A/N: Hiya friends, this is an American Muggle AU inspired by the tv show New Girl! I simply couldn't get this lil' plot bunny out of my head so here we are. :). I have a rough outline for this story, but I make no promises on a posting timeline. My ADHD brain needs at least one stress-free story to update whenever the inspiration strikes...:). I hope you enjoy it!
xxx
Summary: After a bad break-up, Hermione Granger moves into a messy and dysfunctional loft with four single men. What starts as a temporary home until she gets back on her feet becomes so much more, as she learns there's a lot of life - and love - that happens at rock-bottom.
x Hermione x
"I don't know, Harry," groans Seamus. "She'll change the dynamic too much, don't you think?"
"Who's to say that's a bad thing?" Harry glares at Seamus's dirty feet on the coffee table, propped up on an empty take-out container. "Honestly, we could probably use some more feminine energy in here."
"You're just doing this because Ginny asked." Seamus lets out a laugh, and a smug smirk spreads across his face. "You know, this little favor isn't going to make her sleep with you."
Harry scowls right back. "I'm not trying to get her to sleep with me," he argues, although his reddening cheeks suggest otherwise. "I'm just trying to do the right thing here. Hermione needs a place to live, and we need another roommate anyway."
"So the fact that she's friends with Ginny has nothing to do with it? You're not using Hermione to lure Ginny over here more often?"
Harry's silence is a sufficient answer for Seamus, who scoffs and leans back on the sofa with his hands behind his head.
Hermione resists the urge to clarify that she's not exactly Ginny's friend per se. To Ginny, Hermione's just the broken-hearted mess of a girl she found crying in the office bathroom yesterday, and to Hermione, Ginny's nothing but a well-timed acquaintance who happened to know of a loft with an empty room.
Instead, she clears her throat to remind them of her presence, as they seem to have forgotten. "Boys, I'm sitting right here. If you don't want me to move in, that's fine. Just tell me, and I'll look elsewhere."
"For what it's worth, I like her," chirps Neville quietly from the other end of the sofa. "She seems nice."
Hermione silently thanks Neville with a smile, but apparently for the other two, 'nice' isn't what they're looking for.
"That's the problem, Neville. She's 'nice'," says Seamus, emphasizing the phrase with air quotes. "I want to feel comfortable in my own space, and sometimes, seeing something 'nice' in the morning makes things uncomfortable." He motions to his pants to emphasize his point.
Gross. Is this guy serious? Hermione looks at Seamus in disgust and crosses her arms in front of her chest, hoping to hide anything 'nice' from view. She can already tell that this is not a good fit.
"Dude, really?" chastises Harry. "She's right here, man."
"Seriously," tuts Neville. "Jar."
"Yeah, that's fair," shrugs Seamus.
Hermione watches in shock and horror as Seamus digs into his pocket for a dollar bill before shoving it into a glass container labeled 'douchebag jar'.
No, this definitely isn't going to work out.
"I'll just go," she says, rising to her feet. "Clearly, this isn't a good idea."
The boys erupt in whispers as soon as she turns her back, and a tidal wave of self-consciousness crashes down on her. She scurries toward the door, wishing she had worn something other than her Lululemons. Something less 'nice'.
She'll find another place to live. She has to.
But as she approaches the door, her eyes sting with tears. She's banking on this working out — if she doesn't find a place today her only option is a hotel she can't afford, or another night in her old apartment with Cormac, and she's not sure she can stand to sleep in the same bed as him, or on the same couch she caught him naked with — what was her name? Romilda Something? It doesn't matter. Cormac probably never asked for her last name, and Hermione doesn't need to know either.
It might have to be a hotel, and she can almost hear her wallet whimper at the thought. Her first priority is getting out of this loft before she starts crying.
"Hermione, wait!"
Her hand freezes on the doorknob at Harry's abrupt call.
"What?" she snaps back without turning around. It's too late to hold back her tears — the floodgates have officially opened, and it's not a good time for pleasantries.
"We've just discussed, and we want you to live here," says Seamus, his friendly tone forced.
"Yeah," adds Neville. "We're really looking forward to it."
"So what do you say?" asks Harry.
Her stomach clenches, and for the first time she notices the smell of the apartment — it reeks of forgotten fast food and gym laundry. There's a lumpy, brownish stain in the corner by the door, and Hermione doesn't even want to know what it's from, and right above the stain, a shelf proudly displays a water bong in the shape of a naked woman. An empty picture frame hangs crookedly on the wall, a mediocre effort to hide the sloppy drawing of male genitalia etched in permanent marker. There's a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and the light fixture above her head is held together with duct tape...
Does she want to live here? No.
But is she absolutely, one-hundred-percent desperate? Yes.
On the bright side, Cormac was a total slob before they lived together, and she taught him well. She can teach these boys too, she's sure of it.
She turns around and wipes her eyes, now leaking with tears. "Thank you," she says, her voice breaking into a muffled sob. "I'll go get my stuff in my car."
"Are you crying?" asks Seamus, his eyes wide. "You… you can't do that here. Harry, we made a mistake."
"Seamus, she's welcome to express her feelings if she needs to," says Neville.
"Dude! What are you talking about? You cry all the time!" says Harry, addressing Seamus. "Remember when you fell asleep and missed the Taylor Swift conc—"
"I was crying about something else entirely!" Seamus shouts. "My… my Nana died, okay?"
"Again?" Neville and Harry burst into laughter.
Hermione uses their moment of distraction to escape out the door. Once in the hallway, her tears fall freely, and she wipes them away with her sleeve. She approaches the elevator to begin the two to three trips — tops — to gather the minimal belongings she could stuff into her tiny Prius. She'll have to face Cormac if she wants the rest of her stuff back, but that's a worry for another day.
Hermione wakes up with a neckache, likely a result of the lumpy pile of blankets serving as her temporary bed. There are no blinds or curtains on her window yet, and the morning sun sends a direct beam of light into her eyes. She groggily props herself up on her elbows and glances around at the room — her room. It's quite small and the walls are a bit bland, so there's nothing special about it, really. But it does have one thing going for it — she doesn't have to share it with a lying, cheating ex-boyfriend. Thank goodness for that.
Rubbing her throbbing neck, she climbs to her feet. Her dresser is still at Cormac's, so last night she left all of her clothes in a pile on the floor of the closet. She rummages through it and fishes out her robe — something to provide enough coverage to feel comfortable traipsing through the loft to the bathroom that she now shares with three boys. At the thought of running into them, she checks her reflection in the rectangular mirror stuck to the inside of the closet door and runs her fingers through her bushy brown hair — a feeble attempt to defrizz it. She tugs at her robe, which is shorter than she remembers. Not that it matters, she reminds herself. It's not like she's attracted to any of her roommates. There's no reason to look good.
Out of nowhere, the door to her bedroom swings open and slams into the wall with a bang. Hermione jumps and whips around to face her intruder, and her mouth drops open when she meets the equally surprised gaze of a tall, lanky, shirtless, redhead.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" he yells, taking a step back. He glances around the room in confusion, looking like he walked into the wrong apartment.
Hermione's ears tingle with embarrassment and she tightens her robe. "Who are you?" she asks, her voice shaky.
The redhead stares back dumbfounded. "Who am I? Who are you, and why are you in my gym?"
"Your gym? What are you talking about? This is my room!" Only now does Hermione realize he's carrying a set of dumbbells at his side. Her eyes scan for the number on the weights, a strange habit leftover from Cormac's constant bragging about how much he can lift.
Before she can catch the number, her eyes are drawn to something else — his gym shorts are quite tight and revealing, and his torso is sleek and muscular; his abs remind her of the crisp, defined cubes of an ice tray on a blistering summer day.
The heat spreads from her ears to her cheeks.
"Ron! You're back from your trip early," pants Harry as he rushes into her room to join the pair.
The redhead — Ron — turns to Harry and scowls. "Harry James Potter. Who the hell is she?" he asks, nodding in Hermione's direction.
"Ron, this is Hermione Granger," says Harry. "Our new roommate."
Hermione watches the two boys stare at each other and communicate in a language she's not privy to; their expressions flash with silent conversation. She takes a step back to observe and realizes from Ron's unwavering scowl that he was blindsided by Hermione.
"What happened to my home gym?" he whines, avoiding Hermione's gaze. His arms hang by his sides, the dumbbells dragging his shoulders into a slump, which gives him the appearance of a disgruntled toddler on the verge of a tantrum.
Harry clears his throat and stands up straighter. "We've decided that you can work out in your own bedroom from now on," he states diplomatically.
"That's not fair," says Ron, puffing his chest in an apparent challenge to Harry.
Harry shrugs. "Well, as you know, the rent is going up, so we all decided not to let you have two rooms to yourself. And Hermione's cool, your sister vouched for her."
Ahhh, Ginny's brother. Hermione finally connects the familiarity of Ron's flaming red hair.
"But you didn't even ask me!" complains Ron.
"Sorry bro. It was a practical choice."
Hermione shifts in discomfort at Harry's word choice — practical is a descriptor she's heard too many times before, and the sting of her breakup conversation with Cormac comes flooding right back. Romilda whatever-her-last-name is exciting and spontaneous, while Hermione's sensible and safe. As if transported back to her old apartment, she can hear Cormac crooning, 'Don't get me wrong baby, you're a great girl, but I just want to have fun right now...'
Harry must catch the flash of anger on her face and mistake himself as the culprit. "Hermione, I'm so sorry that this pale, speckly moron was your wake-up alarm."
"It's fine," she says, her voice shriller than intended. "It's nice to meet you, Ron. Now would you mind letting me get dressed?"
Ron turns toward her, and, for a moment, Hermione swears his eyes sweep over her body, a rosy tint swarming his cheeks before his expression hardens. She's becoming more appreciative of her too-short robe.
"Well, welcome to the loft, Hermione," says Ron stiffly before turning back to Harry, "If you need me, I'll be working out in my bedroom." Ron brushes past, bumping Harry's shoulder on his way out the door.
Without permission, Hermione's wild imagination conjures up the image of Ron doing just that. His too-tight gym shorts stretch with each squat, revealing his freckled, toned thighs. The same ray of sunlight that woke Hermione illuminates his porcelain skin which glistens with sweat, causing Hermione to crave the cool, refreshing taste of a vanilla ice cream cone…
"Why would I need you?" shouts Harry, interrupting Hermione's headspin.
"I don't know, Harry," comes Ron's muffled voice from the hall. "But if you do, you know where to find me."
She narrows her eyes and clears her throat, catching Harry's attention. "You didn't tell me there were four of you here."
Harry stares intently at the floor. "Right. Technically four is the maximum, so if anyone asks, you're just visiting."
Hermione's jaw drops and her heart starts pounding. She's a rule-follower, she always has been, and the thought of living where she's not supposed to makes her uneasy. "Harry — are you telling me that I'm living here illegally?!"
"It's not illegal," he says, his emphasis on the word concerning, "It's just frowned upon."
"Frowned upon by whom?"
"Our landlord." He waves his hand dismissively, "but he'll never find out."
"Harry—"
"I'll let you get dressed," he interrupts, slipping out of her room and closing the door behind him with a thud.
Hermione groans and turns back to the mirror, suddenly interested in her appearance again. She can see her anxiety etched into her face, the line between her eyebrows a prominent reminder of all that's gone wrong in the last few days.
If anyone asks what she's doing here, she's supposed to lie and say she's visiting. That shouldn't be an issue. She can lie, right?
"You're just visiting," she tells her reflection, and she likes the sound of it. The insinuation that this chaos is only temporary eases her anxiety.
"You're going to love it here," she practices again, pushing away the contradicting image of the trash-filled kitchen, pornographic water bong, and questionable stains on the floor.
"You're definitely not attracted to your roommate," she adds, knowing that somewhere in the loft, the shirtless redhead is working up a sweat, his breath growing heavy, as he throws around dumbbells by his probably-still-unmade bed.
It'll be fine — she can be pretty convincing, after all.