Coloured pencil drawing of a Deathly Hallows triangle and circle symbol surrounded by pink roses, skulls, round-framed glasses, a golden cup and a green snake, shown as a tattoo design.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Deathly Hallows symbol with roses and skulls

Colour · Flash

The drawing centres on a large Deathly Hallows symbol, a triangle with a circle and a vertical line, outlined in fine pencil strokes. Pink roses with green leaves, skulls, a skeleton, a green serpent head, round-framed glasses, a golden cup, a ring and a small shield-style badge fill the background. The shading is soft and layered in coloured pencil, with colour dominating over grey tones.

Deathly hallows Rose Skull Skeleton Snake Glasses Cup Ring Badge Triangle Circle

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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

You find the three things in the bottom drawer of the washstand on the second morning, once the gulls have stopped shrieking past the window of Number Nine, Marrow Lane. Mrs Hobday, who keeps the house on the cliff road, said the room had belonged to a retired lighthouse keeper who died without a will, and that nobody had wanted his belongings enough to fetch them.

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The first is a pair of round-framed spectacles, the wire bent and mended with green thread. The second is a ring of tarnished brass that will not come off your finger once you have tried it, and that, you tell yourself, is only the cold. The third you do not find at all. It finds you, in the way the wind lifts the lace curtains and leaves a shape on the boards like something being drawn: a triangle, a circle, and a line running straight through both down to the floor.

By the end of the week the roses along the back wall have opened pink against the sea wall, and the old skull from the chapel shelf has been moved to the parlour to keep the children from the cups. Mrs Hobday does not look at the spectacles when you set them on the sill. She says only that the keeper used to sit at that window and count the boats coming in, and that he never once counted himself.

So you count them on the Sunday, forty-one, then forty-two. The last is a small dark sail that slips under the harbour wall without a sound. When you turn back to the sill the spectacles have gone, folded neatly beside a single pink rose, and the ring has finally slid loose from your finger and rolled into the gap between the boards.