Black and grey flash sheet with a pair of feathers above the script words expecto patronum, the Deathly Hallows symbol with scrollwork, and an hourglass within rings decorated with stars.

Three Harry Potter themed flash designs

Fine line · Black and grey · Flash

This flash sheet shows three separate designs stacked vertically on a white background. The top design is two feathers with fine hatched linework above the script words expecto patronum, the middle is a triangle, circle and vertical line enclosed in curling scrollwork, and the bottom is an hourglass set within a ring with small stars. The designs are rendered in black ink with grey shading, with the feathers and hourglass showing soft tonal gradients.

Fine line Lettering Feather Script Deathly hallows Triangle Circle Scrollwork Hourglass Ring Star

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The feathers came down the ventilation shaft the week the last sparrow in the Lantern Ring died, two of them, grey and fine as breath. Ama caught one before it reached the floor and held it up to the work lamp, turning it so the barbs caught the light. "They zip shut," she said, pleased, as if she had built them herself. "Nothing up here is made that carefully anymore."

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We were the last two keepers of the ring, a drum of corridors strung over a dead moon, and our work was mostly keeping old things turning. The great clock in the spindle was a brass cage of gears with a sand chamber as tall as a man, and every cycle someone had to climb up and turn it by hand, or the ring's count of days would slip into nonsense. On the workroom wall Ama had pinned a diagram nobody else bothered to keep: three lines meeting at points, a circle split by a single stroke, all wrapped in curls like frost on a window. Her grandmother had called it the mark of a kept promise. Ama said that was rubbish and kept it anyway.

The spring the sparrows stopped, the air went thin and a cough moved through the lower decks. Ama went quiet in the way she did when she was working out a sum she didn't like. On the last night of the cycle she held the feather to her lips and said the old words her grandmother had taught her for chasing off cold and fear: expecto patronum. Nothing visible happened. The feather lifted anyway, drifted to the vent and passed through it like a thought, out into the black toward the next ring.

I climbed the spindle alone at dawn and turned the glass. The sand ran upward for a moment before it fell, which the manual says is impossible, and I stood with my palm on cold brass until the count settled. Then I wrote the date in the log and, beside it, the word Ama would have wanted: kept.