Blake sat in the Room of Requirement, scribbling away on parchment. Floating nearby, the remnant soul of Tom Riddle hovered lifelessly, his face a mask of grief and fury.
Every now and then, Blake would stop writing and prod him with his wand. Tom, though once brimming with hatred, didn't even resist anymore.
There was no point.
He was exhausted.
It was all part of an endless cycle—one he had long given up trying to escape.
Soon, this thief would erase his memories with a Forgetting Curse, just as they always did.
How did he know?
Because every single time, Blake would first recount everything—every humiliation, every insult, every twisted game played at his expense—before wiping his memory clean.
Tom once thought himself cruel.
But Blake? Blake was something else entirely.
What Tom didn't know was that Blake was farming him for treasure chests.
As the remnant soul of Voldemort, he was a gold mine—dropping high-level treasure chests whenever he reached his breaking point.
For the sake of consistency, Blake even repaired his soul, keeping him intact enough to torment again and again.
The method?
He would first Pull him from the diary, then humiliate him to the brink of madness. He would then wait until he completely breaks down—crying, screaming, cursing, then collect treasure chests. Afterwards, he would hang him up and study him like a lab experiment. Then Repeat.
Over time, Tom realized something.
Compared to Blake, his own past atrocities felt almost merciful.
This person was a psycho. A monster.
But Blake? Blake was smiling as they closed the book.
"All done!" they said, satisfied.
Tom sighed in despair. He knew what came next.
Another memory wipe. Another cycle of torture.
This was hell.
When would it end?
Blake shoved him back into the diary as he cursed in frustration. But then—something unexpected happened.
Blake forgot to cast the Forgetting Curse.
At first, Tom was stunned.
Then, pure joy flooded his soul.
Finally, an opportunity!
Maybe it wasn't a mistake. Maybe Blake had grown too arrogant.
If they forgot again…
If enough time passed, Tom was sure he could break free.
Because after enduring all this suffering, his remnant soul had grown stronger.
And with every cycle of torment, he became even stronger.
One day… Blake would regret this.
Meanwhile, Gilderoy Lockhart was in an excellent mood.
His readers were returning.
Rita Skeeter had failed to provide real evidence against him, and her accusations were looking more and more like slander.
As a result, his fans had flocked back, and The Quibbler—now one of the most popular wizarding publications—was even getting requests for him to write a serialized story.
Some readers even begged him to release a new book.
Lockhart, feeling his ego inflate once more, dismissed his initial panic about the Ackerman photo as a mere coincidence.
If Rita had real evidence, she would have published it by now!
So what was left to worry about?
…Only one thing.
Blake.
But even then, Lockhart was confident.
Blake would blackmail him—but wouldn't destroy him.
Why?
Because there was no benefit to Blake in ruining him entirely.
With that in mind, Lockhart decided to work on restoring his public image.
And what better way than Valentine's Day?
On his calendar, he circled February 14th.
The moment Blake saw Lockhart's calendar, their scalp went numb.
Of course, they remembered what Lockhart had done on Valentine's Day in the original timeline:
Golden-winged dwarfs playing harps. Love poems recited in the middle of hallways. Harry Potter getting publicly humiliated.
Now, Blake wasn't worried about Harry.
They were worried about themselves.
What if Lockhart targeted their fishpond?
What if their admirers—from inside and outside Hogwarts—got caught up in some ridiculous love scandal?
If that happened, it would turn into a warzone.
A Shura field.
Blake shuddered.
No.
Lockhart had to be dealt with—
before Valentine's Day.
Lockhart finally noticed Blake entering the room.
"Ah, Blake! Sit down, sit down!" he said eagerly.
He owed Blake—after all, their help had kept his reputation afloat.
And since Blake had a powerful background, it was best to stay on their good side.
Lockhart even offered tea.
Blake glanced at the cup.
"Forget it," they said. "I don't dare drink anything you serve."
Lockhart froze, his fake smile twitching.
"Haha, just joking!" he said quickly. "Of course, my tea isn't good enough for you."
Blake ignored him.
"You seem happy," they noted.
"Thanks to you!" Lockhart said. "Without your help, I'd be finished!"
Blake stood up, watching him closely.
"I've done what I promised. So—"
Before they could finish, Lockhart cut in enthusiastically.
"From now on, I'm your loyal dog!" he declared. "Wherever you send me, whatever you ask me to do—consider it done!"
Blake squinted.
Shameless.
Lockhart was a parasite—dangerous because he had no dignity to lose.
This man had to go.
He was useful for now, but not for much longer.
Lockhart, oblivious, watched Blake leave with a smug grin.
Blake hadn't rejected his loyalty.
Maybe, just maybe—Blake saw potential in him.
Maybe one day, he could even benefit from this alliance!
Happy with his delusion, Lockhart failed to notice what was coming.
That night, Blake sent out a letter.
It was time.
Lockhart's downfall would be swift and brutal.
The next morning, The Daily Prophet hit the stands.
Lockhart was ruined.
The headline?
"The Untold Story of the Magic Beauty Salon's Owner—The True Face of Lockhart!"
The article revealed the truth:
Agnes, the beloved beautician of Diagon Alley, was once a victim of Lockhart's Obliviate spell.
She had spent years in St. Mungo's, mind shattered, until she was finally healed.
The real hero of one of Lockhart's books was actually Agnes herself.
And it wasn't just words.
The article included interviews, testimonies, and even an official statement from St. Mungo's confirming memory damage caused by the Obliviate Curse.
Lockhart's fans were horrified.
Ministry officials rushed to investigate.
By noon, they arrived at Hogwarts.
Lockhart, pale and trembling, tried to resist.
"You have no right to arrest me!" he yelled. "This is slander!"
"We have the right and the evidence," a Ministry official said coldly.
Desperate, Lockhart clung to one last defence.
"You can't prove I did it!" he argued.
But it was too late.
The Ministry had their proof.
The walls were closing in.
And watching from the shadows, Blake smirked.
The balloon had finally popped.
And soon, Lockhart would fall.
=============
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