Indoors is crowed and noisy; the courtyard may be smoky and cold, but it's a nice break from the hubbub inside. Hermione is- for once- in a dress, though it's sensible, dark green and somewhat reminiscent of wizarding robes- long-sleeved and mid-calf length, though cinched in at the waist and low-cut enough to ensure that she doesn't look entirely as if she's come straight from a convent. The heels help, too, though they make any attempt at walking somewhat nervewracking. She'd have liked something a little more adventurous, perhaps, but hadn't been able to justify buying something she'd never wear again, not on her budget.

She's perched on one of the chairs (thank you, shoes) with a glass of white wine, her bag in her lap, idly listening in to the conversations around her- not with any particular intent, simply out of a rather nosy habit. It's a little isolating, but it's not something she's new to.

And of course if she doesn't talk to anyone for a while, her instincts kick in and her course of action seems obvious to her- and asocial to everyone else. She pulls a (very large) book from her (not quite so large) bag and sets it on the wooden table in front of her, finding her page. It's not that she intentionally packed a book to bring to the party- she simply brings a book everywhere she goes. It's a lifelong habit.