Black lettering and symbol tattoos on a forearm, including a platform 9 3/4 roundel, the word always, a golden snitch, a lightning bolt and the Deathly Hallows symbol.

Harry Potter themed tattoos on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows a raised hand and forearm against a plain light background, with several black tattoos across the wrist and inner arm. The main elements are a 9 3/4 platform roundel, the word always with a flourish, a small winged snitch, a looping script line reading I solemnly swear that I am up to no good, a lightning bolt, the Deathly Hallows triangle and a circle with a stroke. The work is crisp black ink in a fine line and script style with no colour.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Always Lightning bolt Deathly hallows Quote Script Wrist

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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

The argument about the Latin mock had reached its third round before the trifle arrived, and Marjorie Penhale had no intention of letting Denise Rourke win it. Across the function room above the Feathers, the old Sixth Form crowd leaned over paper plates and pretended not to be listening for the part about the envelope. Marjorie had kept one thing from those years: a brass key to the tower room at Ashcombe Grammar, which the caretaker had sworn was lost in 1997.

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She slid it out of her handbag and set it beside the sherry glass. Denise stopped mid-sentence. "You never gave that back," she said. "Nobody gave anything back. That was rather the point of us." Marjorie explained that the envelope had not been taken from Mr Hadley's desk at all. It had been moved to the cupboard under the stairs where the chess club kept its sets, and she had moved it, because she had been fifteen and furious and a girl who kept lists of everyone's secrets.

Denise laughed, then didn't. The room quietened in patches. Someone asked whether the tower was still locked. Marjorie said she had climbed it last spring with her nephew, that the window still stuck, and that from the top you could see the reservoir, the ring road and the spire of the new hospital, all of it smaller than they had ever believed.

She put the key back in her bag and asked the barman for a pen. On the back of a beer mat she wrote a single line for the others to find when they left: Meet me where the stairs stop. Then she folded the mat in half, the way they used to pass notes in double maths, and slid it across the table to Denise.