Glamour

Memory

 "Ah, Evans, don't make me hex you," said James earnestly.

"Take the curse off him, then!" James sighed deeply, then turned to Snape and muttered the counter-curse.

"There you go," he said, as Snape struggled to his feet again, "you're lucky Evans was here, Snivellus"

"I don't need help from filthy little Mud-bloods like her!"

Lily blinked. "Fine," she said coolly. "I won't bother in future. At least I can take care of myself unlike some queers I know. Goodbye Snivellus." she turned on her heel and began to walk back to the castle.

"Apologize to Evans!" James roared at Snape, his wand pointed threateningly at him.

"I don't want you to make him apologize," Lily shouted, rounding on James. "You're as bad as he is..." She spun back round

and stormed away.

"So Snivellus, not only a baby death eater, but a queer as well." James sneered, looking furious now. "Bet your just begging for the chance to suck You-know-Who off, filthy fag."

There was another flash of light and Snape was once again hanging upside down in the air, before the memory faded and changed. Harry was now stood behind the greenhouses, watching as Sirius and Pettigrew held down a fragile looking Snape. James stood in front of them idly twirling his wand. Remus was nowhere to be seen, and Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.

"We never got to finish our discussion earlier" James snarled. "Now lets make one thing clear, if you ever approach another Gryffindor again, I will personally make you wish you had never been born." Harry was terrified, how could his own father be so cruel, and his friends just helped. He watched in horror as James started to cast hexes, hitting Snape in the face and chest, which started to swell with sores and rashes.

Harry never saw the end of the beating. A hand had closed tight over his upper arm, closed with a pincer-like grip. Wincing, Harry looked around to see who had hold of him, and saw, to his horror, a fully grown, adult-sized Snape standing right beside him, white with rage.

"Having fun, Potter?"

Harry felt himself rising into the air. The summer's day evaporated around him, he was floating upward through icy blackness, Snape's hand still tight upon his upper arm. Then, with a swooping feeling as though he had turned head over heels in mid-air, his feet hit the stone floor of Snape's dungeon, and he was standing again beside the Pensieve on Snape's desk in the shadowy, present-day Potions master's study.

"So," said Snape, gripping Harry's arm so tightly Harry's hand was starting to feel numb. "Been enjoying yourself, Potter?"

"N-no..." said Harry, trying to free his arm. It was scary: Snape's lips were shaking, his face was white, his teeth were bared.

"Amusing man, your father, wasn't he?" said Snape, shaking Harry so hard that his glasses slipped down his nose. "Bet you enjoyed that. Picking up some tips for your next toe-to-toe with Malfoy?"

"I... didn't..." Snape threw Harry from him with all his might. Harry fell hard onto the dungeon floor.

"Come now Potter, admit it." Snape spat, towering over him, sneering at Harry anger plain on his face. "You were cheering your father on, you're just like him. Pleased he had got one over a Slimy Snake."

"No," said Harry, getting to his feet as far from Snape as he could. "No, I wou—"

"Get out, get out! I don't want to see you in this office ever again!"

And as Harry hurtled toward the door, a jar of dead cockroaches exploded over his head. He wrenched the door open and flew away up the corridor, stopping only once he had reached the isolation of the astronomy tower. There he sank against the balustrade, panting, and rubbing his bruised arm.

Just like your father

The words floated unbidden through his mind, they had followed him since he first stepped foot in Hogwarts and for the first time Harry only felt shame at the thought of them. He had only known a few things about his father before this evening, everyone had always been reluctant to speak with Harry about him, and now he knew why.

His father was not a good man. He may have been brave in the war, but that spoke nothing of his true character and Harry was no better. The accusations Snape had thrown at him over the years flew through his mind. Lazy, arrogant, self-righteous, narrow-minded.

He was lazy, how often did he blow off serious study for a game of exploding snap with Ron before begging Hermione to copy from her homework.

He was arrogant, how often did he use his place in Gryffindor to justify his position over students from other houses, how often did he laugh along as Ron and Seamus ridiculed those who did not have the few traits that made you worthy of admittance to their house.

Narrow-minded too, he was far to content to see the world through the eyes of his friends, relying on his first impressions and never looking at the bigger picture, like Hermione often told him to do. He knew it had led him wrong before (the Snape/Quirell mix up in first year should have been all the lesson he needed) but still he jumped into everything without understanding all the facts.

Just like a Gryffindor

Another phrase he used to be proud of. It now seemed like an insult, much like how he used Slytherin to deride those he thought were evil.

The shame and self-disgust threatened to swallow him whole. Harry screamed into his cloak, despairing of every action that had turned him into such a despicable person. He couldn't blame Snape for this. Everything was down to his actions alone, he had just been too blind to see if before.

As he sat and thought through the memory, one part stood out to him in particular. The look on his fathers face when he called Snape a fag. It was filled with disgust, as though it was the worst thing you could be. Harry couldn't understand why, but it filled him with cold terror. The thought that his father could look at him like that, or Sirius.

But why would he? It wasn't like he was gay. Not that he had ever thought much of it.

No, it was merely compassion, and a desire to be someone his father was proud of.

But what if the person his father was wasn't someone Harry could be proud of?

His thoughts turned to his mother, the few things people had said to her was that she was kind and loyal. When she first turned up in the pensive memory, Harry had been proud, she had stood up to James and defended Snape, even though he was in a different house. But then she turned on Snape too. Harry didn't excuse Snape from calling her the m-word, but he knew all too well what it was like to react out of anger and fear when being attacked. How many times had Harry run his mouth when Dudley and his gang were beating him up. Even if his mum was hurt by Snape's words, she shouldn't have told his secret like that. Was it possible she wasn't as good as people said either?

It didn't matter, it was in the past, a lesson to learn from. Harry refused to turn out like that. It was easy to see why people thought it, his friendship with Ron was reminiscent of how James and Sirius acted. Their rivalry with Malfoy, how they would treat the Slytherin as though they were evil just for existing.

Everything Snape said about him was true.

He was blasé about his education, caring more about quidditch than his exams. He blatantly copied of Hermione just as much as Ron. He didn't even have the redeeming points of being a prankster like the twins or befriending the others in his year - he could barely remember the last time he had had a true conversation with Neville.

It wouldn't do. He had to change. Be nicer, more considerate to the others. Learn to think things through and not just accept them at face value. Take his studies more seriously. Prove to Snape he was good enough to learn occlumency. That he wasn't his father.

He refused to be the man in the pensive.