There was one thing that Harry had no way of knowing. That was that he was the product of his mother's experimentation. See, what Harry had no way of knowing was that his mother was not just a witch. No, she was also a doctor.
She was a doctor in the field of biology, in fact. She had worked alongside a very special man. This man was the founder of a special genetics research program in the past. This program's focus was on creating the perfect assassin. It was about the creation of a human that was not human at all. They were to be made without any of the emotions that would make a human, human. They were to be made without emotions.
They were called Agents - the perfect assassins. They were smarter than a human and had the distinct advantage of being able to take in and perceive the world with astonishing capability.
Lily Potter nee Evans was the only person that the older geneticist had taught how to make an Agent. She was the only one, a young girl that had been extraordinarily brilliant in the area of medical science, at the tender age of fifteen. She was the only one to be lucky - or misfortunate - enough to be taught the secrets of the Agent programme.
She was misfortunate in the way that agencies all across the globe had been hunting for the secrets of the Agent programme. She was the only one that the brilliant scientist had deemed deserving of knowing, deserving of carrying on the knowledge of the older man.
The man had once said that Lily Potter reminded him of his late wife. She had not known what to think of that particular knowledge. She had dubbed it unimportant, however, and so just had it in the back of her mind.
So, when it was discovered by her that she was infertile, she had dusted off her doctorate degree and had gotten to work in her home lab. She had been forced to create another Agent, as after a year of searching she had not found a solution other than creating an Agent.
So, she had used what she was taught by her mentor to have a child. But she wasn't a genetics prodigy for no reason. She had advanced her child's everything, really. Anything that she thought would advance her son's chances.
The first nine of her attempts failed since she had strayed from the original method. But the tenth was what she could consider perfect.
Her mentor had once told her that he had gone all the way up to ninety versions. How fitting it was that the hundredth version of the Agent programme was her son. Cent, french for one hundred and pronounced as 'son'. Her son was the one-hundredth version of Agent, and the most perfect she could get him to be.
He was even perfect enough, genetically and subsequently magically, to withstand a killing curse to the head.