Disclaimer: Does it look like I own Harry Potter? (Answer: No)
Their eyes stare back at him with a haunting quality, accompanied by a set of mischievous smiles. They lean their gangly, awkward bodies deliberately against a gate outside the Quidditch field with the kind of conceit only the foolishness of youth can accomplish, preening for the camera. The photograph captured an era. Years of playing not-so-clever pranks on each other and anyone else they could sweet-talk into their good graces, nicknames and secret maps, hexes and jinxes on childish foes. Things he could have stopped, maybe, if he had ever truly wanted to.
Moony, Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail. Where were they now, those boys in the picture, trapped forever in that brief moment of youth and friendship? He could see it; see their fates in each of their young faces. Dead. Dead. As good as dead. Each downfall a curse fulfilled, leaving him- for reasons he couldn't comprehend- the only one of the four left. The last Marauder clinging on, trying his hardest to feebly preserve the vibrant memories of a different lifetime through a worn photograph.