Mischief Managed
There was no one left. None of them had survived.
It was the only thing that remained of their bond, lying in a dingy office, slowly filling up with the dust that had lasted ages. Who knows, that might have been the dust in Ollivander's shop as they walked through the door, or the dust in the air as they breathed in their first experiences of the school, or maybe even the dust that inhabited the classrooms they would sneak into, to get a few moments of privacy with the objects of their affections.
One by one they disappeared, first the Murdered, then the Prisoner, then the Traitor, and finally, the Outcast.
One by one they disappeared, their marks in this world fading, their hopes and dreams slipping away like smoke.
In the end there was no one left, all had gone, and none were coming back. The mischief had been managed, the light turned out and the one remaining object, the one remaining thing that symbolized them, had disappeared from memory.
But it was still around.