"Long as you have the booze, then I still love you," George answered, grinning widely as she sat down across from him. He reached for the bottle, taking a swig before setting it back down. He marked off a packet of beetle legs on his inventory list, and then tossed the clipboard aside, pushing at the box to shove it away, nearly knocking a stack of other boxes over in the process. They wobbled, but stayed put.
George stiffened at the question for just a moment, hand lifting to touch his hair. It passed quickly though, and he grinned it off, a little tense, but not much. George was, for the most part, not thinking about what happened. It didn't do any good to dwell, and he was alive and people needed to laugh a lot more than they needed him moping about, worrying over nearly being hexed, and what happened to Hagrid and Moody. "I dunno, I should probably do the other side, yeah? You should see Fred's, looks worse," he offered affably. "Spell gone wrong, and then he had to match." Which was true enough, if not QUITE the truth.
"So you're going to come get soused with me? Aren't you going to get chewed out for dragging at practice tomorrow if you're hung over?" Since really, what was the point of drinking if you didn't get drunk enough to be hung over?