Your fav dragon

George Weasley had a talent for two things:

1. Being unnervingly good at Quidditch.

2. Getting absolutely bloodied in the process.

I found him in the changing room after practice, long after others had gone and I’d been waiting outside for ages: he was sitting on a wooden bench, shirt off, one arm raised as he tried to smear Murtlap Essence across a bruise stretching from his ribs to his shoulder.

He looked…Well. He was six-foot-three and built like someone carved him out of warm, freckled granite. Which would’ve been fine — normal — except he was also completely unaware of it.

“You look like you lost a wrestling match with a troll,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.

He glanced over, grin lopsided. “And yet here I am, victorious and extremely handsome.”

I tried not to stare at his chest. I really did. His entire torso was roped with lean muscle — years of smashing Bludgers having turned him into the kind of broad-shouldered, strong-armed disaster that made my brain forget how to function.

“Handsome is… one way of putting it,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

He frowned and looked up as he applied the ointment. “Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

George attempted to reach a bruise on his back and winced when his arm didn’t bend the way he wanted. “Bloody Bludger,” he muttered.

“Need help?” I offered, before thinking it through. His eyebrows lifted. “With the cream. You can’t reach,” I clarified.

“Right,” he said, though his smile suggested he’d enjoyed my panic a little too much. “If you don’t mind.” I didn’t. God, help me, I didn’t mind at all.

I knelt beside him with the jar of Murtlap Essence: I felt like a pervert, taking advantage of a perfectly unknowing man specimen, too perfect to be touched by an onlooker such as myself. He thought we were just friends. He didn’t know how I’d spent nights wondering about his body, built after years of aggressive play.

His skin was warm under my fingertips, solid, sun-kissed — muscle tightening slightly when I pressed gently along the bruise “You’re built like a brick wall,” I laughed under my breath.

George paused. “What was that?”

I tried to play it off. “Nothing, just— you’re very broad. I’ll probably need another tub of this stuff to cover the whole thing...”

He grinned. Smug. Knowing. “You think I’m a beefcake?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, George— I swear I will hex you.”

He laughed — low, warm, the kind that curls at the edges. “All right, all right,” he said. “Just curious what you think of me— of,” he grandly gestured at his toned torso, “this.”

“You mean the ‘this’ that’s constantly in and out of the hospital wing?”

He shrugged with his good shoulder. “Part of the job.”

I pressed the ointment a little harder than necessary. He hissed a breath. I wanted to do it again just to hear him whimper. God, I was sick.

“Sorry…” I muttered.

“No, no—” he said quickly, “it’s fine. I’m just… sensitive.” His voice dropped slightly, and I nearly dropped the jar. Sensitive to my touch?

I finished the bruise on his back and circled around to his side, where the biggest smear of purple-blue stretched over his ribs. “That looks awfully painful, George.”I said softly.

He tilted his head to look at me. “It’ll look better tomorrow. Especially with you fussing over me.”

“I’m not fussing.”

“You’re kneeling on the floor with healing ointment and a frown. That’s fussing.”

I scoffed, but my face felt hot. He noticed — of course he did — because he leaned down a little, face close enough that I had to look up.

“You worry about me,” he murmured.

“You’re always injured!” I sputtered.

“You notice every injury,” he teased.

“I— I mean— someone has to—”

“Sure,” he said, smile softening. “If you say so.”

His gaze flickered down — briefly — to my lips, then back to my eyes. My heart stuttered. Then he cleared his throat, suddenly shy, something I’d never seen from him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For helping. And for inflating my ego.”

“You’re welcome,” I whispered.

Then he stood — towering, ridiculous, all six-foot-three of muscle — leaving me on my knees for a moment, looking up at him with wide eyes. He smirked down at me then offered me his uninjured hand to pull me up. His fingers wrapped around mine, cold from playing outdoors, but noticeably strong. Everything about George was stable, safe.

“Next time I get smashed by a Bludger,” he said, “I’m coming straight to you.”

“Let’s… hope there’s not a next time.”

He grinned. “Oh, there definitely will be.”