"Well only if you've got a portkey on you to take you back home after you're passed out under the table dreaming old wolfy dreams," George answered amiably. He grinned. "But just in case - upstairs, so you can tuck me into my actual bed. Or Fred's actual bed. Don't really care which since he's apparently defiled them both." Which George wasn't actually that worried about, he just liked to make a fuss.
He also wasn't so much overlooking Remus' werewolf nature as not caring. The point of a drinking contest wasn't actually who won. No one would remember who won anyway. It was just to get pissed. Which George didn't need much of a reason for anyway. Whatever he told his mother to the contrary.
"Well a gentlemen would have brought booze. But I suppose I can supply. Come on then," George told him, waving for Remus to follow and then leading him upstairs to the flat the twins kept above the shop.
It was, as usual, in a state of controlled chaos, with various experiments and such strewn around, along with the usual sort of clothes and dishes in the sink sort of mess that made up most young men's flats. George motioned to the sofa. "Just shove stuff to the floor if it's in the way," he told Remus, vanishing to retrieve a bottle and glasses.