schemingreader challenged me to write poignant Lockhart/Pince. What can I say? It made me happy….
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep
"I wrote books, you know," he says, and she looks up from the tedium of filing with the faint smile that his presence has elicted since he first started visiting her stacks. He teaches fashion and beauty charms in the new technical training scheme that Minerva started: mostly, rumour had it, so that Harry Potter and his carrot-top paramour could muck about with automotive and motorcycle charms. Greasy boys, she thinks. Dirty.
Not like Professor Lockhart, who is neat and self-effacing (I have to put things back in order, he'd told her, else I never remember later on). Professor Lockhart is sweet: he brings her flowers without pollen and hand-baked biscuits. On the last day before the holidays he stayed with her, reshelving late books and cheerfully deducting House points from careless scribblers. He walked her home to her cottage in Hogsmeade, hand in hand.
He has indelible courtesy, despite all his troubles, and their every kiss is a first kiss. She know he still has trouble recalling his own name; she hopes that one day he'll remember hers.