Hide nor Hair

Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope. Not at all.

A/N – Written for the brilliant and wonderful Ash-Castle from the prompt 'George/Hermione, living and loving (and dragons).' Happy extremely early birthday, darling! Hope you enjoy! :D


"Blimey. All right, then. That shouldn't have happened."

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion as her husband's decidedly intrigued voice echoed through the closed door to his and his twin brother's workshop. It was going on ten on a Saturday night, a time she usually spent in her home office doing paperwork. That particular evening was different, however, as the kids had been packed off to their grandparents hours ago, the loud voices, the laughter, the ruckus vanishing with a flair of the floo. Hermione had let out a long breath when the quiet had descended, and then, with purpose in her step, had set to work.

The dress she was wearing, and had been wearing for a good couple of hours now, was new. She'd applied the briefest bit of makeup, leaving her hair untamed because her husband liked it that way. The scene was set upstairs, candles lit and dinner meticulously prepared – an event that happened only once in a blue moon in their household. George was the family's meal maker. He was much better at it than Hermione was, something he teased her about at every opportunity. But with the help of her mother-in-law's cookbook – stolen for her by Ginny, right out from under Molly's nose, because there was no way in any level of hell Hermione was going to ask Molly Weasley if she could borrow her infamous cookbook – Hermione had made the three course meal all by herself. And she was bloody proud of that fact.

Unfortunately, the person she had prepared the scene for, got dressed up and made the meal for, was still very much AWOL, hours after the carefully planned seduction was supposed to have taken place.

It was her fault, really. She should've known to let George in on her plan, instead of trying to surprise him. It was right before Christmas, which was the busiest times of the year for the twins. She'd known that, of course she had. She'd even used it to her advantage and planned the dinner for later in the evening, knowing George probably wouldn't come in until late. She'd been in a happy mood while setting everything up, full of a flutter of anticipation, because she'd thought perhaps showing that she could be spontaneous and romantic would… would...

Right now, she wasn't entirely sure what it was supposed to have done.

Brought back their early years, when they couldn't last a day without touching?

She couldn't help sighing at the thought, the sound briefly irritating her before unidentifiable sounds from inside the workshop distracted her again. The light wasn't on over the door, so it was safe to go inside, and Hermione quietly pushed the door open, footfalls cautious all the same. The room was lit with a single muggle light bulb sticking out of the wall above the main workbench, and she stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes wide as the light played across her husband's crouched over, bent-at-the-waist form.

Was that… what the hell?

"Merlin's beard, George."

Her partly wondrous, partly exasperated exclamation startled her husband badly enough that he jumped in fright and banged the top of his head on the bottom of the bench. Swearing loudly, he pushed himself to his feet and swung around, face twisted with pain and annoyance. Startlingly yellow eyes meet her gaze.

"Bloody hell, love, give a man some no… well, bugger me. Don't you look a picture."

The annoyance died quickly, surprise, appreciation and a glinting something that made her insides squirm taking its place as eyes that shouldn't have been yellow gave her a slow, thorough once-over, lingering on the way the Gryffindor-red dress moulded to her frame and ended a good inch or so above her knees. Hands finding her hips, Hermione ignored the look and glared at him.

"George Weasley, why exactly is your skin shimmering?"

The delight that swept across George's face at his wife's question had Hermione feeling a liberal amount of both amusement and concern. She watched as he ran his hands down his bare torso, the colour of his skin changing with the fragmenting light – much like a crystal throwing a rainbow against a wall. She frowned and took a step closer, eyes tracing the… pattern?

"It is, isn't it?" George stated, twisting his body to look at himself with satisfaction. His shoes, work robes and shirt he'd worn under them were all shoved in a pile at his bare feet, his long, freckly toes shiny and odd looking. "The spell wasn't supposed to have gone this far, but this could work just as well. 'Course, we'll have to figure out exactly why it happened in the first place, but I don't think the ministry will be too disappointed."

Hermione arched a brow in question. "Ministry? You got the contract, then?"

"Not yet," George replied absently, shaking his head and patting his pecs. "Sorry, love, should've told you. They owled this afternoon. They want an example, which is what this was supposed to be."

"Hmm. And what exactly is this?"

Looking up, the redhead who she'd been married to for 14 years sent her a smirking twist of his mouth, his head cocking. His eyes ran over her a second time before he waggled his eyebrows playfully.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he murmured, eyes inviting. Hermione lifted her chin, pinning him with a cool look, and George laughed. "No, seriously, Granger, you look absolutely smashing. What's the occasion? Our anniversary was three months ago, so it can't be that."

Hermione pursed her lips and folded her arms, smirking internally when, predictably, George's eyes dropped to her chest. Her husband would forever be a boy at heart. "Perhaps I just felt like looking good today."

George frowned at her suggestion. "You look good every day, love, no matter what you wear. You're beautiful. You know that."

"Do I?" Frustrated with herself for unintentionally speaking her thoughts aloud, Hermione waved away the bafflement in George's eyes and the questions on the tip of his tongue. "Never mind that, I want to know why you've suddenly become some type of wizard-adder hybrid! Explain to me what's going on here please."

She couldn't have stopped the shifting from foot to foot if she'd tried. George gazed at her silently for a long moment, but must have ultimately decided not to push, because he abruptly grinned, reached out and took her hand. Hermione's mouth fell open when he pressed her palm to his stomach.

His skin was smooth and glass-like, but somehow had a rough texture to it at the same time. And warm. Almost hot. Hotter than normal human skin, and much hotter than a snake's natural body temperature.

How was that possible?

"It's not snakeskin, Granger. It's dragon hide," George said softly, smirk evident in his voice as he slowly dragged her hand across his navel. "We were trying to improve the standard Auror protective gear. Make it a lot more effective, you know? Something must have gone skewiff somehow, though, because nothing happened to my clothes after I applied the potion and cast the spell, but this certainly happened to my skin."

The heat seemed to crawl up her arm. Hermione swallowed hard, fascinated by the feel of unusual texture under her fingers. The way the light hit and reflected off the scale-like pattern was hypnotically beautiful, and George's muscles jumped under her touch as she took her time and explored him. There was no hesitation when he released her hand and hooked his grip around her wrist, his thumb stroking, featherlight, along her pulse.

Her suddenly racing pulse.

"Is it permanent?" Hermione whispered, leashed hand inching along his hip. Her fingers flirted with the edge of his trousers, and she looked up through her lashes at the sound of a shaky exhale, his thumbnail gently scratching along the tendon in her wrist.

"I don't know."

Swallowing again, she rose to full height and pressed in close to him, both his hand and her trapped solidly between them. "Is it contagious?"

With just a flash of yellow peeking beneath hooded lids, George pressed his nail into her pulse a final time and then wrapped both hands around her waist, turning them in a quick movement and crowding her into the workbench. He lifted her up and sat her on the bench, stepping between her legs. "Merlin, I hope not," he groaned before cupping her jaw and kissing her.

It was like coming home. The thought was stupid and irrational because George had been part of her family in one way or another for longer than they'd been married, but it was what streaked through her head when she opened her mouth and eagerly kissed him back. George hummed at her response and took full advantage, sliding his tongue over hers, pulling back and nibbling at her lips before wrapping her up again, clouding her mind with hot breath and his wonderfully familiar scent. The comforting feel of a mouth that she'd spent years kissing was in complete contrast to the feel of his strangely morphed skin, burning hot under her hands, and it added a titillating element that turned her on more than she was willing to admit. She wiggled on the bench and clutched him tighter, George kissing her again and again, each a little more desperately than the last.

The embarrassing sound of her own moan brought her around somewhat. She'd always been a little hesitant in the bedroom; always a little self-conscious, something that, even after so many years, she hadn't shaken. George had never minded the touch of jumpiness, and had always managed to distract her from her thoughts and draw her back into her body. A hand running up and down her back and a sharp pinch of teeth to the underside of her jaw did exactly that now, a gentle reminder of who he was; who she was with.

How safe she was.

Her heart stuttering, Hermione allowed herself to give in to the rocketing heat that was gradually making it hard to breathe; to think; to do anything else but react. She sighed and kissed him with all of her, and with a deeper, much more rough type of hum, George tilted her head for a better angle and jerked her forward to the very edge of the bench, pushing himself as close as he could manage.

They both groaned when the erection tenting his trousers pressed firmly into the junction between her thighs.

Hermione broke away with a gasp at the touch of smooth, flaming fingers shoving her skirt up further, George an expert at using the lacy material of her knickers to set her body thrumming. "There's... a bed… upstairs," she panted, head falling back with a whimper. George latched onto her throat and grunted, his left hand scrambling for the top of her strapless dress.

"Too far away. Want you to come now," he mumbled into her skin. Then, in a coordinated move that would've made her roll her eyes if anyone else had been gossiping about it, he tugged her dress down and wrapped his lips around a nipple, moving her knickers aside and thrusting three, very hot fingers inside of her at the same time.

Knuckle deep.

It was as much the burn as it was the delicious feeling of being abruptly full that had Hermione crying out. It'd been awhile – one of the reasons behind her surprise dinner that evening – and the combination of George steadily drawing from her breast and fucking her furiously with his fingers had her climbing so speedily, she couldn't keep up. Her husband knew her body like the back of his hand, his determination to break her apart clear in the way the thumb that had played with her pulse-point earlier now speared her throbbing clit, over and over. The sensations were electrifying, and Hermione whimpered loudly, mouth gaping as her hips rose repeatedly to meet his fingers.

"That's it, sweetheart. You like that, don't you? I know what you like. I've always known. Just a bit more. Go over, my Hermione. My love. Come for me, my Hermione."

He murmured it in her ear, low, throaty voice winding through her head. The cool air on her wet nipple only added to the discombobulation, and when George twisted his fingers and pressed hard on her clit, telling her that she was such a good girl and that he was so proud of her, she split, right down the centre. Her choked scream filled the room, her vision going fuzzy, and she wasn't aware of being moved up further on the bench until her body relaxed and she blinked her eyes open to see George, his weight on his forearms, trembling above her.

"O-ohh," she moaned long and low, jaw lax again at the feeling of being filled with something decidedly different than three fingers. George sliding into her, filling her with a familiar, sturdy heat, was heaven to both her spastic nerve endings and her heart, and she smiled up at him in a lazy movement, reaching up to palm his jaw.

George's breath exploded from him at her touch. He leant down to kiss her, swallowing her sudden inhale when he carefully withdrew and thrust back in again.

"All right?" he whispered against her lips. Hermione bit her bottom lip and nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her brows drew down at the feel of his skin on his back – that certainly wasn't familiar – but was soon distracted when George buried his face into her neck, withdrawing and surging forward a second time, quickly starting a steady rhythm she was a lot more acquainted with that had her wrapping her legs around his waist and bringing his head around to kiss him again. George gasped into her mouth, groaning as his hips picked up speed, his body straining, and knowing exactly what he needed, Hermione clenched herself around him.

Hard.

"F-fuck! Hermione! Fuck!"

He slammed into her once, twice, a third time, and then stilled, limbs shaking. Warmth flooding her, Hermione reached for him again, kissing him thoroughly through his orgasm and then smiling up at the ceiling when he inevitably collapsed on top of her.

It was a good five minutes before he moved.

"Merlin's saggy bollocks, I love you," he sighed against her shoulder. Hermione grinned widely and patted his side, frowning when she encountered hot, glass-like skin. "That… that was completely unexpected." He pushed up on his elbows and eyed her with an exaggerated smirk, sweaty hair falling in those continuously startling yellow eyes. "'Course, this all could've been your intention, coming down here dressed up like sex on a stick," he said, tone jokingly accusing. He laughed when her brows shot up and she folded her arms in indignation, then swooped down and dragged his tongue across the breast that had somehow found itself neglected during the throes.

Hermione shrieked and shoved his away, George's laughter growing louder when she huffed and hopped off the workbench, straightening her underwear and dress in a flurry of activity that had her husband cackling madly from the floor. The sound of her teeth grinding together, however, had George's amusement fleeing, and he hurriedly clambered to his feet, almost tripping up again as he tried to pull his pants and trousers on and rush after Hermione's retreating figure at the same time.

"Oi, Granger, where are you going? What's wrong? Come back here!"

"That wasn't my intention tonight at all!" Hermione retorted shrilly, spinning on her husband and poking him in his dragon hind-converted chest with a pointed fingernail. "I didn't come down here for sex! I was hoping it'd be on the cards, to be honest, but I wanted the evening beforehand, George! That's why I dressed up, and that's why I came down to find you when you didn't come up for dinner!"

George frowned and scratched the top of his head, looking adorably ruffled with his trousers undone and his skin glinting dully in the low light of the stairwell. "The evening? Hermione, what are you on about?"

"What am I on about?! What am I on about?! This, George Fabian Weasley, is what I'm on about!"

She grabbed his arm and dragged him up the stairs, throwing the door to the flat open to show the still set up table, the food kept warm under stasis charms, the candles burning tall and bright and frozen in place. It took once glance at the table, the wireless playing softly in the background, for comprehension to dawn. Surprise lit George's face before his expression softened. He walked over and enveloped her in his arms.

"You set this up? I'm sorry, love, I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?"

Hermione sniffed, already feeling like a fool. She overreacted to everything, didn't she? "Because I wanted to be romantic and spontaneous," she muttered, resting her forehead on his shoulder and wishing he wasn't so bloody hot. He better have a reversal spell for this mishap, the git. "We're just… just… and I wanted before again! As well as! Is it selfish to want it all?"

"Of course it's not, sweetheart, but I'm afraid to say that I still have no clue what you're talking about. Care to elaborate for the halfwit in the room?"

Sighing, she stepped back and ran a hand through her hair. George was looking at her calmly, patient in the face of the anxiety in the pit of her stomach, and Hermione groaned and pulled out a chair to sit down, her head finding her hands.

George had always been patient. He kidded and joked around, forever laughing, the class clown. The person never taken seriously. He and his brother owned a chain of joke shops, for Merlin's sake. But the fact that it was a chain escaped a lot of people's notice, as did how bloody intelligent both George and Fred were. They created their own products from scratch, after all. Not to mention the way the ministry was sniffing around.

OWLs didn't dictate intelligence, and it had taken Hermione an embarrassingly long time to figure that out.

George had been patient, and his patience had paid off eventually. Her breath hitched when his hands cupped her knees. Hermione looked up to see the man she loved very much crouched down in front of her.

"Please, Hermione, tell me what's wrong. I can't help if you keep me in the dark, can I?"

His voice was gentle, his smile lopsided, and so achingly memorable. Her heart jumped again, and she reached out and pushed his ginger hair back out of his eyes, the terrible tremble under her breastbone smoothing out with the feel of his hair in her hands. Releasing a breath hurt a little, the realisation that accompanied it just as much.

He hadn't changed. He was still calm, still patient. Still the lovable idiot full of wit and charm, who hid how brainy he was. They hadn't changed. Life had just… gotten in the way.

He still wanted her.

Why hadn't she seen that?

"I love you," she said, smiling softly when he grinned at her. "I'm sorry. Had a little crisis of confidence, I guess. I know we're both busy a lot of the time, and stupid me let the fact that I haven't seen much of you over the last couple of months shake me some. Forgive me?"

George rose to his feet and tugged her up as well. "How can I forgive you when there's nothing to forgive?" he asked, his smile gentle before he leant down and dropped a smacking kiss to her lips. "Besides, you're right, we have lost us a bit, I reckon. We should stop work, unload the brats, and make time for meals of this stella quality more often, yeah?" His head tilted to the side, cat-like, and he smirked at her. "Especially if it ends up in me getting a bloody phenomenal shag like the one earlier. Couldn't resist my manly musk, could you, Granger? I wonder if that had anything to do with the fact the potion used with the spell contained blood from a female dragon in season?"

Pausing for a moment, Hermione chose to deliberately ignore the suggestion that George's skin may have had aphrodisiac-like properties in its current state, and that it might have been the reason why they'd jumped each other with little to no warning in his and Fred's back room. It would make his head much too big if she went off at him about it. Instead, she smirked and removed the charms on the candles and food, working around George as he poured the wine. "What manly musk? Anything you may have had was probably snuffed out by dragon hide. By the way, you do have a reversal spell for that, don't you? I don't mind the texture all that much, but the temperature's too strange. And don't even get me started on the eyes."

George blinked. "Eyes?" he asked with a frown, "what do you mean? Is there something up with my eyes?" Conjuring a mirror, said eyes grew to saucer size as he peered past the frame. "Bloody hell, Hermione, my eyes are gold! Flaming gold! You didn't think to mention that?!"

Shrugging, Hermione picked up her fork. "Thought you knew," she said with a smile as he began to ramble on about what might have caused his eyes to change colour and the ramifications of such a change, which led onto him musing about the pros of having skin with the qualities of dragon hide. Reaching for the butter dish, her smile grew when George picked it up, and the mustard, too, placing them both at her elbow without pausing in his one-man conversation about whether or not he and his brother could make that evening's mistake into a worthwhile, sellable product.

How could she have possibly thought they'd changed? The day George Weasley stopped being the man she loved wasn't a day that was ever going to happen. Sitting there in just his still-unbuttoned trousers, his skin threaded with crystally scales and too hot to the touch, he was the only man she'd ever want.

Once a female dragon had chosen her mate, he was right stuck, wasn't he?