Hermione's expression tightens. She isn't stupid enough to think that Dorian won't go with Gilgamesh and she huffs a little; if she was six or seven years younger than she might stomp her foot and he deliberately obtuse about the matter but she manages to resist, breathing out and ignoring the sting of something. Gilgamesh can do and say whatever he likes as far as she's concerned because one thing is most important to her: she doesn't care. Not in this moment, not in this brief moment, because she knows that she loves Dorian and Dorian loves her.

She steps between them for a moment, turning her back to Gilgamesh, before she smiles at Dorian.

"We can practice any time you like now that you've got the first bit done. We can do it here or in my rooms, wherever it's most comfortable for you. You know how to get in touch with me." Without anyone else being able to. That's what their mirrors are for; no one else knows about them, as far as she's aware, and it's a bit of a network for the both of them. Her smiles is soft, sweet, and her hand finds his and squeezes.

Dorian is her grounding point and she doesn't care that she's being a little rude; all she does is smile, squeeze his hand and nod her head, dropping her fingertips and shifting before she heads to the side of the room. Her bag and cloak are there and she pulls them on, deliberately letting herself ignore anything to do with Gilgamesh. She has no reason to try and be nice to him now -- just as much as he appears to have no more reason to be nice to her.

His desperation had obviously worn thin.