Fine line black script tattoo reading Always, with a Deathly Hallows triangle symbol to the left, three small stars above the end, and a lightning bolt below, on the skin of a leg.

Always script with Deathly Hallows symbol

Fine line · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a tattoo reading the word Always in thin, joined script, with a Deathly Hallows triangle, circle and vertical line to the left. Three small five-pointed stars sit above the right end of the word, and a thin lightning bolt descends from beneath the letter y. The linework is single-weight and the ink is a uniform dark grey-black, with no shading or colour.

Fine line Lettering Other Always Deathly hallows Triangle Circle Star Lightning bolt Script

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The reunion is in the sports hall because the Crown has been booked out by a dental conference, and you stand by the trestle table with a paper cup of warm white wine, reading name badges the way you once read a bus timetable. Half the room has grown into their parents. You are looking for one face in particular, Sanjay Mistry, who drew three crooked stars on the front of every exercise book he owned and swore they were a map to somewhere better than Ashdown.

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He is not by the doors. You find him at the old tuck shop hatch, now a bar, grey at the temples and laughing at something a woman in a green dress has said. You remember the afternoon in the library when the two of you copied a triangle split by a line and a circle from a battered book about a lost treasure, and how he said any word worth writing needed a bolt through it to keep it honest. The word was always. You wrote it in the back of an atlas in joined-up biro and promised each other you would meet at the bus shelter on Mill Lane every first Saturday of the month, whatever happened.

You went the first Saturday, and the second, and then you stopped, the way people do. When he sees you he does not look surprised. "I was there every month for a year," he says. "Rain on the glass, mostly. You never came." You open your mouth and find you have nothing to say, only the taste of cheap wine and the image of that shelter, its noticeboard still curling with a lightning bolt cut from card, waiting for someone to come and collect it.