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Did Lockhart really have his incompetence cured by the skilled healers at St. Mungo's?
The answer was obviously no.
Let us rewind time to the day the diary "vanished into thin air" from Lynn's dormitory.
That day, Gilderoy Lockhart had just returned "fully recovered" for the second time from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He marched back to Hogwarts with his head held high, determined to wash away the shame of his previous two public humiliations.
Lockhart, having just finished an "acting class," was brainstorming how to showcase his "peerless talent."
It was then that his gaze was drawn to a diary on the floor.
In that moment, he encountered what he believed to be a "blessing of fate," the "love of his life"…
That night, in his office, Lockhart couldn't wait to open the diary and began to pour out his brand-new plan onto its pages:
(I, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class recipient, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, five-time winner of The Wizarding Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, and current Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, do hereby solemnly swear! I must wash away the shame brought by those two previous accidents and rebuild my glorious image!)
Lord Voldemort had only just barely managed to gather his consciousness from his weakened state when he felt the narcissistic words of this new writer.
Lord Voldemort "watched" this self-introduction, his heart stirring slightly:
Hmm? It's changed to a Professor this time? He looks like a fellow with extreme vanity.
He doesn't seem to have noticed the diary's abnormality and treats me like an ordinary notebook? Very well, I must proceed with caution and observe for a while.
Lockhart continued to write feverishly, planning his "grand undertaking":
(The Hogwarts Quidditch season should be starting soon… The first match is Slytherin versus Gryffindor… If I could serve as the referee, showcasing my impartial and elegant figure under the gaze of thousands… This is definitely a great opportunity! Future Hogwarts history books will surely record how the great Professor Lockhart injected new vitality into Quidditch matches starting from 1992…)
Lockhart was already completely immersed in his beautiful fantasy.
Lord Voldemort: Wait! 1992?! Gryffindor! Slytherin! Not 2868! And not some damn Azkaban Academy! Damn you, Carrow!!
That wretched mudblood! He actually dared to play me like this! To amuse himself with those stupid questions, wasting my precious power and patience!
A towering rage at being fooled instantly drowned Lord Voldemort's reason. His desire to rush out of the diary, find that "Carrow," and tear him into ten thousand pieces reached its peak.
This vain Professor before him might be an excellent springboard.
(Respected Professor Lockhart, your plan is simply flawless~ I have never seen a wizard who possesses both such strength and such a grasp of timing as you…)
Lockhart was writing with great enthusiasm when he suddenly noticed that the large block of text he had just written had vanished, replaced by this praise that made his heart bloom with joy.
He froze for a moment, then was ecstatic—this was exactly what he liked to see! This feeling of being worshipped and recognized intoxicated him more than any potion.
But Lockhart had, after all, experienced two "accidents," and he retained a sliver of vigilance—though not much.
Lockhart wrote tentatively:
(Who are you?)
The diary responded immediately, the handwriting appearing humble and sincere:
(I am merely a fragment of memory left behind by this diary's original owner. You may call me Tom.
But my more important identity is that of your most loyal fan, respected Professor Lockhart!
To be able to converse with you is my greatest honor!)
A fan of mine? When Lockhart saw this, the wariness in his heart instantly dropped by more than half. But he decided to test further and asked a question that seemed vital to him:
(Then, Tom, do you think my plan has any flaws?)
Lord Voldemort: ??? What kind of question is that?!
In a flash, Lord Voldemort made a decision to carry the spirit of a "sycophant" to the end:
(Dear Professor Lockhart, how could you possibly have any flaws?
You are like the most perfect magical creation, brilliant and radiant.
If I must say there is any 'flaw,' it can only be that you are too perfect, leaving mortals like me only able to look up at you, yet never able to reach your heights…)
This flattery hit Lockhart right in the heart! It was as if he had suddenly found a soulmate; all his previous suspicions were thrown to the back of his mind.
He began to chat excitedly with the diary "Tom," talking incessantly about everything from his adventure "experiences" to his plans for the future, completely treating the diary as his most reliable confidant and admirer.
This time, it was Lord Voldemort's turn to be stunned.
While enduring the nausea of reading Lockhart's full-of-holes "adventure stories," he also had to rack his brains to use the most flowery language to flatter and praise him.
Lord Voldemort felt his soul becoming weak under this torture.
At the same time, his heart was filled with contempt for Dumbledore: Dumbledore is getting senile! He'll hire anyone to be a Professor in this school?! Hogwarts has truly declined!
After enduring long mental devastation, Lord Voldemort felt the groundwork was sufficient. This vain Professor now completely trusted and relied on this feeling of "being worshipped."
He finally decided to reveal his true intentions.
The handwriting in the diary began to appear "weak" and "sorrowful":
(Dear Professor… being able to talk to you is my greatest joy.
However, as a memory, my energy is limited… I may not be able to stay by your side for much longer, to listen to your wisdom and admire your elegance as I do now…)
When Lockhart saw this, how could he let it happen? He had just found such a "soulmate" who "understood him"; how could he lose him so easily? He hurriedly asked:
(Tom! My dear friend! Tell me, how can I make you stay? Just say what you need!)
(This… this is truly hard to say… To maintain my existence, I need a little… supplement of life energy.
Not much—just a tiny bit of blood… it can sustain me for a long time.)
Lockhart hardly hesitated. He took a small knife, gave his fingertip a light prick, squeezed out a drop of bright red blood, and smeared it onto the pages of the diary.
Watching the blood being quickly absorbed, a noble sense of having "saved a dear friend" even rose in his heart.
For a period of time after that, this pattern repeated constantly:
Whenever the handwriting in the diary began to grow "dim," or started with words like (I'm sorry…) or (Respected Professor… I'm afraid…), Lockhart knew his "Tom" needed "help" again.
And the diary's response was always full of "gratitude" and "helplessness":
(Professor… I have no way to repay your generous gift.
Aside from some shallow knowledge, I truly have nothing to give you in return… it's just that this also requires… more blood to support the transfer of knowledge…)
Thus, one was willing to give, and the other was willing to take.
Lockhart used his own blood in exchange for the "generous" gift of magical prowess from Lord Voldemort within the diary—prowess that far exceeded his own level.