A Photograph Harry Considered the Shame of His Life

Only Harry and Ron remained in the Transfiguration classroom.

"This bloody—damned—useless thing—"

Ron repeatedly struck the desk with his wand in a furious rage.

It kept spitting tiny sparks, accompanied by sounds like firecrackers.

Harry suggested, "You could write home and ask for a new one."

"Yeah." Ron stopped. "Then I'll get another Howler. She'll definitely say it's entirely my fault that my wand broke."

That was true enough, but neither of them wanted to admit it.

"Let's go. We've got Defense Against the Dark Arts this afternoon."

Ron stuffed the crackling wand into his bag. "I really hate Lockhart."

"Me too." Harry recalled what had happened before Herbology.

He had come to school in a flying car just to attract attention?

Was he the sort of person who had tasted the sweetness of fame and then crazily sought every possible opportunity for more?

Lockhart had given Harry no chance to argue and lectured him for several minutes.

By the time the two arrived at the Great Hall, the students had already begun eating.

Vincent, who had finished his meal, was reading a notebook. Hermione, with only Neville between them, was reading while she ate.

Ron sat down beside her and knew what book it was after reading two lines.

With such ridiculously flowery wording, it could only be one of Lockhart's books.

"Wow—how come your timetable—"

Hermione hurriedly slapped Travels with Vampires onto the table.

Ron, whose hand had nearly been hit, turned red from the glare she gave him.

That fierce little look clearly told him not to say a word.

"What's the big deal? Fine, I won't say anything."

Vincent closed his notebook and looked at her curiously.

With that shy little expression, there had to be something drawn on her timetable.

Girls matured early, after all.