Black and grey flash sheet of Harry Potter themed tattoo designs, including the Deathly Hallows, a golden snitch, the Sorting Hat, a stag silhouette and Dementor-style skulls.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Harry Potter motif flash sheet

Blackwork · Black and grey · Flash

A black and white flash sheet of separate tattoo designs on a plain white background, drawn in bold solid silhouettes and finer hatched linework. The motifs include the Deathly Hallows triangle, a golden snitch, the Sorting Hat, a stag and Dementor-style silhouette, paired snake and skull designs, a scroll, round-rimmed glasses, a potion bottle and a row of small animal silhouettes. The sheet is evenly spaced with no body placement shown.

Blackwork Fine line Deathly hallows Stag Deer Wolf Fox Skull Snake Scroll Glasses Lightning bolt Star Sketch

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You are fourteen the week the colliery whistle is switched off for good, and the letter comes up Ferrier Row on a Tuesday, its envelope sealed with a crest like a cracked plate. Your mam reads the first line at the sink and sets the kettle down without filling it. The school sits somewhere up the moor road above the spoil heaps, it says, and a hat will decide which house you belong to. Your dad calls it a catalogue joke and goes out to the allotment, but he comes back at teatime with his cap crushed in his fist and asks what a hat would want with a miner's son.

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The hat waits in a cold hall that smells of wet slate and burnt sugar. Its brim is ragged, its peak bent like a dog's ear, and when it settles on your head it speaks in the voice of your nan's wireless. It hesitates, sighs, and says you would do well anywhere, though it can see you want most of all to be somewhere that is not underground. It takes a long time deciding. Somebody at the back laughs, and the hat tells them to mind their manners.

Afterwards the headmistress, a woman with a tarnished pocket watch and a cough like old winding gear, walks you to the edge of the grounds. She presses a small gold ball with wings into your palm. It beats against your skin like a trapped moth, and she tells you it will fly if you let it go, but not before you have learnt to wait. She hands you a pair of round wire glasses too, and says the stag on the far ridge will show you the way home if you stop squinting.

You walk down at dusk with the ball ticking in your pocket. Your dad is at the gate with a torch he doesn't switch on. He looks at the glasses on your face, which you did not own that morning, and says nothing for a long while. Then he steps aside and lets you through first.