Competition/Challenge Block
Written For: Monthly Challenges for All (Year 7); Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 2.0 (Term 3); The Houses Competition (Year 11)

Hogwarts: Slytherin A7; Creative Technology Task #1 (Write about someone who gets injured a lot.)

Houses: R4; Slytherin Stand-In History of Magic Drabble (AU: Superhero)

MC4A:

Beta: Ash, CoppersMama

Word Count: 781

Warning Tag: Child Hit by a Car; Blood; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse; Implied Multiple Deaths (He Gets Better)

Author's Note: Have A Master of Death Harry trying to figure out who or what he is.

Deadly Hero

It wasn't unusual for strange things to happen around Harry—or to him. It became an unfortunate side effect of his existence living with his aunt and uncle. Of course, they never liked to hear the possible reason behind the obscure instance of the self-bubbling wash sponge or self-stirring pot, his hair growing back as fast as it was cut, or him outright materializing on the roof of the school.

(Magic doesn't exist, and neither do superheroes. It was only pretend for entertainment.)

It wasn't like Harry did these things on purpose or anything.

What really had him start considering the strangeness that happened to him to being more than just trickery or sleight of hand was when he was whacked quite hard on the side of the head by his aunt one morning. He doesn't remember going to his closet or patching his head. Honestly, Harry was fairly certain the hit was fatal, but only for a moment.

It wasn't normal, that's for sure.

If only he could figure out how to utilize the strange happenings to do more than stir a pot, wash dishes, or wake up uninjured, Harry liked to think he would be good enough to be a superhero. Yet, these things only seemed to happen when he was stressed out.

He thought about it as he walked home from school on a drippy spring afternoon. The sun was streaking through scattered clouds, but the mist still clung to whatever it could that wasn't already drenched.

An elderly woman who reminded Harry of Mrs. Figg was crossing the street at an intersection fairly slowly. He watched from the pavement nearby, trying to decide if it actually was Mrs. Figg, when a motor car came up to the light quite fast. There was no thought to his actions, but the next thing he knew, Harry had shoved the old lady out of the way of the careening green vehicle that lost traction on the wet road and screeched right for Harry.

The impact hurt, but the darkness only took him for a moment before he found himself blinking up at the clear blue sky and onlookers peering down at him. His arm throbbed, his leg felt like it wasn't in the way it should, and his head was killing him. Unfortunately, his glasses were cracked and askew on his face, and the sound of sirens put him on high alert.

He can't go to the hospital. His uncle would be furious about the inconvenience. Closing his eyes, he let out a breath, ignoring the murmurs and questions stirring around him. They were words of concern and shock, wondering how such a small child wasn't dead on impact. Once everyone got a proper look, Harry could hear the scoldings of how his sort weren't used to streets and vehicles, which was why he stepped into the road so carelessly.

His sort… they were talking about his brown-skinned. Kids like him weren't very common in Surrey, much less in this neighborhood.

It wasn't much longer that Harry forced himself to sit upright despite the gasps of everyone around him. He touched his hair, which felt sticky, likely from blood, and he tested his arm and leg carefully to make sure the damage was not terrible. Even though his body ached, Harry felt fine.

"'M alright, really," he said, climbing to his feet while looking around. "Is the lady okay?"

His oversized grey shirt was stained with blood, and he had a rip in his trousers, but otherwise, everything seemed alright. He bet he was a sight to everyone else, though. They all seemed to have seen a ghost.

Harry looked around for the old lady and spotted her pink coat standing nearby. She was smiling strangely, but he approached her anyway.

"You okay, ma'am?" Harry asked.

"Thanks to you, young man," she responded, patting his head despite its gross, unruly appearance. "You are my hero."

She gave him a sweet from her purse and went on her way. The bobbies had arrived by then, and Harry slipped away in the crowd while the onlookers were trying to point him out.

Being small had its benefits, at least.

He really couldn't get in trouble with his uncle again. The hunger pangs still stabbed at his stomach sometimes, and today was going to be his first proper supper in a week. This would ruin that privilege.

Harry went back to really pondering what he was. Someone who can't seem to die sounds superhero-like, and he did save someone today, as superheroes do.

He smiled to himself; even though he got hurt from helping someone else, he liked feeling like he did something good.