George winced theatrically. "Argh. Can you imagine picking out bits of wood from your arse? Or anywhere else around there." He squirmed to the side, pressing a hand to the side of his own arse in all-too-visual sympathy. "We've got it around here somewhere." Or they could transfigure something. He could flip over one of their fliers and charm it bigger.
"You've got loads of personal feelings on boils, Ang. Has this been a problem in the past?" George asked her with faux concern. "Did we bring up baby memories? You were a gross, boil-covered child, weren't you? It's all right. We love you anyway. Just don't touch us anymore, just in case, yeah?" George didn't particularly LIKE pus. He just liked the idea of Slytherins or people he didn't like oozing with multi-colored pus. He didn't think it was the same thing.
George eyed her suspiciously, and then grinned, deciding not to interrupt the happy-making lie. "So who's got the best hands then? It's Katie, right. She always looked like she'd give a brilliant massage." While naked. With oil.