Tom Riddle's view of blood magic was worlds apart from Snape's.
Or rather, it was broader, deeper. He approached it from a higher vantage point, digging into the essence of the spell—a magic that explored love, lineage, home, loneliness, happiness, betrayal, severance, and bonds that could never be broken.
Just listen to his descriptions. Nothing like Snape's petty tales of scorned lovers. Tom's perspective was grander, more profound.
At sixteen, Tom was still cautiously probing this power, full of anticipation yet trembling with unease. It touched the raw wounds of his heart. Thankfully, at this stage, he still believed in it—unlike the later Voldemort, who'd scoff at the very idea.
And so, it was time for Tom's little classroom session.
Lockhart sat, enthralled, as Tom shared his explorations and thoughts on blood magic. He dissected the texts, pointing out what was wrong, what was narrow-minded, and what was outright foolish in the books.
As Lockhart listened, a wild idea sparked in his mind.
What if the curse on the Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts position was actually blood magic? What if it stemmed from Tom's fierce, desperate attempt to sever his "love" completely?
Could Voldemort's obsession with Hogwarts—beyond just Dumbledore's presence—be because it was the "home" he cursed after cutting ties with love? A home he rejected, yet craved so deeply that the connection became a twisted, mocking fate.
Lockhart's thoughts drifted to the original books, recalling the Defense professors and their fates.
Merlin's lacy knickers, he was onto something big.
Every professor who died due to the curse seemed tied to Voldemort:
- First year: Quirinus Quirrell, dead—literally hosting Voldemort on the back of his head.
- Second year: Lockhart himself, survived.
- Third year: Remus Lupin, survived.
- Fourth year: Barty Crouch Jr., soul sucked out by a Dementor—dead, and a loyal Death Eater.
- Fifth year: Dolores Umbridge, survived.
- Sixth year: Severus Snape, survived, though a Death Eater, he'd betrayed Voldemort.
- Seventh year: Amycus Carrow, locked in Azkaban for life, possibly kissed by a Dementor—another loyal Death Eater.
Blimey! Lockhart sucked in a breath. Was Voldemort's curse aimed at himself?
He'd severed ties with his "home," yet deep down, he yearned for it—clinging, unable to let go, torn by pain, desperate to return, only to meet his end.
So… was it really blood magic?
Hogwarts as his family? The headmaster as the patriarch, the professors as elders?
Eugh. Lockhart shivered, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms. Did that make him one of Voldemort's "relatives" now?
Blimey, that was way too thrilling!
His eyes gleamed as he looked at the diary's young Tom. "Hey, I'm basically your elder now. Go on, call me Uncle Lockhart!"
Okay, maybe not the time for jokes.
He needed this spell to protect his original self's family, but he didn't want to end up as miserable as Snape or Voldemort. Snape had mentioned Lily's approach was more restrained, yet stronger for it.
Too much love could wound.
Tom was the expert here. Lockhart, adopting his professorly tone, grilled Tom on the details, and before he knew it, he'd gained a deep understanding of the spell.
Perfect. Time to get to work.
Citing urgent business, he paused his chat with Tom. He needed to practice and reflect on Tom's teachings to refine his approach. Proud Tom wouldn't take guidance from a professor who couldn't hold his own—especially on something as delicate as "love."
Outside the fairy-tale book, dawn broke.
Hogwarts basked in a rare, sunny morning.
Lockhart planned to borrow Snape's Slytherin Head of House fireplace, but Snape stopped him. "You need to be more careful," he warned. "Leave no trace."
"Cover my tracks?" Lockhart asked.
Snape shook his head. "No one must know how you do this. That makes it nearly impossible to scry or divine. It's the same principle behind safe houses."
Got it.
Cut off the spell's social connections.
Divination, fate, rituals—these magics relied on humanity's collective will. Break free from that, and the spell became invisible.
Lockhart recalled the Pensieve, where you could see details the memory's owner missed, yet some things and people vanished from view. Same idea.
So, how to travel discreetly?
He turned to the Car Lady. She wasn't thrilled about lounging in the Astronomy Tower but was too scared of the Dark Lord's wrath to return to the Forbidden Forest. She seemed glum.
"Lady, let's hit the road for an adventure," Lockhart said. "And I'll keep my promise—my skilled blood relative will fix up that battered body of yours, courtesy of the Whomping Willow."
Finding his family was easy.
In his autobiography, Magical Me, Lockhart had detailed his origins, proudly boasting about his clever Muggle father.
Honestly, swiping memories from powerful wizards—some downright dangerous—and then broadcasting his roots in a book was reckless.
But his mum loved it.
Gilderoy's mother adored when fans showed up at their door. She'd eagerly share stories about her famous son, thriving on the attention.
She was a pro at managing his fame—never showing embarrassing baby photos, always emphasizing their warm, loving family to bolster Gilderoy's reputation.
But his relationship with his two sisters? Not great.
And that was because of their mum, too.
Unlike Petunia, Lily's Muggle sister who barely registered magic, Lockhart's sisters came from a mixed-blood family with a witch mother. Technically, they were Squibs, but their mum called them "Muggles" constantly.
She didn't look down on Muggles—she'd married one, Lockhart's dad, and loved him deeply, raising three kids together.
But the sisters didn't see it that way. They felt their mother's favoritism toward Gilderoy keenly, breeding resentment. Not hatred, mind you—they had loving parents and a celebrity brother who tried to win them over. But the distance lingered.
Lockhart soon arrived at his parents' home.
Yes, arrived quickly, like he knew the way by heart.
It wasn't far from the Ministry of Magic, just across the Thames, less than two kilometers away.
The Lockharts hadn't always lived here. Thanks to their savvy mum and Gilderoy's fame, they'd mingled with wizarding high society, connected with Muggle-friendly groups like the Anti-Dark Magic League and the Order of Merlin, and reaped the rewards.
Their dad had climbed to a top job at a newspaper headquarters. The sisters' families had followed suit, breaking into Muggle high society. One brother-in-law even ran a decent-sized internet company here.
Muggle aristocrats who knew about wizards were happy to lend a hand. A little nudge from them, and the Lockharts had leapt from humble roots to a comfortable middle-class life.
That was the perk of Gilderoy's international fame as a writer.
But copying Snape's approach—cutting his family off from all wizards—would sever their social ladder. It could push them to resent him, especially after tasting high society. Falling from grace after knowing wealth and status? That'd breed bitterness.
Lockhart had to tread carefully.
He enjoyed a hearty lunch at his parents' place, then caught up with his brother-in-law, the skilled panel-beater from memory. The guy had changed—now sporting a paunch, a fancy velvet three-piece suit, a gleaming pocket watch, and a cigar, looking every bit the big shot.
Gone was the diligent, handsome worker. Now he dealt in car trading. When Lockhart called the Car Lady "Lady," the brother-in-law, quick on the uptake, summoned a crew of mechanics in bikinis and baggy overalls to pamper her.
He also suggested Lockhart upgrade from the Ford Anglia, calling it a common, budget-friendly model—not rare enough for a classic, not flashy enough for a new car. "Pick a better one from my garage," he offered.
Then he got a faceful of car-wash foam.
The Car Lady was not amused.
"It's… one of those," the brother-in-law said, realizing the mechanics wouldn't dare splash him. He caught on quick.
Lockhart grinned mysteriously and nodded.
"Oh, sorry!" The brother-in-law apologized sincerely to the Car Lady, then hustled Lockhart away from the grumpy magical vehicle.
At the office, the other brother-in-law showed up. Lockhart overheard their chat—they were planning a car information website.
In 1992, Britain's internet was hitting a commercial boom. Hot money poured into the industry; a half-decent idea could rake in investors. They even wanted to rope in Lockhart's dad, a media man, to blend "travel tips" with the site to boost car sales.
Solid plan.
Give it a decade, though, and the dot-com bubble would burst, tanking companies left and right. The Lockharts could end up broke—perfect timing for blood magic to kick in.
Kidding, of course.
Lockhart didn't join their brainstorming, just smiled quietly, mulling over blood magic's implications.
That evening, the Lockhart family threw a lively reunion.
Parents, sisters, their husbands, and three rambunctious kids—they'd leveraged Gilderoy's fame to climb the social ladder, now pushing for even greater heights through their own efforts.
The party buzzed. The panel-beater brother-in-law hammed it up, making the kids roar with laughter. The other brother-in-law and his wife donned goofy wizard robes and a werewolf costume, play-fighting clumsily. It was noisy, vibrant, almost dreamlike.
In a quiet corner, Lockhart subtly drew his wand and cast the spell.
Magic bloomed silently.
Unlike Snape's drastic approach, he followed Lily and Tom's restraint, mirroring the protection around Harry's family. It severed only Voldemort and his followers' social ties to his family.
The spell was strange. He sensed no change in his relatives, yet felt the magic working—on him.
The caster.
Magic surged. In a vision unseen by his family, silver light swirled like mist. His Patronus, a galloping horse, pranced joyfully among them. Dark, roiling shadows flared like fire, a vicious werewolf snarling at his side.
Blood magic had triggered both his Patronus and the werewolf.
Protection for family. Loneliness for himself.
Amid the party's growing clamor, Lockhart felt swallowed by an unnoticed shadow, isolated yet oddly tethered to them.
Oh.
He got it.
Blood magic was about protection, loneliness, and self. Those three formed its core.
The magic cycled rapidly between them, then stabilized and vanished.
"Gilderoy, Gilderoy! Your turn to entertain the kids!" his brother-in-law called, grinning.
Lockhart laughed, stepping forward. Under the lights, the Patronus horse galloped gleefully, while the werewolf lingered in the shadows. A strange clarity hit him.
Snape's blood magic lacked "self." He'd stood solely in "loneliness," missing a crucial piece.
Voldemort's lacked "protection." His "self" and "loneliness" battled, tearing his social ties apart.
Lily's was the most complete, but her death removed "self," leaving "protection" and "loneliness" to clash, fracturing her family.
What a fascinating spell.
Magic was simple sometimes. With a wand flick, Lockhart ensured Voldemort and his minions could never harm his family.
Yet it was complex, too, its forces subtly eroding the caster.
How could it be improved?
As Lockhart performed, making the kids giggle, a massive, pale specter appeared, lifeless and colorless. It seized the lonely werewolf, stuffed it into its chest, and vanished.
Lock away loneliness—not destroy it, just cage it.
Silver protective light flared, filling the air with joy and laughter, brimming with warmth and life.