Looking around, all he could see was paintings. And sculptures. Mosaics too. Harry Potter was in an art gallery.

The more Harry thought about it, the more strange the concept of an art gallery seemed.

It just isn't necessary. It was a coarse, harsher voice that had spoken in his head. The voice of an unevenly stubbled, unkempt Harry. A Harry in survival mode, only taking the absolute necessary with him on the run, tied to the tangled thread of a vague dream of war.

 A vague dream. That was what the events of the previous year felt like now. Maybe it was because the Harry currently strolling in the art gallery was not in survival mode. He was clean shaven and well kept. Or maybe it was merely the fact that he was in an art gallery for no reason whatsoever, contemplating the whimsy of such a place.

 Did it matter?

 With this, he allowed Survival Mode Harry to alight his train of thought, and continued his little walk. The gallery was crowded. Full of ordinary people, all taking their own time with the exhibits, taking their own time with their lives. Harry felt curious tug of contentment to know that now, he was one of them. He was Harry, just Harry, as he wove his way between families and schoolchildren and art critics and - potions masters?

 It took Harry a while to register this. It wasn't the idea of meeting a man he'd loathed for seven years solid in an art gallery that had unnerved him, more the fact that he looked so normal. Ordinary. Snape, just Snape. Harry didn't remember walking over to him, but suddenly he was there at his side.

 "Potter."

"Professor."

 And silence. Harry, now feeling extremely awkward, tried to tell his feet to walk away, but they stubbornly refused. What really irritated him was that Snape himself didn't appear to be the slightest bit bothered by the unlikely situation he was in. He followed his nonchalant gaze to the painting in front of them.

 Blue Poles, Jackson Pollock, 1952.

 An infuriating question formed vividly in his mind (he could just imagine what it would look like, as it spidered out, like one of the splatters of paint in the picture). He couldn't stop it from coming into being, neither could he answer it:

 Why?

 The painting was pointless. Not that Harry was particularly against the abstract, but this was just a load of splatters on canvas. Why would someone bother creating it? Why would it be on display? And why was his former potions teacher taking such an interest in it?

 But Snape just kept staring, with a hint of amusement on his face (Which in itself was bizarre enough. Exactly how long had this Serene Severus existed?). It was evident that something had struck him about the picture, because Harry had never seen Snape in such a way... So he was artistic. Who'd have guessed?

 "I don't get it."

Snape snorted derisively. "Must you 'get' everything?"

 Whilst it was an odd relief to see Snape snap back to his normal self, his question caught Harry's attention. "What do you mean? Sir?"

"And there you go again. Does that brain of yours process any information Potter?"

 "I wh..." And Harry realized he had no response for this, because he had no idea what Snape was on about. "I don't understand..."

"I know."

Harry's temper twitched. "So explain."

An amused face again. Really? Was Snape really playing games with him? "No."

 "Does that mean that you don't get this painting either Sir?" Harry asked testily.

"I never said that, Potter. It's highly unbecoming of you to presume such things." The Potions Master chided.

 Silence again. Harry tried to understand the painting. But it meant nothing to him. Just colours. And that one worded question was still there. It had appeared to have hijacked his train of thought. He opened his mouth and closed it, realising Snape wouldn't give him the answer even if he had it.

"Where are we anyway?"

"An art gallery Potter." Snape answered simply.

More silence befell them. The two figures stood staring at the artwork, one contemplative and the other confused.

Snape spoke suddenly. "I know what you're thinking Mr Potter. You don't understand this painting and you want to know its purpose. You want to know why the artist painted it and what message he wanted to convey by painting it. But you don't need to know. I can confidently tell you that I don't know the answers to those questions."

Harry turned to face Snape, hoping for answers. Maybe he would be permitted to ask 'why' now.

"I do, however, know what this piece of art means to me. And really, that's all that matters in the end. Don't ask why Potter. There are some things that you just do."

Harry pondered his old teacher's words, however strange they were coming from his mouth. Some things that I just do... Well Harry could name a few. Flying, for instance. Harry never considered why he flew. He knew he loved it and that's all there was to it really. He thought maybe he was beginning to comprehend Snape's words. But then when he thought of the painting, all his understanding... slipped away.

"I suppose, if this painting truly means nothing to you, you can always find dirty pictures within the patterns. That ought to amuse you at least." Snape said sardonically.

Dirty pictures? Had the man finally gone insane? "Are you alright Professor?" asked a very shocked Harry.

"Quite alright Mr Potter." Replied Snape.

More silence.

"Well, when you turn your head this way, that thing over there looks like a-"

"You don't have to tell me Mr Potter."

Harry sighed. So was this what his life had come to? For seventeen years he'd followed destiny, and finally, when he could choose his own life, he ends up in an art gallery with Snape, staring at a picture he did not understand. Yet again, why?

And yet, even though he had the choice, he did not move away.

"You can leave you know, Mr Potter."

"I know," replied Harry, not knowing whether the man wanted him there or not.

"But you don't want to."

"No," said Harry, without knowing why. He didn't know why he was still here.

Some things you just do...

Harry realised he had never asked what Snape saw.

"Sir, what do you see when you look in the painting?"

"I don't know."

What? After all this, the man didn't know? Perhaps he was lying. Harry was suddenly reminded of Dumbledore, piercing blue eyes like tinted windows; he could see everything, though no one could see him (but perhaps like with tinted windows, what he saw from behind them wasn't quite like what everyone else saw. This made sense to Harry, but wasn't quite relevant). Once, Harry had asked Dumbledore a similar question and the answer was a lie. But Snape wasn't like that. In Snape's eyes all the answers were there for Harry to take at will, he knew it. But they were hidden in shadows or far below the black surface, making them just as impossible to retrieve. "But I thought you did!" was the indignant splutter that concluded his musings.

Snape cast a rolled eye over this display of youth and ignorance, half amusement, half exasperation. "You misunderstand."

"I do?" Harry was beginning to be tired and irritated and the question felt as though it had been written on his tongue with a blunt pencil.

"Yes. I don't know what I see and in that, I do know what I see." Harry wasn't sure whether the answer was meant to be cryptic or poetic. What he did know was that Snape, like him, was beginning to lose his patience.

"Sir?"

"I see... uncertainty."

"What do you mean?"

"Potter, stop sounding like a bloody interrogator! I've had enough of that after the war," he barked.

"Sorry."

"Humph," said Snape. But now he'd let out his annoyance, Snape was calm again and Harry had now gotten used to this side of him. He was almost ashamed he'd found it unnerving.

"I see uncertainty Potter. During the war, I was so certain of my fate. It was highly likely that I wouldn't live to see the defeat of the Dark Lord. But I did. And now I don't know what my future brings. So now... I am uncertain."

Of course. How could Harry have missed this? It made so much sense, and what's more, Harry realised that it was also what he saw. Now, with his own life, all fresh and clean like the morning after a stormy night, all the opportunities were exploding at him. A chaotic mix of colours and lines everywhere, all connected to each other like a massive web whilst being completely spontaneous at the same time. He didn't know where to begin to look.

And Snape thought the same thing.

It was odd. Seven years ago, Harry never would've expected to share sentiments with the bat on Quidditch teams, let alone the fear and excitement of beginning a future with a clean slate. Subconsciously, he used to daydream and imagine this moment would come. He'd feel the intoxicating thrill of the sudden rush of freedom and would look out upon his future with fierce relish... But he never thought about what would come next. Because subconsciously, he'd never thought it would actually happen. This idea, this fantasy always seemed to exist in a vague Someday. He felt as though in a wild chase, he'd accidentally caught up with Tomorrow and as a result, Tomorrow itself was exploding in front of his eyes.

And Snape felt the same way.

"Oh." Harry murmured. One word, one word that really didn't mean much, but it was all he could say. Snape seemed to understand. He could see the infuriating man smirking from the corner of his eye.

"Well Potter, feel free to stay longer but I really must be going."

Harry held out his hand to shake, hoping Snape would accept. He did, inclining his head at Harry.

"Take care Professor."

"You too... Harry."

Harry almost smiled as he watched Snape's back as the man retreated into the sea of gallery-goers.

Maybe he'd come back Tomorrow.