Roger's mother had come for a visit earlier that day, having brought some lovely Muggle pain relievers that she put more faith in than any potion she had received from a Healer. She had warned him against taking too many and taking any with alcohol, so by the time George showed up, Roger was quite cranky as there was nothing buffering him from the painful throbbing in his arm. He had chosen alcohol over taking another pill and he was starting to think it had been the wrong decision.
They had regrown the shattered bones, which in itself had been a painful process, and since it hadn't been the first time he had broken that particular bone, it hadn't been a fun time in the least. There was some worry that he might be facing nerve damage from the way his fingers weren't quite working right, but they could only wait to see how his arm was in a month's time.
"Could you be any less patient? I've seen five years olds in Diagon Alley with more patience than you," Roger grumbled, opening the door. His arm had been in a sling earlier, as a precaution, but it had been discarded because it had been a pain to work around it. His arm hung limply by his side now. George received no other greeting before Roger was plucking the bottle out of his good hand and turning back to head into the living room. He had been sitting in front of his television, watching Diagnosis Murder on BBC, before George had shown up. His journal laid discarded on the coffee table, as it had been abandoned in favour of watching the team solve another murder mystery.
"Make yourself at home," he added, before he started fiddling with getting the firewhiskey open. As tempting as the Thai food smelled, he needed to get drunk now.