It was a cold, light evening, though not a biting cold like the usual autumn day, but a thick cold, a cold that filled our lungs with liquid air so smooth and tingling with tiny bits of the universe that it almost had a taste. The cold coated every exposed bit of skin, every inch of being unprotected by coats and sweaters and thick wool socks. It was as though the cold was alive, breathing with us and into us as another being, sharing in our laughter and our childish games. There was no snow to build or play with yet, so we just sat, shivering by the lake in the middle of November for some silly inexplicable reason while wishing we were inside but absolutely resigned to drink the cold air until forced to go in for dinner. Perhaps we were afraid the first snow would fall without us being there. Perhaps we worried there would be little time like this left to spend together. Perhaps we were simply silly schoolchildren with no sense to go inside, boys with no logic to actually listen to our mothers when they told us we could catch cold or fall into the lake and freeze. Whatever the case, we stayed outside for what felt like years but was, in reality, only another freezing hour.
The warmth that engulfed us as we entered the Great Hall and found our seats at the Gryffindor table was very similar to the cold of the outside: a thick, smooth liquid of almost golden happiness. Our hands and faces got warm quickly and flushed with pink heat. Our numb toes began to wiggle and we peeled off layer after layer of the crimson and gold clothing that had protected us from the devilish almost-winter air. Our stomachs growled and grumbled eagerly as we piled our plates with delicacies of every sort imaginable. We did not hesitate to eat greedily with our hands because we were boys who went on adventures and spent cold evenings on rocks joking about everything. Nothing had to be taken seriously back then. It was a good time in our lives, one we thought would never end.
Though, of course, some of us knew the inevitability of time and growing up and gaining responsibilities. It wouldn't always be pranks and worrying only about being late for Transfiguration lessons. Some day we would grow up like our mothers and fathers and teachers, and we would be the parents and the teachers of foolish schoolchildren.
But for the time being we were simply boys: four boys who lived off of cold air and warm food. We were the Marauders, a troupe unmatchable by any other. Our friendship was strong, our laughs were spirited, and our dreams were one hundred percent unattainable.