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THE FOLLOWING. september 2nd, 1995.
HELENA ROMANOV'S FUNERAL FELL ON THE FIRST SUNDAY OF SEPTEMBER. The air was thick and clouds continued their treacherous onslaught of rain. It was a particularly dreadful day for the woman to be mourned and yet it was the day that had been chosen by all.
Anastasia walked much slower than Severus and Lazarus, her dress robes dampening amidst the rain as they made their way towards the front gates. The discomfort didn't bother her as much as she had assumed it would, her shoulders continuing to slump ever so lower as the expensive cloth dragged just atop of the ground.
Her friend stopped walking momentarily and opened his mouth to speak. His words fell short as she brushed past him, her eyes cast towards the ground as she continued to follow her professor in silence.
She was under the impression that the man would remain behind, absent from the mourning period. It didn't bother her that she knew the funeral would be rather empty of family, not that she had any, but Helena Romanov had always lived a rather reserved lifestyle.
"The time has come, Miss Romanov....Mister Blackwell...." Snape spoke, his hands slowly rising to the space just infront of his body. The moment that the two children took ahold of his hands, their bodies stretched and spun as the world around them whisked past in seconds before the three of them landed infront of Romanov Manor.
Anastasia had never been a fan on apparition.
The displeasure had stemmed from a rather brutal accident when she was a child. The splinch had landed her in Saint Mungo's for over a week as the six year old sat terrified in her bed, begging her father to never make her do such a thing again.
Her father.
The memory plagued her with agony for the first time since word of her mother's death. Only then did it dwell in her mind that she would stand alone in the coming hours as the man who had raised her sat and rotted away in his cell as he would for the rest of his life.
Anastasia felt sick as she looked upon the house before her. She had once ran throughout the halls, Lazarus almost always chasing after her as their laughter carried after like long forgotten whispers of the dead.
The manor no longer felt like home to the girl. It loomed beneath the sky, rotting away in mimick to its owner's. The garden had grown much more unkept from the last time she had seen it, the weeds twisting and curling along the black fence that held it at bay.
It had only been a week since she had fought her father within the walls, his words echoing amidst her thoughts as she continued to stare with a quivering lip. She hadn't expected such emotional turmoil to ensue and yet she was overcome with it.
