Black lettering tattoo of the letters DA inside a circle of text reading Dumbledore's Army, on the upper arm in a close-up photo.

Dumbledore's Army initials on upper arm

Lettering · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A large black ink design sits on the upper arm and shoulder, showing the letters D and A in a bold, hand-drawn script with a stroke crossing through the A. The words Dumbledore's Army run around the letters in a circle, written in thin lettering that is repeated along the arc. The image is in colour only in the skin tone, with the tattoo in solid black and a dark top visible at the edge of the frame.

Lettering Upper arm Initial Calligraphy

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hay barn at Lowfield had a loose board by the door that let the frost in, and that was where we met, six of us in coats, our breath hanging over the bales like a row of kettles. Nobody had voted me leader. I had simply written two letters on the back of a feed sack in carpenter's pencil, a D and an A with a line struck through the A, and pinned it to the post where the lambing list went. Dad called it nonsense. Mrs Harkness at the school called it a gang.

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We took the name from old Mr Dunmore, who had taught us reading before his knees gave out and he took to the back pew. He never knew. He would lean on his stick outside the church and tell us the rules of the pond, which were never to skate before Christmas and never to refuse a dare in the snow. Our meetings were for practising things: knots, tracking a fox by its scat, reaching a ewe stuck in a ditch without going in after her, and keeping quiet while the Ashby brothers hunted the lane with their torches.

In January the ice on the top pond went grey and thin, and Tom Ashby went out on it after a runaway collie. We heard the crack before we saw him. Ruth had the rope off the gatepost before I had finished shouting. We lay flat on the boards in a line, each holding the wrist of the one before, and hauled him back to the bank soaked and swearing, with the dog shivering under his arm.

That night I took the feed sack down from the post and wrote one more line beneath the letters in pencil: rope, always, bottom drawer of the tack room. Dad found it at breakfast and read it twice. He didn't say nonsense this time. He pinned it back up, a little crooked, where all of us could see it.