Back of a woman's neck showing a small black fine line Deathly Hallows symbol, a triangle with a circle and a vertical line, above a knitted grey sweater.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Deathly Hallows symbol on the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A small black tattoo of the Deathly Hallows symbol, a triangle enclosing a circle with a vertical line through its centre, sits at the nape of the neck. The linework is thin and even, with solid black ink and no shading. The photo is taken from behind against a soft, blurred green background, with the person's dark hair falling to one side.

Fine line Geometric Neck Deathly hallows Triangle Circle Line Symbol

Find an artist for this

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 third marker had fallen again, so I walked the last stretch of the ridge with the old brass sextant knocking against my ribs and the radio hissing that the dust front was forty minutes out. Nobody on Carrow Station had surveyed the Hallow Flats since my grandmother, and she had marked her routes with a sign no one else would recognise: a triangle, a circle inside it, and a single line running down through the circle like a plumb bob dropped from the sky.

Keep reading

Her notebooks were in the cargo locker, bound in cracked resin. The first page held a drawing of that sign and beneath it a note in her cramped hand: three ways to cross open ground unseen. The triangle is the three stakes you drive in first. The circle is the water you never see until you are standing in it. The line is the one thing you carry across alone. I had always taken it for a riddle, the kind of thing old surveyors wrote to keep the young ones honest.

I reached the marker with the dust already yellowing the horizon. The stake lay in a pan of cracked clay, and I knelt to seat it the way she had shown me, pressing the base down until the line on my sleeve matched the line of the sky. The circle of the old beacon blinked back at me from the far ridge, exactly where her notebook said it would be, and for the first time the flats looked like a map rather than a threat.

The storm hit while I was still on my knees. I lay flat in the lee of the stake, pressed my face to the clay and counted my breaths the way she had taught me, three in, three out, until the roar went past. When I stood, the sign was still there, scratched into the clay by my own fingers, and I left it for whoever walked the ridge next, though I did not write my name beside it.