Harry Potter was not normal.
And he was not expected to be normal. His entire existence was an abnormality disguised as a miracle sent by the greater beings.
No one should have survived the killing curse that came straight to your head. No one should have lived to tell the tale with nothing but a scar on the face and the bodies of the dead parents.
And of course, his little sister was sleeping soundly next to him when the curse hit his head.
He was supposed to be something of an anomaly and at the same time a relatively normal boy.
He was expected to be a living replica of his parents, a cheerful rule breaking boy with a protective steak a mile wide of those he loves. Or a brave and clever bookworm with a big kind heart and a smile that brightens up the sun.
He's all that and none at all.
He was a quiet child. His presence was barely noticeable even if sometimes it felt like there was something enormous within him. Harry Potter is a boy of great manners and his behaviour is quite good. The matrons at the orphanage were always singing his praises.
Little Harry did his chores on time. He loved his little sister very much. He was a very protective and loving brother. He's such a sweetheart to be around. He liked to learn things. He learnt a nice little piano piece a few days ago! He always scored top at school. He's a social butterfly and didn't shy away from people.
The perfect child, Harry Potter was.
And he remained a perfect child until that one traumatic event.
Little Dahlia Potter, an apple of young Harry's eyes, got lost in the woods. The frantic older brother followed her into the woods, not caring one bit for his security.
The matrons found them two days later. They found Harry, unconscious, beside the cold body poor little Dahlia which had been missing several chunks of flesh.
Then things began to change.
Young Harry became even more closed off. And strange things started to happen around him. Nothing too big. Nothing too noticeable. Birds followed him when he went outside. The atmosphere became suffocated whenever he felt irritated.
One boy who once mocked Harry for having a dead sister, fell down the stairs the next day.
Accidental magic. Young children rarely had control over their magic. Or the ministry thought so.
The most important thing while using magic is intent. To witches and wizards, magic was an extension of themselves, a limb.
The ministry employee overseeing the activities of the magical children would assume that this particular child at this orphanage has too little control of his magic.
And they couldn't be more wrong for Harry Potter may lack anything else in his life but he rarely lacks control.
Even at this young age, young Harry likes to have the absolute control of the situation he is facing and the moves he could make to earn what he desires.
Not that anyone knew of it.
When his magic lashed out at Hagrid, who came into his room at the orphanage unannounced, nobody suspected a thing.
The poor boy must have been afraid of a stranger who he had never seen before. Harry Potter was naturally powerful. Of course his accidental magic would also be powerful and destructive.
Nobody suspected a thing except for Albus Dumbledore.
Albus was a cautious man, always weighing the possible consequences of every action he made, and he found himself facing a dilemma.
"I can do strange things, sir."
The eerie green eyes of the boy gave him the strangest sense of déjà vu. He squashed that feeling down to the deepest of his mind, put on a gentle smile that many of the children he had met, trusted and asked, "What kind of things, my dear boy?"
The young boy diverted his attention from the headmaster and stared at the door of his room. Rain gently poured outside.
"Nothing much, sir. I can move things when I wish without touching them."
A fairly normal behaviour for a magical child his age. Then, the next words came.
"I can talk to snakes. They're not very talkative but they sure have things to say. And they like it when a speaker talks to them."
Their similarities shone out to Albus.
The worn but carefully-ironed clothes, the way he sat straight reminded him too much of another boy with the same blood status, same hair colour, same charismatic personality and the same parseltongue abilities.
The same calculating gaze observing every little move he made sent shivers down Albus' spine, green somehow becoming brown in his mind and suddenly all he saw was young Tom Riddle in Harry's face.
Young Harry didn't make a word about his dead sister. Had her existence not been a known issue, Albus would have assumed that Harry had no sibling at all and grew up alone. There was no longing and sadness in his eyes even though the death of her must still be fresh in his mind.
He didn't seem like a boy with many emotions. He, in fact, seemed to lack every one of them.
Just like young Tom Riddle had.
History tended to repeat itself when Albus was involved. He always tried to see the good in people and seek out ways to set them on the path of light. And he always failed miserably.
Failure was something that's achingly familiar to Albus.
He feared failing the Wizarding World again. He wanted Harry to be a good wizard but he couldn't take the bet. Not again after Gellert and Tom.
So, he made a choice. Everything changed with just one choice and Albus knew it was very foolish of him. But if that foolishness would win him the war, then, so be it. He made an unexplainably reckless and irrational choice, but a choice that changed fates nonetheless.
Albus Dumbledore walked out of the shabby orphanage with a solemn face and made a tragic announcement to the wizarding world. Their saviour young Harry Potter died due to an illness he caught when he and his sister were lost in the woods.
The fates shifted.
Many lives were saved. Many others were dommed.
Lord Voldemort, the dark lord who Harry Potter defeated as a child, regained his body through a dark ritual fifteen years after his supposed defeat. Along with his mad followers, he, once again, brought chaos and unease back to the Wizarding Britain. War, despair and death loomed over the once-magically bright streets of Britain.
The Ministry fell. With disgrace and dishonour.
Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts, fell from the astronomy tower as he played his games with the rules he set himself.
Harry Potter stayed missing. But no longer dead. No. Not anymore.
He's alive. Missing but alive.
He became a symbol of hope among the people of the Wizarding World.
"...for the safety of the chosen one, the late headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, kept his ward away from ..."
"... Harry Potter, the missing saviour of Britain..."
Harry Potter stayed missing. Nobody had seen him for the past fifteen years.
The Order of the Phoenix became desperate in their search for their sacrificial lamb.
Sirius Black broke away from Azkaban and joined the Death Eaters as he frantically sought for his godson. He no longer trusted the Order —they never trusted him, they abandoned him— to do what is right.
Harry Potter stayed missing. Wizarding Britain became Lord Voldemort's.
An old Muggle man on his deathbed signed off all his properties to his adopted child, ensuring that his clever and cunning boy could thrive in his life. His boy was very unique and he would bring changes to this world.
The old man himself would not live to see whatever his boy would bring of course but the knowledge itself was enough for him to breathe his last.
The Lecter line had always brought uniqueness to this world and his foster son would do the same.
Two years later, in Florence, a young man scratches the primavera in his book.
Inspector Pazzi searched and searched. Nothing was found.
Il Mostro di Firenze. The Monster of Florence had started his killings.
The polizia did not manage to catch him.
Twenty-Three Years after the death of Albus Dumbledore
Baltimore, Maryland
"..Doctor Lecter. I need you to help me with a psychological profile."
".. Tasteless."
"Do you have trouble with taste?"
"My thoughts are often not tasty."
"..Nor mine..."