The last time he had seen Cecily Gallivan, he had very nearly fucked her.

This knowledge weighed heavily upon him in his private box which, for the moment, felt altogether too public.

It was not that he did not wish to have her; she was quite attractive in a striking sort of way, even if orange was not, perhaps, precisely her colour. Indeed, the memory of their fleeting—but heated—time together at the museum had come to him in certain private situations in the weeks that followed. But she was Cecily Gallivan, and even if not from a family like the Prewetts, she was a young lady, and a gentleman—even a rake—knew that to run around fucking young ladies was, at best, frowned upon and, at worst, and surefire way to find oneself trapped into marriage.

Not to mention her brother and stepmother were also here.

And his brothers.

And yet there she stood, all smiles and two wide eyes on him and he felt stirrings of panic and something decidedly not panic.

"Now that I am no longer the director of the quidditch league," he answered, a literal arm' length between them seeming a safe enough distance to flash Miss Gallivan a small smile, "I am relieved that I can be open about my favoritism once more."