Black ink tattoo of a row of small Harry Potter themed symbols along a forearm, including a triangle, lightning bolt and goblet.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Row of Harry Potter symbols on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A row of small, separate black emblems runs across the outer forearm, including a triangle with a circle, a wand-like shape, a goblet, a winged crest and a lightning bolt. The linework is bold and clean with solid black fills and some grey shading inside the shapes. The tattoos are shown in a close crop against a plain grey t-shirt sleeve, with no colour ink.

Forearm Deathly hallows Lightning bolt Eagle Crest Wand Triangle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By nine the cloakroom hatch has gone soft with cigarette smoke, and you are counting brass tokens into your palm while the band tears through a quickstep on the far side of the sprung floor. Nobody collects from the lost property tin on a Thursday. It sits under the counter with the usual debris: a single glove, a hairclip, a tin badge of a crested bird that someone pinned to a dance card and never came back for.

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A woman in a green dress leans on the hatch and asks, without preamble, whether you have a stick of blackthorn carved like a wand, a little silver goblet from a raffle, and a triangle with a circle inside it. She says her brother left them under the bench the night the pipes burst in March. You tip the tin out onto the counter, and there they are, every one, as if they had been waiting for the right question. A lightning bolt cut from tin. A bird crest. A stone with a hole through it.

She turns the triangle over in her fingers and the circle rattles loose in its frame. You ask why he kept them. She says he always said there were three things worth carrying, and that the rest of the world could keep its gold. She tucks the lot into her coat pocket, one at a time, the way you would fold a letter you meant to answer later.

After the last waltz you lock the hatch and the hall empties under the bare bulbs. Only then do you notice the tin is lighter by six things and the bird badge is still lying face down on the floorboards, where one of the dancers must have dropped it, gleaming like something nobody had yet decided to claim.