For a moment, all Hermione can do is stand and watch in awe. She can feel the raw power, the brush of magic, as familiar to her now as her own - she has been in this world for almost two years and she is accustomed to feeling magic, it's power and it's strength, to seeing how it exists and the way people manipulate it. She had always known Gilgamesh had strength, more than she had expected when they'd first met, but this is certainly awe-inspiring.
She can't watch, though.
Dorian and Gilgamesh are together, a set pair, Master and Servant with a bond that she can't conceive nor touch, and the visualisation of the bond she had only heard about and imagined makes her shift. While she has never been ashamed of her own physical affection (her hugs and hand-holding are second nature, her smiles tender and for all the people she cares about) something about this feels... Too intimate for her. It feels like she's watching something she shouldn't and her stomach recoils with it, her eyes closing before she moves.
It's deliberate and slow, the turn of her head and then her body, the silence with which she does it, holding her breath and drawing herself away. She doesn't want to see this. Not because she cares about either of them romantically, despite her professing her love for Dorian at every occasion, but because of her own fierce jealousy, her own decisive envy that makes her want to reach out and grasp at something like it for her own. Their bond might be based upon a give and take of mutual benefit but there is no denying that they share something special.
It's not wrong for her to want some of that for herself, is it? To want to be that special to someone, to share something secret and special with them that no one else is privy to and no one else can touch?
It's hard to imagine her having that with anyone, especially now, not with all the secrets that haunt her and all the pain she hides, deep inside of her, polluting her soul and her spirit with pain and suspicion that she cannot bear to name.
She doesn't turn back, not even when Gilgamesh commands his master to cast; if it works then she will hear the result, only turn her head if Dorian asks her to. She can't look; it hurts, and she's ashamed of that pain when, in reality, she should be celebrating her friend's strengths.
(It isn't so wrong, she thinks, to not want to be alone, is it?)
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She can't watch, though.
Dorian and Gilgamesh are together, a set pair, Master and Servant with a bond that she can't conceive nor touch, and the visualisation of the bond she had only heard about and imagined makes her shift. While she has never been ashamed of her own physical affection (her hugs and hand-holding are second nature, her smiles tender and for all the people she cares about) something about this feels... Too intimate for her. It feels like she's watching something she shouldn't and her stomach recoils with it, her eyes closing before she moves.
It's deliberate and slow, the turn of her head and then her body, the silence with which she does it, holding her breath and drawing herself away. She doesn't want to see this. Not because she cares about either of them romantically, despite her professing her love for Dorian at every occasion, but because of her own fierce jealousy, her own decisive envy that makes her want to reach out and grasp at something like it for her own. Their bond might be based upon a give and take of mutual benefit but there is no denying that they share something special.
It's not wrong for her to want some of that for herself, is it? To want to be that special to someone, to share something secret and special with them that no one else is privy to and no one else can touch?
It's hard to imagine her having that with anyone, especially now, not with all the secrets that haunt her and all the pain she hides, deep inside of her, polluting her soul and her spirit with pain and suspicion that she cannot bear to name.
She doesn't turn back, not even when Gilgamesh commands his master to cast; if it works then she will hear the result, only turn her head if Dorian asks her to. She can't look; it hurts, and she's ashamed of that pain when, in reality, she should be celebrating her friend's strengths.
(It isn't so wrong, she thinks, to not want to be alone, is it?)