Fitzroy Prewett had seen little of the world, and less still of the world as it really was, rather than how it was in the upscale gentlemen's clubs and sprawling country homes he tended to frequent whilst abroad. As a result, already the arrival of the Moroccan national quidditch team was proving to be something of an eye-opener for him, from the unusual garb they wore to one fellow declining his invitation to play poker because it was, apparently, haram.

(Wasn't haram where they kept their women for orgies and whatnot? Or was that reserved to the Arabs further east?)

With that particular plan briefly scuttled, Fitzroy decided to return his attentions to his guests—particularly the attractive ones nearer to the dance floor. Though many had already paired off in preparation for the upcoming waltz, he did spot Miss Scrimgeour lurking in solutitude at the edge of the floor, seemingly not yet engaged.

"If you believe Julius Scrimgeour to be a fine dancing partner for a fellow like myself, then please, do say the word and I shall go to him forthwith," Fitz joked in answer. His family had had it's...unsavory moment in the spotlight, mercifully since cleared up, and so he would hardly condemn the Scrimgeour children for the sins of their father as others in society had done. Besides, Araminta Scrimgeour was hardly a struggle to look at! "If not, it was rather my intention that you accompany me for the waltz."