[ Oh, she was sort of hoping this would be early enough that people prone to be out there running with the crack of dawn (you know the type), would not be around for a while to witness Hermione fumble with wrist wraps.

She does not want to be laughed at. It was hard enough (of a sort) to admit that she wanted to learn to punch better, if she was meant to have a back-up plan aside from magic in the first place, but to be reminded that she's short, human, and fragile-looking? Thank you, no.

She misses, therefore, that she has been perceived, and nearly jumps out of her skin at the heckle. Does keep her wrap in place with - ironically, the pouce - her thumb, and looks up. ]

You don't know how good my throwing aim might be. [ Arms. And a familiar face, albeit one who she can't put a name to yet, on account of how busy she's kept herself since leaving quarantine.

Busy work is, of course, the most efficient way to deal with one's trauma. ]

I'm not sure I could pick up any of the great swords or axes, let alone swing them.