Lapphira Potter: The Cursed Bastard of Hogwarts

On the night of October 31, 1981, the Wizarding World celebrated the fall of the Dark Lord. They whispered the name of the Boy Who Lived, the infant who vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But amid the drunken euphoria and shattered remains of the Potter family, another child-a forgotten child-was cast aside like a worthless mistake.

Lapphira Potter was never supposed to exist.

Born from a love that defied the laws of magic and blood, she was the unwanted product of Lily Evans and another woman, a child with unnatural golden eyes, silver-white hair, and something feral lurking beneath her skin. The Potters, the Ministry, even Dumbledore himself-none of them wanted to acknowledge her existence.

So they abandoned her.

At the age of two, she was left to rot in the streets of London, an infant too stubborn to die. She survived by clawing, biting, and stealing, a wolf among sheep. By the time she was seven, she had already tasted blood, learned the weight of a blade in her hand, and understood that mercy was a weakness no one afforded her.

She became a shadow in the back alleys of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, a whisper in the underworld. The Feral Witch. The Silver Demon. The Stray Dog of Diagon Alley.

And then, at ten years old, they came looking for her.

The Hogwarts letter never arrived in a polite envelope. It came with Aurors, a warning, and a name she had never spoken before-Harry Potter.

A half-brother she never knew. A life stolen from her. A fate she never asked for.

But if the Wizarding World thought they could tame her, mold her into another pawn in their grand design, they were dead wrong.

Lapphira doesn't belong in their world of robes and wands, of whispered spells and golden halls. She is something else-something savage, something unnatural, something that should have never been born.

Hogwarts isn't ready for her.

Neither is Harry.

Neither is Hermione.

But she's here now. And she isn't playing by their rules.