Fine line black tattoo of the Deathly Hallows symbol, a triangle enclosing a circle with a vertical line, on the inner wrist.

Deathly Hallows symbol on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of a triangle with a circle inside and a vertical line through the circle, with a line rising from the lower apex, sits on the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the ink is solid black. The photograph is taken at close range against a dark background, with a hand held in the foreground and denim visible behind the arm.

Fine line Geometric Forearm Triangle Circle Deathly hallows Symbol Line art Geometric shape

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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

Dad had the ring-toss stall on the Hollin Cross fair for twenty-six summers, and he never let a child walk off with the brass cup without paying for a second go. The year I turned sixteen he handed me a tin of Brasso and a rag and said the cups had to shine by six or the Lacey brothers would take our pitch. I was still rubbing when the generator coughed and the lights went out along the whole row.

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Old Silas Quill ran the coconut shy at the end of the row, and he came over in the dark with a torch under one arm and a battered ticket roll under the other. Someone had drawn on the back of every ticket: a triangle, a circle sitting inside it, and one straight line running down through the middle. He pressed three things into my palm. A brass ring, a smooth grey pebble, and a penknife with the blade worn to a sliver. 'They're no use to a man who's stopped moving,' he said, and then he walked off towards the lorries before I could ask what he meant.

The wind got up before midnight and the big top began to lift at one corner. I climbed the pole with the penknife open in my teeth and cut the guy-line that was snapping the canvas loose, and the whole tent folded down onto the grass like a sleeping animal. Nobody was hurt. Silas was gone by morning, his caravan rolled out before the frost.

We struck camp at dawn. Dad sold the stall to a man from Boston for two hundred pounds and a crate of cider, and I kept the ticket roll, the ring and the pebble. The penknife I still carry, though the blade is nearly gone now. Every time I open it, I think about the line that held the tent up, and how quickly it gave way.