The photograph is old, creased, a captured moment so distant that Karkaroff himself can't recall it.
Thin snow falls, dusting the eyelashes of a pale, pretty girl of six or seven. Beside her sprawls a boy of eight, and in the background beyond the hillock, the others: both black-haired boys, one four and one nine or ten. The older one grins mercilessly, stoops, then hurls a packed snowball at the youngest child, who takes it full in the face. It knocks him down; he begins wailing.
Karkaroff is oddly glad that this particular memory lives only in a faded photograph.