A covetted bachelor(ette) stands by the punch bowl, deliberately avoiding the dance floor, her dance card empty for now. She is dressed in a very well tailored suit, and the heels on her feet miraculously do not hurt her feet. (That should be a red flag.)

Her appearance and attire don't seem to bother most at the ball. From Hermione's perspective, they are happy to ignore her in favour of more interesting attendees. So she is going to pour herself this drink, and find a way out to the gardens (surprise, the ball spills out onto beautiful pleasure gardens, now) where she can get the book out of her waistcoat pocket and keep reading.

What, lo! Her fingertips have brushed yours by accident, her eyes darting quickly to meet yours.

"Ah, pardon - go ahead."