then he reached the final sheet.
His eyes immediately landed on the large heading across the top.
Certificate of Live Birth.
His heart skipped.
Confused, Harry unfolded the document completely.
His name was written clearly across the page.
Harry James Potter.
His birthday.
His place of birth.
His mother’s name.
Everything looked exactly as he expected.
Until his eyes reached the line beneath it.
Father: Steve Grant Rogers.
Harry blinked.
Once.
Then again.
His mind refused to process what he was reading.
No.
That couldn’t be right.
He looked back at the name, certain he’d misread it.
Steve Grant Rogers.
Not James Potter.
Not James Fleamont Potter.
Steve…Rogers.
His fingers tightened around the paper.
“What…?”
The word escaped as nothing more than a whisper.
Ever since Hagrid had told him the truth two years ago, Harry had believed he knew who his parents were. Everyone in the wizarding world had spoken about James Potter with admiration. His teachers, Hagrid, Professor McGonagall—even Dumbledore—had all referred to James as his father without a second thought.
So why was another man’s name on his birth certificate?
Harry searched the page for any sign that it had been altered—a correction, a crossed-out line, anything—but there was nothing. The ink matched the rest of the document perfectly, and the official seal pressed into the corner looked authentic.
It didn’t make any sense.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he stared at the unfamiliar name.
Steve Grant Rogers.
Who was Steve Rogers… and why was he listed as Harry Potter’s father?