George was hot on Fred's heels, mostly because Muriel was eying them like she wanted to offer up some words of ancient, terrifying hag wisdom, and George had already had to listen to her expound on something - he'd forgotten what already - earlier. Once was as much as a bloke could be expected to take an an evening.
Fleur had forced all pockets to be emptied and been a bit scary about the possible consequences of any WWW products making their way into the wedding. So George was eying the plethora of refreshments and silently lamenting lost opportunity as he snatched Fred's champagne away. (Nevermind that he could have just got his own.)
He could still see Muriel, so he attempted to shrink down and look shorter than he was so he could hide on Fred's other side. "Yeah, but they might have claws when they DO slap," he reminded his twin, finishing off the drink before Fred could take it back, sneezing as the bubbles tickled at his nose.
George should probably congratulate the bride and groom at some point, he supposed. Actually he could take care of that now. "OI! CONGRATULATIONS ON GETTING LEG SHACKLED FOR LIFE!" he called to them. From where he stood. Right. Taken care of.