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daswarschonkaputt · 2 years

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WIP Wednesday Aizawa/Harry Potter One Night Stand AU

okay, so when i wrote this i was deeply nostalgic for a period of fanfic where you just sort of dumped harry into whatever fandom you wanted and shipped him with someone. (did i read a lot of twilight x harry potter crossovers in my youth? yes. i am only slightly ashamed.) and i was like, you know who would be great? unlikely fandom sex symbol, aizawa. so that’s where this fic comes from.

Summary

A wizard and a pro-hero walk into a bar. It’s only the start of their problems.

Content warnings: attempted suicide and discussion thereof (minor character), suicide baiting (same minor character), implied/referenced animal abuse.

“Two mojitos, and a—what do you want to drink, Shouta?”

Aizawa blinks, looking up from the menu he’s spent the past ten minutes supposedly engrossed in. “Water’s fine,” he says.

Beside him, Nemuri rolls her eyes. “He’ll take an old fashioned,” she says. “On me. I’m not letting you spend your birthday sober.”

The better present, Aizawa can’t help but think, would have been to let him sleep. He sighs, but accepts the drink when it’s handed to him, and dutifully follows his friends to a table at the back of the bar. He doesn’t even complain when they take the two seats facing the bar’s entrance, leaving him with the tactically unnerving position of staring at a wall.

“How goes the uphill climb?” Hizashi asks, sprawled in his seat. “You’ve got how many left now?”

“Three,” Aizawa says.

Nemuri’s eyes widen. “Three? It was four yesterday.”

Aizawa shrugs. Takes a sip of his drink, which seems to mostly taste like whisky.

“Man, you heroics tutors really have it easy,” Nemuri says. “You know how many kids get expelled from the management track? I’m lucky if I lose even one – let alone seventeen.”

“I’m not mad about it,” Hizashi says. “Seventeen fewer assignments to mark. Seventeen fewer times I have to look like an asshole for calling out obvious copying. Do you know how many of your kids supposedly mistranslated manual labour as a hand job, Nemuri? Fifteen. At least Shouta’s hellions are too dysfunctional to cooperate on cheating.”

Nemuri’s laugh is tinged with something close to pride. “Yeah, the little bastards are pretty industrious,” she agrees. “But – come on, Shouta. Don’t leave us in suspense. Which one of your brats got the axe this time?”

Aizawa swirls the amber liquid of his drink. “Yamakawa.”

Nemuri taps the table thoughtfully. “Blonde kid, cutting quirk, costume that looks like a peacock?” At his nod, she tilts her head. “Huh. Any reason?”

Aizawa sighs. He doesn’t especially want to get into this right now. “Penchant for animal abuse.”

“Ah.”

It hadn’t been a particularly fun call to receive – a police detective calling him in at five in the morning on the day of his birthday, because one of his wayward students had been picked up for illegal quirk use on stray cats. Listening to Yamakawa’s stuttering justifications – how else was he meant to learn control? – had been somehow even less fun. Hauling his exhausted body back to campus to try and drill some semblance of sense into his remaining students had honestly felt like twisting the knife.

Happy fucking birthday, Aizawa guesses.

Nemuri puts her empty glass down on the table with an audible clink. “Another round?”

Hizashi nods. “Maybe grab two, whilst you’re up.”

“Shouta, you good?”

Aizawa indicates his drink – barely touched.

She grabs her wallet off the table, then pauses, and undoes two buttons on her shirt. Her smile is wicked. “Cleavage discount,” she explains with a wink – and Aizawa momentarily regrets every second he’s ever known her.

As she saunters over to the bar, a noticeable swing in her hips, Hizashi’s relaxed smile falls.

“So,” he says, voice unusually quiet as he leans in towards Aizawa. “What was it this year?”

Aizawa momentarily considers downing his drink to avoid having to have this conversation – but he doubts alcohol would help much with it at all. “A watch,” he says, words stilted. “Patek Phillipe. Very expensive.”

“Engraved?”

He hates that Hizashi knows to ask. “To her darling Shouchan. There was a note. She wants me over for dinner.”

“You’re not going to go.”

Aizawa shrugs.

“Shouta.”

“I’m not stupid, Hizashi,” he says, because it’s easier than putting into words the gut-wrenching, sickening hope that he’d felt when he ran his fingers over the handwritten card. “She’s never going to divorce him.”

“Even if she does,” Hizashi says, “it doesn’t erase—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Aizawa says.

“What aren’t we talking about?”

Aizawa doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. He contents himself with shooting a scathing look at Hizashi – as the one with the vantage point, he’s the one whose job it was to watch out for Nemuri’s return.

Hizashi smiles apologetically at him, before picking up a glass. “Online dating,” he lies smoothly.

Nemuri laughs as she unloads the tray of drinks – a veritable armada of cocktails, all various degrees of lurid. “For Shouta?” she asks. “Really?”

Aizawa sighs. Trust Hizashi to pick the worst possible lie. “I work two jobs,” he says. “I don’t have time to date.”

“Please, I work like five, and I still find the time to take out a pretty lady or two,” Hizashi says.

“And two jobs is stretching it a little, given your class size,” Nemuri says. “It’s more like – what, twenty percent of a job now?”

“Fifteen,” Hizashi corrects absent-mindedly.

“Anyway, the whole point of online dating is that you can work it around your schedule,” Nemuri says. “Hizashi and I could even put together your profile for you. Just send me a photo of your abs and you’ll have to beat them away with a stick.”

Aizawa can’t think of anything less appealing than having a photo of his bare torso posted anywhere online, much less in Nemuri’s possession. “No.”

“C’mon, Shouta, live a little—”

“I’m not interested.”

Nemuri sighs. “Fine. But only because it’s your birthday.” She drains another drink, pushing it towards their slowly growing collection of empty cocktail glasses. Given the assortment she ordered earlier, Aizawa can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to complete some sort of collection. “You hear the rumours about All Might?”

“What, that he’s retiring?” Hizashi asks. “I’ll believe it when I see it. He’s been supposedly on the brink of retirement for the past ten years.”

“I meant more that I heard he’s considering a post at UA,” Nemuri says.

Aizawa raises his eyebrows. That is new. “Where did you hear that?”

“My sources are many and varied,” Nemuri says. “People tell me all sorts of things.”

Aizawa stares at her.

“Fine. I saw that skinny blond guy that works for him leaving Nedzu’s office.” She reaches for another cocktail. “Not many reasons why a hero’s secretary might be wandering the halls of UA – especially not one that looks the way that guy does. He looks like he’s a few sharp coughs away from losing a lung. All Might should let the guy retire – or at least hire him an assistant.”

“Pros like All Might don’t tend to be that plugged in to the concerns of their staff,” Aizawa says flatly. “It probably hasn’t even crossed his mind that his assistant might need help.”

“Careful Shouta,” Hizashi says. “Your anti All Might bias is showing.”

Aizawa opens his mouth to refute that, but is cut across by Nemuri. “Ugh,” she says. “Don’t make a scene, but I’m pretty sure the guy at the bar has clocked me.”

It’s a hazard of hero work, getting recognised off-duty. Aizawa knows some pros relish the fame, but the three of them try and stay fairly low profile. Aizawa has always eschewed the spotlight, and Hizashi looks completely different out of costume – so the only one of them who ever really gets approached is Nemuri, for whom scandal had come early and viciously, and never really left.

Curious, Aizawa subtly cranes his neck to glance behind them. He picks out Nemuri’s hero fan with ease – he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s staring at them. He’s—well, the first thing that comes to mind is handsome. He certainly stands out, that’s for sure. He’s not Japanese, but he isn’t white either, and Aizawa doesn’t know enough to guess at his background without embarrassing himself. Aizawa clocks the rest of his features absent-mindedly: average height; lean build; a mess of jet black hair barely restrained by a short pony tail at the base of his neck; large, circular glasses; and, behind them, a pair of vivid green eyes, the kind of intense colour that you don’t see often without some kind of quirk behind it.

“Why do you sound so mad?” Hizashi asks. “He’s hot, and he’s a fan of yours. Just your kind of man. Go forth and—sluttify, or whatever.”

Nemuri swats him. “It’s Shouta’s birthday,” she says. “I’m not about to abandon him for a nameless hook-up.”

“Ah. So you’re mad because he’s hot.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Nemuri says. “It doesn’t matter if he’s hot. Who cares what a guy’s face looks like if you’re just going to sit on it?”

Aizawa glances balefully at Nemuri and Hizashi’s accumulated empty glasses. Three each. What, exactly, was the alcohol content in those things?

“I’m certain I don’t want to know the context,” comes a voice from behind Aizawa, and he tenses a little; he didn’t hear the approach, “but I’ll cop to curiosity.”

Aizawa turns around as conversation stalls. It’s the guy from the bar – the unknowing subject of Nemuri’s crude attempt at wisdom.

“I’m Harry,” the guy says. “And I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?”

Aizawa turns to Nemuri, ready to be appalled by however she decides to dismiss ‘Harry’ – but she’s frozen, eyes wide, mouth open. Aizawa looks back to the guy – and that’s when he realises that the question was directed at him.

Oh. Oh. This is… New? Unusual. Strange.

The thing is, Aizawa knows he’s not without appeal. He has good bone structure. As Nemuri frequently points out, he has abs. He even cleans up nice, on the rare occasions he decides to make an effort.

But – and this is the real kicker – Aizawa’s not trying to be attractive.

He doesn’t iron his clothes – doesn’t really see the point, when he never has the time, and the only people he ever sees are his students, who know to fear him regardless of his clothing, his co-workers, none of whom would be fooled by a pressed shirt, and the villains he arrests, who are generally far too pre-occupied trying to kill him to notice his outfit. On a similar note, he doesn’t own anything that’s not black or dark grey, because anything lighter tends to accumulate bloodstains which he doesn’t have the patience to try and remove.

His hair is long, because he finds cutting it more of a chore than simply pulling it into a scraggly bun when he needs it out of his face – and it’s full of split ends because he uses whichever shampoo is on sale whenever he gets the time to go to the store. He shaves when he remembers to, which is rarely, and it probably wouldn’t be an issue if his facial hair had gotten the memo that he was in fact 30 years old, and not a teenager delighted with patchy peach fuzz.

As Nemuri put it once: he looks just a little bit homeless.

Faced with objective, undeniable interest in him, Aizawa’s first thought is, This man is after something. Which, his rational brain points out, whilst paranoid and ridiculous, is probably at least partially true.

Just – the something this guy is after is probably sex. With Aizawa.

And not the drunk and slutty Aizawa who trawled gay clubs with Nemuri in his early 20s, desperate to prove himself and validate his sexuality – not even the well-groomed and professional Aizawa who’s been called into court to testify – no. This guy is into the scruffy, tired, post-patrol, post-five-AM-callout, post-teaching Aizawa who would rather be sleeping than drinking and looks like it.

Aizawa doesn’t really know what to do with that.

The guy is still staring at him, waiting for an answer. Aizawa opens his mouth, not even certain what he’s going to say when he starts. “I—”

“Get him something with coffee,” Nemuri cuts across him. Her shock has melted away to an almost predatory eagerness. “An – what’s the cocktail with espresso in it?”

“An espresso martini?” Harry says. He says the cocktail name in perfect, lilting English that has Hizashi tilting his head. Something in his accent then – something not American. Australian, most likely, but possibly British.

“That okay with you?”

The question is once more directed at Aizawa, who looks to Nemuri and Hizashi. There’s a palpable air of excitement between the two of them, now that Hot Foreigner’s target has been revealed to be Aizawa. They’re probably about two drinks away from stripping him naked and dropping him into the guy’s lap.

It surprises him when he realises that he’s actually considering it. Am I really going to do this? he asks himself.

The answer, when it comes, is deceptively simple. Yeah. Because I want to. Maybe this is the universe’s version of a birthday gift – or at the very least an apology. Good job on soldiering through those thirty years, Aizawa. Now go get dicked down like you deserve.

It’s the type of thing—

Never mind.

“You know what?” Aizawa says, standing. “How about I come with you and order for myself?”

Harry smiles.

As Aizawa follows him away from the table, he turns back to Nemuri and Hizashi. They’re practically vibrating in their seats, just waiting for Aizawa and Harry to leave their earshot, so they can explode into a thousand different conversations about what just happened.

Aizawa smirks at them, and turns back to Harry.

“I know it’s a cliché, but I have to ask,” Harry says, as they wait for the bartender to make his drink – which Aizawa had chosen blindly off the menu. He knows very little about cocktails. “Do you come here often?”

“No,” Aizawa says. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

“We have that much in common,” Harry says. “I’m only here because I’m staying at the hotel across the street. I haven’t even been drinking alcohol, though I think this is the most I’ve ever paid for a glass of orange juice.” He leans against the bar, somehow still graceful when he’s all but slouching. “So, do I get a name?”

“Aizawa,” Aizawa says simply. He’s not in the habit of giving out his full name – professional paranoia, if nothing else.

“Just Aizawa?” Harry asks.

“Just Harry?”

Harry laughs. It’s a nice sound. Easy. The laugh of a civilian. Aizawa doesn’t know many pro-heroes who can laugh like that. “Okay, okay, but you’ve got to give me a little more to work with than ‘Aizawa who doesn’t like drinking’.”

The bartender finishes making Aizawa’s drink and slides it over to him. Aizawa takes a sip. It’s sweet, with a sour kick – not his usual fare, but pretty good. “I never said I don’t like it,” he says. “Just that I don’t do it much.”

“There’s a difference?” Harry asks, leaning in towards him.

“I only drink socially,” Aizawa says. “And I’m very busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Harry asks lightly. “What’s your particular brand of busy, then?”

“Teacher.”

“Troublesome students?”

If only he knew. “Saying that implies the existence of non-troublesome students,” Aizawa says, because it’s about the most neutral thing he can manage after the mess with Yamakawa.

Harry smiles again. “I want to refute you, but I wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of obedience in my school days.”

Aizawa takes another sip of his drink. “You seem to have turned out fine.”

“What’s adolescence without a little skulduggery and civil disobedience?”

“Easier on your teachers,” Aizawa says. “And you?”

“And me what?”

“What’s your brand of busy?”

Harry shrugs. “Depends who you ask,” he says. “If I tell you I’m a lazy, useless layabout, frittering away my youth and inherited wealth, will you walk away and never talk to me again?”

It’s said lightly, and with an air of self-deprecation, but Aizawa isn’t entirely convinced it’s true. Lazy, useless layabouts do not fly to Japan, turn up in bars wearing business casual, and decline the opportunity to drink. Aizawa would know. Half of his childhood friends turned out like that.

“Inherited wealth,” Aizawa says, instead of any of that, “usually comes with an accompanying burden of grief. So I’d say no, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Harry blinks at that, his easy-going demeanour faltering slightly. “Thanks,” he says, after a pause.

It’s a little too personal for both of them. Aizawa drains the remainder of his cocktail, and puts his glass down at the bar. “Close your tab,” he tells Harry.

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“You have a hotel room across the street,” Aizawa says. “How about you show me it?”

Aizawa is awoken by a loud, persistent buzzing. There’s a pleasant kind of residual heat in his muscles, the kind he gets after a good workout, or a patrol that passed without any rough landings. An arm is slung over him, fingers curling loosely somewhere near his hipbone.

Aizawa closes his eyes, letting the memories of last night wash over him.

Harry. The bar. Harry. A fancy hotel room. Drinks from the mini fridge. A hand brushing his hair from his eyes. A wicked smile. Letting himself be pushed down onto the bed. Harry’s huffing laughter in his ear.

It was almost nice. Nicer than these things typically run.

The buzzing sound continues, coming from the floor across the room.

“You going to get that?” It comes from Aizawa’s side, raspy in a way that has Aizawa’s stomach coiling. He know who put that rasp in Harry’s voice. “Good morning, Aizawa-san.”

Aizawa turns his head, taking in Harry’s appearance. In the morning light, there’s something softer, less guarded, about Harry. Without the suit and easy charm, he looks younger.

“It’s a bit late for honorifics,” Aizawa grunts, rolling out of the bed. He picks up the first item of clothing he finds – Harry’s suit jacket – and puts it to the side.

“Eh,” Harry says, waving a lazy hand. “Formality and I only really have a passing acquaintance, even in English. Keigo baffles me.”

Aizawa finds his pants behind the television, and digs through his pockets until he finds his phone. It buzzes plaintively in his hand, screen alight with a call from an unknown number. Aizawa sighs and answers it.

“Is this Aizawa Shouta?” a woman asks.

“Speaking,” Aizawa says. He sees Harry mouthing ‘Shouta’ with a grin, and turns away from him.

“I’m calling from Mustafu General Hospital,” the woman says. “Last night a student of yours was brought in. Normally, we’d call the parents, but you were listed as her emergency contact.”

It’s standard UA procedure to list a hero student’s homeroom teacher as their emergency contact. In cases where a student has been injured during a work study, or targeted by a villain, it’s useful to have UA staff notified as soon as possible following the incident – and civilian parents don’t tend to have the forethought to call their child’s school teacher in times of crisis.

Truthfully, it could be any one of his students – past or present – but Aizawa has a bad feeling. “Name?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “Toukei Hayaka.”

Aizawa closes his eyes. Of course. Because it was too much to ask for one night off.

Toukei is one of his Class 1A hellions, a meek and mild-mannered girl who has spent her time at UA quietly keeping her head down, and as such has dodged the worst of his ire. Arguably, she has the most potential of her remaining classmates – she works hard, she cares about people, and, critically, she listens, which automatically places her a cut above the rest. Her one flaw has always been indecision. She second-guesses herself, and hesitates.

In hero work, hesitation can get you killed.

Aizawa really hopes it hasn’t killed her just yet.

Glancing at Harry, who isn’t even pretending to hide his eavesdropping, Aizawa refrains from asking for any further details. He’s not about to broadcast a teenager’s private medical information to his one night stand. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be down there soon. Is she awake?”

“No, sir.”

“Have someone available to brief me when I get there,” he says, and hangs up.

Aizawa shoves his feet into his pant legs, zipping up his fly, and hunting for his boots. Something dark appears in his field of view, and he flinches – before he realises it’s Harry, offering him his shirt.

Aizawa takes it. “Thanks.”

“Duty calls?” Harry asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Something like that,” Aizawa says.

“Hm,” Harry says. “Well, this does disrupt my plans somewhat. I’d planned to ply you with breakfast in bed and intelligent conversation—”

“I really have to go—”

“—before asking for your number.”

Aizawa pauses, halfway through lacing up his boots.

“So?” Harry asks. “Can I get your number?”

Aizawa opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I—”

“You didn’t,” Hizashi sounds far too appalled for how hungover he must be. “C’mon, Shouta, he was hot!”

“He was charming,” Aizawa corrects as he exits the cab, slapping his UA expenses card onto the reader without even glancing at the amount. “People like that don’t get told no often.”

“So, what, you decided to turn your morning after into a teachable moment?”

Aizawa rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t interested in furthering our relationship,” he says.

“That’s cold, Shouta.”

Aizawa sighs pressing his phone into his shoulder as he flashes his Hero ID at the receptionist of Mustafu General. “Toukei Hayaka.”

She nods, tapping away on the computer. A few moments, and she tells him the ward and bed number. Aizawa smiles at her and heads for the elevators.

“I told you last night,” he says, bringing the phone back up to his ear. “I don’t have time to date, not even conventionally attractive foreigners from—” He pauses, realising that he never actually managed to find out where, exactly, Harry was from.

“England,” Hizashi finishes for him. “He could have been after something casual.”

The elevator arrives before Aizawa can formulate a response. He boards, plugs in the floor number the receptionist gave him, and thinks over what, exactly he wants to say to Hizashi. Truthfully, Aizawa knew that Harry was likely only after a bit of fun – nothing serious, nothing involved. Inherited wealth or no, hotels like Harry’s aren’t usually affordable on a semi-permanent basis.

And that had made something in Aizawa curl. “I don’t do casual,” Aizawa says, after a moment.

“Your track record says you don’t do anything—” Hizashi starts, but at that point the elevator doors open, and Aizawa sighs.

“Hizashi, I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the call, dropping his phone into his jacket pocket, and walks over to the bench of seats directly opposite the elevator. Curled up, clothes soaked in blood is Gentoku Akira. 1A Hellion #2.

“So,” Aizawa says, and Gentoku flinches, eyes going wide at the sight of him. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or do I have to guess?”

Gentoku’s fist is white where it’s clutching his bloody shirt. “Sensei, I—” he stammers. “Hayaka-chan, she—” He looks at his lap. “I couldn’t—I tried, but I couldn’t—”

Aizawa suppresses a sigh. He’s probably not going to get much out of him at this juncture, but it’s probably not a good idea to let Gentoku leave – not until Aizawa has figured out exactly what has happened. “Here,” Aizawa says, handing Gentoku his phone. It’s locked, and Aizawa’s not on call, so he’s unlikely to get any sensitive phone calls. “Look after this for me.”

Gentoku takes the phone and clutches it like a lifeline.

“If Present Mic calls, feel free to answer,” Aizawa says. “Anyone else, reject the call. I expect you to still be here when I get back. If you run off with my phone, I’m going to be less than pleased.”

Gentoku nods jerkily.

Time to turn the screws a little. “I’m trusting you with this, Gentoku.” The guilt trip isn’t the kindest thing Aizawa has ever done, but it does the trick. Gentoku looks rooted to the spot, hands clasping Aizawa’s phone like his life depends on it. Likely, he believes it does.

With one last glance back at Gentoku, Aizawa walks through the sliding glass doors into the hospital ward.

“A suicide attempt,” Aizawa echoes dully. He looks through the sliding glass doors to where Toukei lies, pale and motionless, wires and tubing surrounding her body.

“That’s what we think,” Dr Hanabe says, fiddling with her glasses. “She was brought in by a classmate with a stasis quirk – he probably saved her life, even if he neglected to call an ambulance. He carried her across the city, and then promptly collapsed from quirk exhaustion. We got him hooked up to an IV, but he checked out AMA.”

Aizawa closes his eyes. “Has she said anything?”

Dr Hanabe shakes her head. “She had a brief moment of consciousness a few hours ago, but she was intubated. Couldn’t talk. She showed signs of distress, so we sedated her. She’s been asleep since.”

This is… a huge mess, frankly. Aizawa wouldn’t be surprised if there was an internal investigation at UA following this. A suicide attempt on his watch – he’s supposed to be better than this. More aware.

“I know it’s a long shot,” Aizawa says, “but did she have anything with her when she was brought in? A note, or a keepsake, or even her phone?”

“If she had anything, her classmate likely took it with him when he left,” Dr Hanabe says.

“Have you called her parents?”

Dr Hanabe shakes her head. “She’s a UA student, and you’re her emergency contact. Protocol says we wait for your arrival – just in case this is wrapped up in something sensitive.”

“You can call them now,” Aizawa says. “I’m going to be in the area all day. Let me know if she wakes up. If she’s up to it, we need to have a talk.”

“Of course, Eraserhead,” Dr Hanabe says.

It’s times like this that remind Aizawa why he doesn’t drink alone.

When he exits the ward, he finds Gentoku in the same position he left him. He’s staring at Aizawa’s phone like it’s a puzzle he can’t figure out.

Aizawa holds out his hand for his phone. Gentoku blinks a few times, and then hands it over.

“Sensei,” Gentoku says, after a moment of hesitation. “Are you gay?”

Aizawa raises his eyebrows. “I take it Present Mic called,” he says.

“Yeah. He, uh. He had a lot to say about someone named Harry,” Gentoku says. “He shut up when he realised it was me. He’s—he was very nice.”

Aizawa sighs, dropping into the seat next to Gentoku. “I heard what happened from the doctor,” he says. “You saved Toukei’s life.”

“I should have called an ambulance.”

“Probably,” Aizawa agrees. “But she’s still alive. No-one died, this time, and you’ll do better next time.”

“I don’t want there to be a next time,” Gentoku says quietly.

“Neither do I,” Aizawa says. “But there always is.”

Gentoku sits in silence for a moment. “Am I in trouble?”

“What would you be in trouble for?” Aizawa asks.

“I—I froze Hayaka-chan using Stasis Touch,” Gentoku says.

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t have a heroics licence.”

Aizawa sighs. “You have a medical quirk, Gentoku,” he says.

“It’s—I guess, technically—”

“Toukei would have died if you didn’t freeze her,” Aizawa says. “You saved her life, using your quirk – precisely the kind of situation that the medical exemption subclause of the vigilante laws is designed to protect. You didn’t do anything illegal.”

“So, I’m not getting expelled?” Gentoku looks like he might cry.

Aizawa sighs again. “No, you’re not getting expelled. Forgoing the ambulance was stupid, and I’m not pleased that you checked out of hospital against medical advice, but none of those are fatal flaws. You still have potential. I’m still willing to teach you to be a hero.”

Gentoku looks down at his hands. They’re still covered in blood – much like his clothes. Aizawa wonders why no-one at the hospital thought to grab him some scrubs.

“What if—” he pauses. “What if—I’m not willing?”

Aizawa looks at him closely. “That’s your choice,” he says.

“It’s just—” Gentoku looks up at him, and meets his eyes properly for the first time since Aizawa got to the hospital. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he says. “When I found Hayaka-chan, it was—it was the worst day of her life. She—she’d never have wanted me to see that. And I realised that heroes—all you see are the worst days of people’s lives. And I don’t think I can do that and still—” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do it, sensei.”

Aizawa leans back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. Truthfully, he’s not built for this kind of thing. He’s always struggled with the softer side of heroics – learning how to save someone with your words, rather than your quirk. Hizashi and Nemuri find it effortless – and that, more than anything else, is why he went underground, instead of into the spotlight.

Sitting in this cheap hospital chair, in the midst of losing one student, having already lost one today, he feels his inadequacy keenly.

“Heroics isn’t for the faint of heart,” Aizawa says at length. “You’re right. You see a lot of bad things – many more than you manage to stop. But the driving force of every hero is believing in the inevitability of gradualness. You have to have faith that just by doing your bit, by chipping away at the problem, you can make some small difference. That you can make the world better one person at a time. Not everyone can do that. And if you can’t, it’s better you figure it out now, than ten years down the line when the stakes are much, much higher.”

He lets that sit with Gentoku for a while.

“Sensei,” Gentoku says suddenly. “Hayaka-chan, she had her phone with her when she—” he breaks off, turning his head. “I didn’t mean to look at it, but the messages kept coming in. They were—they weren’t good.”

Aizawa accepts the subject change gracefully. “You still have it?” he asks.

Gentoku nods. He pulls it out of the front pocket of his hoodie and hands it over.

“Gentoku,” Aizawa says. “Regardless of whether you choose to stay in 1A, I want you to know I will not allow the matter of Hayaka-chan’s suicide attempt to be brushed aside. There will be an investigation, and there will be consequences for those involved.” He puts a hand on Gentoku’s shoulder. “You can rest now, Gentoku. I’ll handle it from here.”

He stands up.

“Are you leaving?” Gentoku asks.

“We’re checking you back into the hospital,” Aizawa says, “and we’re calling your parents. Quirk exhaustion’s no joke.”

Selfish bitch.

Just kill yourself already. No one wants you here.

Everyone knows you’re just a villain waiting to happen. Do us all a favour and—

A polystyrene cup of coffee appears in Aizawa’s field of vision. He looks up, following the hand up to its owner. Hizashi smiles sadly at him.

Aizawa puts the phone down on Toukei’s bed. “Thanks,” he says, taking the coffee.

“Any time,” Hizashi says. He leans against the wall next to Aizawa. “Anything of note?” he asks, nodding at the phone.

“A diatribe of harassment and suicide baiting,” Aizawa answers. “All from private numbers, or anonymous accounts. I’ll hand the phone over to Nedzu tomorrow. He’ll have more of an idea what to do with it.”

“How’d you get her passcode, anyway?” Hizashi takes a sip of his own cup of coffee.

“Touch ID.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet in Toukei’s small hospital room. It’s just them, Toukei, and the one-to-one nurse assigned to watch her.

“Did you notify the hospital about her quirk?” Hizashi asks.

“It was in her file,” Aizawa says. He nods at the tube lodged in Toukei’s mouth. “Hard to hold your breath when you’re intubated.”

Toukei’s quirk is equal parts understated and terrifying. It freezes perception of time for people within her field of vision, so long as she holds her breath. Aizawa had been eyeing her for a future in underground heroics, but there’d been some mumblings between her and Gentoku about forming a hero duo that Aizawa had neither encouraged nor discouraged.

“You going to keep her in the class?” Hizashi asks.

“I can’t,” Aizawa says. “Not after this.” He swirls the coffee in his cup, watching the harsh hospital light glint off it at different angles.

“She could make up the missed hours once she’s done with treatment.”

“That’s not it,” Aizawa says. He lowers the cup of coffee without drinking from it. “Pro-heroes put their life on the line daily. I’d have no guarantee that…”

“That she wasn’t just waiting for a socially acceptable way to die,” Hizashi finishes.

Aizawa nods. Maybe another teacher at UA would have a different answer. Maybe Kan, or Nemuri, or even Hizashi would know themselves capable of supporting a student like Toukei. But Aizawa knows himself, and he knows what he swore, when he took his job at UA. He would not be complicit in sending children out to die.

He sighs, and finally brings the cup of coffee up to his lips for a sip. Oh. Yikes. “This is awful.”

Hizashi grins. “Yeah, I know. I was waiting for you to drink it.”

Aizawa feels something warm bloom in his chest. In an hour’s time, Toukei’s parents will be here. In an hour’s time, Aizawa will haul his body out of this chair, and bow to ninety degrees, and apologise for his failures as a teacher. In an hour’s time, he will calmly answer any questions they might have, and he will accept their reaction, whatever it may be.

But he won’t be doing it alone.

The afternoon is melting away into night by the time Aizawa arrives on Anzu Street in the suburban edges of Mustafu. He’s changed out of his casual black clothes into the only suit he owns – black, a little rumpled, usually reserved for funerals and weddings – and forced a brush through his hair. The end result is not quite professional, but presentable at the very least.

He inhales, flexes his knuckles around the handle of his briefcase, and then knocks on house number 38.

There’s a pause – the sound of footsteps – and then, the door opens.

He grimly meets the eyes of Aomori Shizuka. 1A Hellion #3.

Her eyes go wide. “Aizawa-sensei?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Are your parents here?” Aizawa asks.

“My mother is,” Aomori says. “What’s…”

“I need to speak to you both. Can I come in?”

Aomori’s mother is pretty – she has that much in common with her daughter – and apparently baffled by everything about him. She gives him a polite, if confused, greeting, and invites him to sit at their kitchen table.

“Do you want some tea, Aizawa-san?”

“No,” Aizawa says.

“Or some water, or juice – I know it’s a bit late for caffeine.”

“Aomori-san, please sit down.”

Aomori’s mother falters. She sits. Her daughter hovers in the doorway of the kitchen. “You too,” Aizawa tells her.

With some reluctance, she does.

“Aizawa-san,” Aomori’s mother says after a moment, “is something wrong?”

Aizawa reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a manilla folder. He slides it across the table to the two women. “These are copies of messages that your daughter sent to another student,” he says. “Last night, the student in question attempted to end their life.”

Aomori’s mother goes very, very pale. She flips open the folder, eyes scanning down the pages of messages. “This isn’t—” she looks up at him. “This isn’t my daughter’s user name. Or her number.”

“Some of the messages were sent using UA’s campus wi-fi,” Aizawa explains. “We require students to login to our internet services with their details. We were able to track these messages back to her digital profile.”

Aomori’s mother is quiet. “The other student – are they okay?”

“They’re alive,” Aizawa says. “I’m not authorised to share any more details of their condition.”

“Will there be charges?”

Aomori jolts. “Mom—”

“Be quiet,” her mother snaps. “Aizawa-san, do you know if they intend to pursue charges?”

“The family of the student do not intend to seek criminal or civil charges against your daughter,” Aizawa says. “For now, they are focused on ensuring their child’s wellbeing, and a court case would not be conducive to that. That may change, a few months down the line. I have not advised them either way.”

Aomori’s mother clasps a hand to her mouth. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“There will, however, be consequences for this,” Aizawa says. “Given the conduct of your daughter, Aomori-san, UA has decided to proceed with expulsion from our hero course. We will not, at this time, be extending the offer of a place in one of our other departments.

“This incident will be included in your daughter’s permanent record,” Aizawa continues. “We have also made the additional decision to personally inform future schools your daughter may choose to attend of her conduct.”

Aomori’s mother looks—ruined. “Aizawa-san, please—”

Aizawa stands. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Aizawa-san—” There’s a thud behind him. He turns back, just slightly, to the sight of Aomori’s mother on her knees on the kitchen floor. She sinks into a deep bow, her head colliding with the floor with an audible smack.

“I have taught my daughter poorly,” Aomori’s mother says. “Please preserve her future.”

“Mom,” Aomori says, tugging at her mother’s arm. “Mom, get up. Mom, please don’t do this.”

“I have taught my daughter poorly,” her mother says again, rising, and then lowering her head once more. “Please preserve her future.”

Aizawa sighs. He kneels down, and pulls Aomori’s mother up, out of dogeza, and to her feet. “Aomori-san,” he says gently, “as a teacher, I understand your desire to protect the future of your daughter. My first concern is always to protect the future of my students.”

He notices that she’s crying. “Then—”

“But as a pro-hero,” he says, “I have a duty to more than just your daughter. I have a duty to protect the future of the student currently lying in a hospital bed, following a suicide attempt. I have a duty to protect the future of the student who found them, and saved their life. I have a duty to protect the futures of other vulnerable students your daughter may encounter. I have been as lenient as I can be, given all these things.”

Aomori’s mother looks at him, and then collapses into sobs.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Aizawa says again. He turns and leaves.

It’s as he’s sliding out of the Aomori household’s slippers and back into his dress shoes, that Aomori the younger finally approaches him.

“Toukei-chan,” she says. “Is she really going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Aizawa answers honestly.

“I—I didn’t really want her dead.”

Aizawa looks at her. Even now, he doesn’t know why she did it. Doubtlessly, there’s some deeper reason – but he finds he doesn’t care. “For someone who didn’t want her dead,” he says, finally, standing up, “you were very convincing.”

“It’s a little impressive frankly,” Nemuri says. “Three students to none in 24 hours. You really are the picture of efficiency, Shouta.”

She reaches across their table and steals a piece of pork out of Aizawa’s bento. Aizawa, who has been subjected to this kind of vulgar behaviour for nearly fifteen years, lets it happen without a fight.

“What did Nedzu have to say?” Hizashi asks. He also dips his chopsticks into Aizawa’s lunch, but he’s after the red peppers.

“The investigation is still ongoing,” Aizawa says. “On the request of the auditing team, I’ve been temporarily suspended from teaching.” He pulls a few bamboo shoots out of Nemuri’s own lunch – fair is fair.

“Did he give you a prognosis?” Nemuri asks.

“He didn’t seem to think I had anything to worry about,” Aizawa says, “but it might take a couple of months. The team wants to re-examine my history of expulsions.”

Hizashi snorts. “A couple of months might be understating it in that case,” he says.

Aizawa shrugs. There’d been a little more to it when Nedzu went over it – some concern from the internal panel that his ‘trigger-happy expulsion policy’ (a direct quote) might have contributed to a toxic classroom environment – but Aizawa, much like Nedzu, isn’t worried about it. He follows UA policy to the letter, and he always strives to be fair – if not forgiving.

“You going to pick up a few more shifts as Eraserhead, then?” Nemuri asks. “Anyone else, I’d think vacation, but I know you’re congenitally incapable of downtime.”

Aizawa ignores the jab at his – non-existent – work-life balance. “I’ve been requested on a case,” he says. “International quirk trafficking. They want me full-time on the investigation team. I was going to turn it down, but it’s apparently a big deal to have been asked. It’s a joint task-force with foreign heroes.”

Hizashi wrinkles his nose. “Sounds like a bureaucratic nightmare,” he says. “Those joint efforts always end up tangled in red tape.”

That had largely been Aizawa’s perspective when he was first approached, a month ago. At the time, he still had half a class left – and they were working hard to make up for their deficit in numbers with pure stupidity – and it had been easy to tell the investigators he had too much on his plate. Now, Aizawa’s starting to feel that red tape might be a fair price for something to do.

“Don’t be so cynical,” Nemuri says, swatting Hizashi. “It sounds like a good opportunity.”

Aizawa shrugs. “We’ll see.”

The briefing room is fairly standard as these things go. Pale walls, rough carpet, tables arranged in rows with chairs pointing at a large screen. Aizawa is neither early nor late, but the room is only half-filled. He recognises a few underground heroes, and raises his eyebrows when he spots Hawks, off to the side, chatting with Abyssal, an underground hero who started out as a vigilante.

“A pretty good turnout, all things considered,” comes a voice from Aizawa’s left.

Aizawa turns. “Detective,” he nods.

“It’s been a while,” Tsukauchi says. He looks much the same as he had when they first met, all those years ago: like a salaryman who stumbled into a police precinct by mistake and stayed out of some sort of masochistic civil obligation. It’s an impression that Tsukauchi never quite manages to step out of – even when he’s competently sweeping rooms in full riot gear, he still looks a little like an accountant having a very dull day. “UA treating you well?”

Aizawa shrugs. “Can’t complain.”

“It’s good to have you onboard,” Tsukauchi says. “We’ve had issues getting heroes involved, even with the foreign cooperation angle.”

Aizawa privately thinks that Tsukauchi’s sales pitch must need some work if it relies entirely on the universal appeal of bureaucratic nonsense. “Joint ventures like this are rare.”

Tsukauchi smiles tiredly. “Hopefully a little less so, once we’re done here,” he says. “We’ve had some success cooperating with America, thanks to All Might, but this is one of the first times we’ve ever worked this closely with the British. It’s a big deal, even if the case is a little—”

“Okay, everyone,” comes a voice from the front. “Let’s take our seats.”

There’s a flurry of movement as everyone filters into chairs. “We’ll talk later,” Tsukauchi says quietly, before he shuffles across the room to a larger group of police officers – his team, most likely. Aizawa simply pulls out the chair closest to him and drops into it.

As more people sit down, the owner of the voice becomes visible. She’s plain-faced, with dark blue hair that’s pinned in a tight bun behind her head, and dressed in a navy pantsuit the exact same shade as her hair. She has an ID badge pinned to her lapel, but Aizawa can’t make out much more of it than the HPSC logo superimposed over it as a watermark.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Tanaka Mayumi, the lead investigator on this case. I work for the police, but I also hold a hero licence, hero name Vector. Potter-san, do you want to say anything?”

“Sure.”

Aizawa turns to the source of the voice, and feels his mind go blank. ‘Potter-san’ unfolds his body from where he’s been leaning against the wall, all long limbs and lithe grace. Aizawa watches it happen like he’s someone else, somewhere else. Suit and tie. Messy black hair. Vivid green eyes.

“I’m sure by now, you’ve heard that this is a cooperative investigation between Japan and the UK’s hero forces,” Harry says, with that same easy charm. “I represent the UK side of that equation. I’m Harry Potter, codename Fractal, but you can call me whatever combination of those names makes you most comfortable. I know I look young, but I have over a decade of experience in villain apprehension. I look forward to working with you all. For now, I’m in your care.”

He bows.

There’s some polite applause, but Aizawa can’t move. Harry rises out of his bow, and as he brings his head back up, his eyes catch.

Aizawa knows he’s been made.

Harry’s face twitches a little, eyes going wide with shock, and then—

He meets Aizawa’s eye and smiles.

Fuck.

[tbc??? maybe]

#kaputt wip weds #kaputt writes stuff #bnha fic #harry potter x bnha crossover #harry potter fic #this fic brought to you by: the greys anatomy one night stand trope #suicide mention cw #aizawa's actually my favourite bnha character #i know we're two for two on the bnha fic from this week and last week #i'll pick something else next week lol #you ever have a character that you like writing because they get to be inappropriate in a way you never permit yourself?#that was me writing nemuri she's so much fun #fic: one night stand au

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