Fine line white ink script reading expecto patronum running along a forearm against a pale background.

Expecto patronum script on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a forearm with the words expecto patronum written in a thin, joined script. The linework is fine and even, and the ink is pale white rather than dark, so it shows mainly as a raised light line against the skin. The diagonal composition runs from the lower left to the upper right, with a soft, blurred background.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fog came in off the Haddow bar the night Tom's boat was late, and it sat on the harbour so thick that the gulls walked about on the cobbles as if they had lost their nerve. Gran pressed a scrap of paper into my palm at the top of the slipway. Two words in her looping hand, *expecto patronum*, and beneath them a line she had underlined twice: you have to mean it, Nell, or it won't hold.

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I stood on the wet stone with the lamp guttering and felt foolish. The water sucked and slapped at the pilings. I thought of the pale chalk marks the old fishermen used to draw on their oilskins for luck, and of how Tom used to trace letters on my forearm when we were small, his finger writing my name until the skin prickled. Nobody else knew that trick. I cleared my throat and said the words out towards the bar.

Nothing came at first. Then a shape broke out of the murk, low and silver, a light that moved like a dog running to heel. It swung out past the breakwater and kept pace with the engine I had been straining to hear. It didn't stop to greet me. It circled the boat, and the boat came home through the gap with its running light blinking.

Tom climbed up the slip soaked and furious and asked what on earth I had been shouting. I told him it was a spell. He laughed until he coughed, then went quiet and looked out at the water. "It came back, didn't it," he said. Gran had already gone in to put the kettle on. The fog lifted by morning and the paper went into the stove, but the words stayed, pale as salt on the sill.