Wizarding Realm -> Charlie Cooper
Staff
House points
Gryffindor
0147
Hufflepuff
0060
Ravenclaw
0072
Slytherin
0067
Head Students
Prefects
of the months

 
Add Reply
New Topic
New Poll

 Charlie Cooper
Charlie Cooper
 Posted: Oct 7 2014, 04:56 PM
Quote

"4AM knows all my secrets"

AGE:
16
YEAR:
6th
HOUSE:
Hufflepuff
CLASH:
HEIGHT:
5'2"
STATUS:
Cursed
POSTS:
2065
Rep: 50 pts [ + | - ]

Charlie Cooper
© снʌяɩιε // she
Awards: 86



-->Sorting Edition,+ physical appearance because I suck at understanding stuff <--

Name: (FIRST AND LAST NAME ONLY!) Charlie Cooper
Age: 16
Bloodline: Muggle-born


Do you have more than one character? If yes, did you get permission to make this one, and from which admin?: Nope!

Appearance:

There is a common misconception among most genteel folk that travelers are an utterly filthy people. In fact, the opposite is widely claimed by many of those who take to their caravans and travel from place to place. Though they live cluttered lives, filth has a way of picking up and moving with you unless it is properly taken care of. Under normal circumstances plenty of nomads living on the borders of small northern villages take care of themselves to prevent the accumulation of undesirable muck and dirt. For most, it can be claimed that they are at least reasonably capable of taking care to ensure their faces are clean and their clothes are free of stains. Charlie's mother had other ideas, especially concerning her rambunctious little devil of a daughter.

Attempts to enforce strict regulations on just how thoroughly Charlie scrubbed her face and washed her hair was met with defiance and rebellion, and for the first seven years of her life she looked like something that had crawled out of the Jungle Book. There was always mud on her bare feet, grass stains on her jeans, and brambles in her long wild brown hair. No matter how many times the smudges were wiped off her face, in a matter of minutes there was always a fresh cluster. Her porcelain skin seemed to make a job of hiding under a fine layer of dust and grime, and Charlie couldn't have cared less. There was no one to look pretty for, and she didn't see why her mother cared so much about hair and manners and putting on makeup when there was so much else to do. Grooming was an utter waste of time, considering she would just have to clean herself up again before being allowed into bed.

Primary school changed all that. Within her own little group of traveler youths, there was nothing to whisper about or mock others for. Aside from good-natured ribbing, they were all in the same boat and whatever differences they had they were all the same. Charlie's new classmates had no such reserves. They gleefully whispered and sneered, and in some cases bullied. It became readily apparent that Charlie had to contain her appearance. So she began to comb her hair and she began to wash behind her ears, and although she couldn't do much to stop herself from staining her various uniforms with mud and grass she became more diligent about cleaning them up and patching up the holes. When the general behavior toward her shifted, it became readily apparent that everyone would judge her on her appearance, and this knowledge quickly became a tool for her arsenal she employed to control the perceptions of others.

The urge to manipulate her appearance only grew as she aged, focusing mostly on her hair and what she could sculpt of her face using makeup. Everything about her looks became an accessory that could be changed and over the years she went through all sorts of phases; from multicolored navy and sea-foam locks that went all the way down to her waist, to a china doll bob so platinum it gleamed when it caught the light. She learned every cheap and homeopathic remedy to keep her hair tame and sleek so long as it suited her to do so. This did not change throughout her years at Hogwarts. Though she did not always have the time to pick some outrageous new hairstyle every day, she took plenty of opportunities to push the boundaries what was acceptable for the dress code in her effort to embrace her self-expression.

Returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year, the Hufflepuff has since returned to her natural deep brown shade much to the surprise of her friends. The journey across the color spectrum was a long and winding one, and those closest to her might speculate that her decision to return to the hair color she was born with is due a desire to hold onto something that makes her think of her of her father. Now her face is framed by long thick locks of hair and heavy bangs, which help to accentuate the large hazel eyes she inherited from him, and remind her that he is not so far away. Long lashes rim her lids, perfect for batting innocently or peering up through. Her irises themselves can at times seem as colorful as her hair once was, flecked with emerald and gleaming with ambers and oranges that make delicate rings around her deep dark pupils. It is near impossible to see what lurks behind them short of the usual glee and innocence she tries to exude.

There is, however, little innocence to be found in the smile that resides between her slender chin and her slightly upturned nose. The devil lives in that quirky pair of pale pink lips, and one has to wonder if she ever really learned how to grin using the whole of her mouth. More often than not the right side of her mouth tugs into a knowing little smirk that occasionally parts even wider to reveal a surprisingly well-maintained set of teeth. Surprising, not because of the presumed inability for travelers to clean themselves, but because when Charlie eats, food gets everywhere and she rarely thinks to clean it off. At Hogwarts, where there is a veritable cornucopia of things to be feasted upon, there is no chance of seeing her messy habits reined in from the moment she opens her mouth, giving her housemates the impression that she eats a good deal more than she does.

Personality:

A lot can be said about growing up among travelers. The hardship of traveling from town to town, always staying on the outskirts can weather one for the ups and downs of adulthood. It might even be said being a wanderer creates dozens of little realists who are fully aware of what it's like to go to bed hungry and wake up even hungrier, unlike their idealistic counterparts that dream of Twirls and 99 Flakes every night. However, among those shackled to their brick and mortar homes, there is one belief that is near unanimous. Travelers breed grubby little con artists. Charlie Cooper is a girl that embodies all these things.

At young age, Charlie quickly became been a keen observer of the human condition. Growing up within a very tight-knit community instilled her with a strong sense of loyalty. It was impossible not to notice how people started locking their sheds and bringing their bikes inside when the travelers rolled in with their barely functioning caravans and dogs. The sense of us and them was a prevalent part of her childhood, and being among people who gave to their neighbors without thought made her more generous than the villagers she met. Those that spared the travelers some form of kindness were repaid tenfold, and they weren’t easily forgotten.

Out of necessity Charlie grew to be an expert on other people, even if she is still occasionally more than a little ignorant about herself. She prides herself in being a social chameleon who can slip from group to group, at home in almost any setting despite how out of place she might at first appear. She knows when to listen, when to watch, and when to speak. She understands the power words have in either tearing a person down or building them up. Although she could never be accused of having too much tact, Charlie prefers the latter.

She is the sort of well meaning person that will remark on how much an acquaintance’s nose looks like a great big beak before their shocked expressions remind her to add that she finds large noses very aesthetically pleasing. That tendency doesn't stop others from being attracted to the confidence she exudes, and even if a person were put off by her sometimes backhanded compliments or her more-or-less harmless pranks, her lopsided smile makes holding grudges difficult. Even when she's caught accidentally stuffing someone's favorite quill into her pocket or popping a chocolate frog she was sure was hers into her mouth, a sheepish grin and a heartfelt apology can get her out of most awkward situations. Of course next week, more often than not, she'll find a way to borrow those twenty sickles floating around in your pockets without technically asking.

Being able to charm and cajole with the best of them has always served to secure her as an unassuming leader among her peers and beyond, despite her age. It is a position she takes to naturally, with a few well-timed jokes, and the ability to make others feel at ease. Her sense of pride might make it appear as though she would have no other place in a group other than leader, but she can listen to the advice and direction of others without prejudice. Although she is headstrong, occasionally reckless, and in possession of a rather limited amount of patience, she has it in her to be a careful planner that thinks before she acts. This does not, however, extend to her studies.

Charlie has been known to put off assignments until the last minute and disregard her books entirely, and has occasionally come up with rather colorful reasons about why her homework could not be completed. Although she would never admit the tendency to do so is because of her sub-par reading skills, she often claims she has "much better things t'do than lose her nose in a big dumb book." To her, people who spend their lives buried in their books might as well be another class of human, especially when there is magic to be played with.

Character Background:

Stability was never much of a factor in Charlie's life.

Her father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler back as far as anyone cared to count. Their life was one of roaming around the northern English countryside, occasionally going so far north they disappeared into Scotland. They dealt in tarmacking and scrap metal dealing, and were decent farm hands for as long as they stayed in one place for more than three weeks at a time. Her father Ned, however, was special. In his youth he was a slim man possessing a wiry sort of strength built up by hard labor, and his left hook could take most people by surprise in a pub brawl. Rather than put himself to work helping local farmers, he devoted his time to boxing. He threw himself into match after match, winning bets and prizes and the admiration of his mates. Despite some losses he was wildly successful in local competitions and haphazard Romanchal matches, building up a decent reputation for himself. He didn't need the encouragement of his friends to begin throwing himself into the more established underground rings whenever they were close enough to a city, though some of them took credit for the day he met Charlotte. In the midst of taking a pummeling to the face, he caught the eye of a beautiful woman with fire red hair that fell down to her elbows in waves. It might have been the lighting or the concussion, but he could have sworn he saw a halo around her head and the moment his opponent was on the mat writhing in a pool of himself, he asked her out for drinks.

Running off with a traveler was not what Charlotte's parents had in mind for her when they envisioned her future, but after a month-long whirlwind romance with the charmingly crooked, fast-talking man, that was exactly what she did. She was madly in love and the rosy portrait he painted of life on the road was too enticing to say no to. It only took two months for the image to melt into the dreary grey reality of things and for her rebellious side to slip away. Labor did not suit her; sewing did not suit her; cooking did not suit her; and seeing after the animals did not suit her. The partner that had pledged to never leave her side was always off in a pub or a brawl. Or worse, he was busy acting the part of the clown, feeding off of the laughter of a community she grew to despise. By three months she was ready to leave, and by four months she knew she had to stay. She was pregnant, and a gypsy father was better than no father at all. With all their differences, the hope that a child would bring them back together again was a hope she carried with her for the full term of the pregnancy.

Having a little troublemaker running around did not improve things.

Ned doted on his daughter just as he had doted on Charlotte during her pregnancy. If he could take her with him, he did, despite the fact that those places usually involved an excessive amount of drinking and the occasional wild bonfire. She grew up on his heels, the spitting image of her dad and all too happy about that fact. She had his long dark hair and big bright hazel eyes flecked with so much amber and orange they were nearly gold. By the time she was old enough to talk, she sneered every time someone called her Charlotte, preferring to be called Charlie almost exclusively. Charlotte belonged to her mother. The wet blanket that insisted wild hair needed to be combed and tied back. The one who put her foot down and said "no, our little girl can't stay up until sunrise," and "no those toys don't belong to you."

Toys and other household objects, most frequently shiny ones, had an uncanny way of disappearing from where they had been a moment ago and into Charlie's little pockets. For the longest time, her quick fingers were blamed whenever she was made to turn out her pockets. All the insisting in the world Charlie's could not make her mother believe she was innocent. Neither of her parents had any way of knowing she was telling the truth half the time. Both of them were muggles, after all.

Moving from place to place became more difficult as Charlie grew older. She and the few other children among the travelers were forced into school. For the first time, Charlie understood was it was to be different. Her temporary schoolmates would stare at her handed down, patchy clothes and her uncombed hair, and they would whisper. Appearances mattered, and at first transferring schools every few months was a blessing. Wherever she went, she could reinvent herself. She could manipulate her hair, sew together new clothes, and change her mannerisms right down to the way she walked. She could put on a new face in every village; make new friends and spin wild romantic tales about what life on the road was like until they all wanted to chase after the caravans when they left. She became more confident dealing with other people, quickly learning the importance of how one speaks changes the perceptions of others. Rather than devote her time to maths or history, she focused on learning the intricacies of the accents she came in contact with, until she could transform her own lilting way of speaking to suit the area around her. Even if she was regarded as a gypsy, the more she fit in with her peers the easier it was to forget she was different.

The only problem arose when Charlie found herself forming genuine attachments to the people she met. They made her laugh and she made them laugh, and they were happy to engage in the sort of harmless mischief most schoolchildren get into when left to their own devices. When she could make friends like those, she dreaded the move. The caravans would disappear in the wee hours of the morning, and save for scorch marks and tire treads they left nothing behind. Sometimes her friends promised to write or call. Charlie would smile, make a quick joke, and change the subject. No one wrote and no one called. There was no practical way to keep track of her, even if once or twice she slipped a letter into the post. The only friends that maintained were those she traveled with. Keeping herself emotionally detached from the brick and mortar folk was easier, no matter how engaging and animated she was on the surface. She still had her kin, and those were bonds that could not be broken easily.

Nothing could shake the friendships Charlie forged with her peers and her adults. Or at least, that had always been her impression.

The first attempt to deliver Charlie's Hogwarts letter was a failure. The staff member arrived just a half hour too late. The cluster of caravans had begun their migration to the next town early in the hopes of avoiding the local police. The second attempt to give her the letter was less than successful, when the dutiful representative showed up during a particularly rowdy birthday celebration and the paper became much needed kindling for the bonfire. It wasn't until the third attempt that the letter finally fell into Charlie's hands and she peeled it open. She was perched in front of yet another fire in the act of roasting perhaps the five hundred thousandth marshmallow she had ever cooked, when the reasonably frustrated gentleman just trying to do his job dropped the sealed piece of paper right on top of her skull. After some colorful swearing, vigorous rubbing, and confused glares, she picked it up and stumbled her way through the most elegant script she'd ever laid eyes on.

It was perhaps the most elaborate prank she had ever been subjected to, even though she maintained that she wasn’t naive enough to fall for it. Five demonstrations of proof and almost half an hour of arguing later, Charlie was finally convinced of her nature, and was ready to show her parents the strange gentleman when they got back from the pub. Ned was over the moon, and it took some very insistent shushes for him to not simply holler out the window that his little girl was a wizard. Charlotte was more skeptical, concerning herself with the money and the logistics of paying for the extremely long list of supplies. Despite her protests, when it came time to purchase Charlie's schoolbooks and all her other odds and ends, Ned picked up his family and ushered the little community to travel south. Keeping it all a secret from her kin was, at that time, the most difficult thing Charlie had ever managed. Especially when word went around that she was being sent away to a special school far up north.

Becoming an outsider among her own kind was a slow process Charlie didn't even notice until she was back for the summer holidays following her first year at Hogwarts. In what felt like just a few months she had missed everything. She was usurped and nearly a stranger. She had missed fights, and first kisses, and the sort of adventures she used to tell other people about. Even if she could have told them the mad stories inherent with attending a school for witchcraft, she could feel they wouldn't have wanted to hear it. They were preoccupied with their own adventures and she was no longer part of them. The lives that had been so intertwined from birth were pulling apart at the seams and she could not stitch them back together fast enough.

Finding her place at Hogwarts had not been any easier. The Hogwarts students were people she would spend the next seven years with. There was no running away; no disappearing into the romantic rolling hills of the countryside. Her housemates were there when she woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night, and she soon realised that if she was going to survive she could not simply blow off her duties or keep her friendships on the surface. She had to stay, and she had to be her, or she would be picked apart until all that was left were the bleached bones that held her small frame together.

At the very least, the majority of her studies were engaging. In all of her practical classes, her vinewood wand constantly swished and flicked, and produced a fair number of powerful spells that boosted her confidence and stroked her ego. Transfiguration quickly became her absolute favorite class, and one of the few where she felt driven to read it from cover to cover without skipping more than a few pages that were just a little too boring. Every year the classes became more and more exciting, and it was beyond her how someone could make the ability to change the world around you dull, but authors always found a way. That was why when it came to History of Magic, she was utterly doomed. No amount of studying helped her retain much of her lessons, and more often than not she would crack open her book only to open her eyes two hours later, having done a nosedive into the index page. At first Potions was not much better, but the realisation that potions could be used to concoct things like boil-inducing colas and soap that made your skin itch, she quickly found the appeal and began to make the effort.

Returning home every holiday became steadily less practical and less exciting. As much as she loved to see her father's face when she stepped onto the platform, keeping up the pretense she was not a witch was simply too exhausting. Especially after she bought herself a little owl named Rupert. Keeping it caged and in their caravan was not an option, but the other kids weren't the only ones to notice one owl seemed to follow them around all summer and disappear in the fall.

Every year it became steadily more obvious that her surface friendships were now with the people she had called family. Their loyalty had not run dry and she was sure they would still have her back in a fight and would humor her if she wanted the attention, but her life was a secret. The identity that lay beneath the masks, the one that was called a traveler had been joined by one that went by witch and there was no turning back.

The only person who shared in her enthusiasm for her new life was her father. Whenever she sent him an owl, he sent her a note right back and without fail he was always there at King's crossing to send her off and welcome her home. One day in the spring of her fifth year, all that changed. The letter she received was from her mother. It took every ounce of self-control for Charlie not to burst into tears over breakfast. For three days she couldn't stomach much at all, and the sight of breakfast sausages still makes her stomach turn. Slowly, she allowed the details of the letter to slip to the housemates she regarded as her closest friends. Her father would not be greeting her at King's Cross this summer, or any summer. Few pub brawls are fair, and two nights prior her father had wound up at the wrong end of one of those fights.

Charlie's summer was a melancholy one. She spent her days by herself, indulging in her loneliness and bouts of misplaced aggression. The community that came together in an attempt to support both her and her mother was turned away with a few snarled rejections at nearly every turn. The renewed loyalty they displayed only served to make her feel guilty for all the distance and secrets she put between them. All she wanted was to go back to Hogwarts, where she could lose herself in her spells and her pranks and pretend that in just another day she'd get a new letter from her father.

Time does wonders soothing all sorts of things, but even being back at Hogwarts cannot wash away the nights she falls asleep and her idol be alive again. Although she started the year more closed off and confrontational than usual and far more invested in her studies than ever before, Charlie is taking steps to curb her remaining anger and push away her desire to wallow in her sorrows. The masks she spent so much time creating in her childhood are back on full display, helping her at least keep up the appearance that everything is alright -- that everything is stable.

Special Request (available at Novice**): I'd love for her pursue becoming an Animagus.

OOC Name: Just call me Charlie! It's easier.
How did you find out about Wizarding Realm? Searched "roleplay" in a forum directory! Surprisingly effective

--------------------
user posted image
the oncoming storm | 05 CHARLIE COOPER
hufflepuff | loyalty, endurance, true victory

{ workshop plotter }
PM
^
Charlie Cooper
 Posted: Oct 10 2014, 01:37 AM
Quote

"4AM knows all my secrets"

AGE:
16
YEAR:
6th
HOUSE:
Hufflepuff
CLASH:
HEIGHT:
5'2"
STATUS:
Cursed
POSTS:
2065
Rep: 50 pts [ + | - ]

Charlie Cooper
© снʌяɩιε // she
Awards: 86



-->Unranked Edition. BUT BECAUSE I STILL SUCK, I POSTED IT WRONG.<--

Full Name: Charlottie Cooper

Age: 16

Bloodline: Muggleborn

Appearance:

There is a common misconception among most genteel folk that travelers are an utterly filthy people. In fact, the opposite is widely claimed by many of those who take to their caravans and travel from place to place. Though they live cluttered lives, filth has a way of picking up and moving with you unless it is properly taken care of. Under normal circumstances plenty of nomads living on the borders of small northern villages take care of themselves to prevent the accumulation of undesirable muck and dirt. For most, it can be claimed that they are at least reasonably capable of taking care to ensure their faces are clean and their clothes are free of stains. Charlie's mother had other ideas, especially concerning her rambunctious little devil of a daughter.

Attempts to enforce strict regulations on just how thoroughly Charlie scrubbed her face and washed her hair was met with defiance and rebellion, and for the first seven years of her life she looked like something that had crawled out of the Jungle Book. There was always mud on her bare feet, grass stains on her jeans, and brambles in her long wild brown hair. No matter how many times the smudges were wiped off her face, in a matter of minutes there was always a fresh cluster. Her porcelain skin seemed to make a job of hiding under a fine layer of dust and grime, and Charlie couldn't have cared less. There was no one to look pretty for, and she didn't see why her mother cared so much about hair and manners and putting on makeup when there was so much else to do. Grooming was an utter waste of time, considering she would just have to clean herself up again before being allowed into bed.

Primary school changed all that. Within her own little group of traveler youths, there was nothing to whisper about or mock others for. Aside from good-natured ribbing, they were all in the same boat and whatever differences they had they were all the same. Charlie's new classmates had no such reserves. They gleefully whispered and sneered, and in some cases bullied. It became readily apparent that Charlie had to contain her appearance. So she began to comb her hair and she began to wash behind her ears, and although she couldn't do much to stop herself from staining her various uniforms with mud and grass she became more diligent about cleaning them up and patching up the holes. When the general behavior toward her shifted, it became readily apparent that everyone would judge her on her appearance, and this knowledge quickly became a tool for her arsenal she employed to control the perceptions of others.

The urge to manipulate her appearance only grew as she aged, focusing mostly on her hair and what she could sculpt of her face using makeup. Everything about her looks became an accessory that could be changed and over the years she went through all sorts of phases; from multicolored navy and sea-foam locks that went all the way down to her waist, to a china doll bob so platinum it gleamed when it caught the light. She learned every cheap and homeopathic remedy to keep her hair tame and sleek so long as it suited her to do so. This did not change throughout her years at Hogwarts. Though she did not always have the time to pick some outrageous new hairstyle every day, she took plenty of opportunities to push the boundaries what was acceptable for the dress code in her effort to embrace her self-expression.

Returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year, the Hufflepuff has since returned to her natural deep brown shade much to the surprise of her friends. The journey across the color spectrum was a long and winding one, and those closest to her might speculate that her decision to return to the hair color she was born with is due a desire to hold onto something that makes her think of her of her father. Now her face is framed by long thick locks of hair and heavy bangs, which help to accentuate the large hazel eyes she inherited from him, and remind her that he is not so far away. Long lashes rim her lids, perfect for batting innocently or peering up through. Her irises themselves can at times seem as colorful as her hair once was, flecked with emerald and gleaming with ambers and oranges that make delicate rings around her deep dark pupils. It is near impossible to see what lurks behind them short of the usual glee and innocence she tries to exude.

There is, however, little innocence to be found in the smile that resides between her slender chin and her slightly upturned nose. The devil lives in that quirky pair of pale pink lips, and one has to wonder if she ever really learned how to grin using the whole of her mouth. More often than not the right side of her mouth tugs into a knowing little smirk that occasionally parts even wider to reveal a surprisingly well-maintained set of teeth. Surprising, not because of the presumed inability for travelers to clean themselves, but because when Charlie eats, food gets everywhere and she rarely thinks to clean it off. At Hogwarts, where there is a veritable cornucopia of things to be feasted upon, there is no chance of seeing her messy habits reined in from the moment she opens her mouth, giving her housemates the impression that she eats a good deal more than she does.

Growing up there was never enough food to go around, especially not for children that didn't have to throw themselves into farm labor or other draining tasks. The self-restraint the young girl showed on behalf of the younger ones to make sure they had enough took everything in her. Hunger was something she learned to embrace, mentally equating the aching in her stomach with generosity and other good things. Those rare days when she allowed herself to eat more than was absolutely necessary to function, she made a mess of things -- cramming the food into her mouth and chewing it over until it was a fine mush that no longer had much taste at all. Her portion sizes may have been small but her enthusiasm could not be squashed. As long as she finally sated the hunger, she had no concern for how many crumbs she had on her lips, or if she had a milk mustache; she felt full and that was the best feeling in the world.

This sporadic style of eating paired with sub-par portions has had no small part in stunting Charlie's growth. Her father stood at least a head taller than her at six foot two, and her mother was only slightly shorter than him. Though she might stand somewhere between five foot three and five foot four, rounding up and walking on the balls of her feet so that she might appear a little taller is a habit she has been unable to break. Her frame is slight and her waist is small, and no one would claim she was particularly curvaceous or well-endowed. Her knobby knees bother her more than her lack of a voluptuous bosom, however.

Despite all her attempts at grace and situational awareness, for whatever reason she can't explain her knees always appear bruised or in the process of bruising. They stick out from her slender legs, making her feel very much like an infant giraffe still learning to walk. This does not stop the sixth year from wearing her favorite patchwork skirts or too short shorts, because even though she tends to cover the offending joints up with stockings or tights for the sake of fashion, making self-deprecating jokes is more entertaining than hiding her flaws. For this reason, she isn't too worried about fixing whatever scrapes and scars she earns. Learning to fight at a young age led her into a fair amount of scuffles resulting in more than one permanent mark on her pale skin. Some she won and some she lost, but she was always proud to walk away with a badge her father would celebrate, even if they came to fade over the years.

Personality:

A lot can be said about growing up among travelers. The hardship of traveling from town to town, always staying on the outskirts can weather one for the ups and downs of adulthood. It might even be said being a wanderer creates dozens of little realists who are fully aware of what it's like to go to bed hungry and wake up even hungrier, unlike their idealistic counterparts that dream of Twirls and 99 Flakes every night. However, among those shackled to their brick and mortar homes, there is one belief that is near unanimous: travelers breed grubby little con artists. Charlie Cooper is a girl that embodies all these things.

At young age, Charlie quickly became been a keen observer of the human condition. Growing up within a very tight-knit community instilled her with a strong sense of loyalty. It was impossible not to notice how people started locking their sheds and bringing their bikes inside when the travelers rolled in with their barely functioning caravans and dogs. The sense of us and them was a prevalent part of her childhood, and being among people who gave to their neighbors without thought made her more generous than the villagers she met. Those that spared the travelers some form of kindness were repaid tenfold, and they weren’t easily forgotten.

Out of necessity Charlie grew to be an expert on other people, even if she is still occasionally more than a little ignorant about herself. She prides herself in being a social chameleon who can slip from group to group, at home in almost any setting despite how out of place she might at first appear. She knows when to listen, when to watch, and when to speak. She understands the power words have in either tearing a person down or building them up. Although she could never be accused of having too much tact, Charlie prefers the latter.

She is the sort of well meaning person that will remark on how much an acquaintance’s nose looks like a great big beak before their shocked expressions remind her to add that she finds large noses very aesthetically pleasing. That tendency doesn't stop others from being attracted to the confidence she exudes, and even if a person were put off by her sometimes backhanded compliments or her more-or-less harmless pranks, her lopsided smile makes holding grudges difficult. Even when she's caught accidentally stuffing someone's favorite quill into her pocket or popping a chocolate frog she was sure was hers into her mouth, a sheepish grin and a heartfelt apology can get her out of most awkward situations. Of course next week, more often than not, she'll find a way to take those twenty sickles floating around in your pockets without technically asking.

Living among the lawless primed Charlie for a life of delinquency, whether she recognizes that as fact or not. The adults that surrounded her led a life of drinking and smoking and it was no surprise to any of them when she started sneaking tastes of both before she was ever a teen. Being the bad kid in school had some appeal and because of that she learned that acting out and pulling pranks gave her the attention she thirsted after. Acting out also gave her opportunities to cover up for her personal failings. Although she does not spend much time thinking about her physical flaws, the thought that her abilities might not be good enough has a way of haunting her. Her inability to read and write well is perhaps her largest insecurity and teachers that ask her to quote passages or ask her to read off an answer on her assignment are met with crass jokes to make her peers laugh. As long as she plays the clown, students will be laughing on her terms, without ever realising her defiance isn't some grand act of a rebellion but simply a cover up of her inabilities. Her only attempts to overcome her failures in literature manifested in the relaxing art of graffiti. Spraying her words on wall, be it with magic or paint, is the only slow and meditative way of conquering her fear of her scratchy handwriting and her worries of things being spelt wrong. To her fellow Hogwarts students, the occasional tags that pop up are just another stunt in the long line of many.

A less amusing vice is Charlie's difficulty with taking things that don't belong to her. If anything happens to catch her eye she often ends up hoarding it in her pockets or in her trunks. Her life was one where her belongings could either fit on the caravan or they got left behind, and now that she has a more or less permanent home in the Hufflepuff dorms, she has begun to accumulate perhaps an item too many. Unfortunately for her peers, her hands are quick and subtle, and her study of people has made her quite capable of the misdirection necessary in pilfering something right out of someone's hand or off their wrist. Her concept of stealing is slightly warped for two main reasons. One, because she is rather insistent that she does not steal, she simply borrows for extended periods of time as is the tradition among her kin. And two, if the person in question does not notice the item is missing they can't have valued it very much anyway, and she would appreciate it far more. The only people who are safe from Charlie's idle hands are the ones she respects and values as close friends, who either admonish her on behalf of her victims or find the whole affair amusing when she empties her pockets with a coy little smile.

Being able to charm and cajole with the best of them has always served to secure her as an unassuming leader among her peers and beyond, despite her age. It is a position she takes to naturally, with a few well-timed jokes, and the ability to make others feel at ease. Her sense of pride might make it appear as though she would have no other place in a group other than leader, but she can listen to the advice and direction of others without prejudice. Although she is headstrong, occasionally reckless, and in possession of a rather limited amount of patience, she has it in her to be a careful planner that thinks before she acts. This does not, however, extend to her studies.

Charlie has been known to put off assignments until the last minute and disregard her books entirely, and has occasionally come up with rather colorful reasons about why her homework could not be completed. Although she would never admit the tendency to do so is because of her sub-par reading skills, she often claims she has "much better things t'do than lose her nose in a big dumb book." To her, people who spend their lives buried in their books might as well be another class of human, especially when there is magic to be played with.

History:

Stability was never much of a factor in Charlie's life.

Her father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler back as far as anyone cared to count. Their life was one of roaming around the northern English countryside, occasionally going so far north they disappeared into Scotland. They dealt in tarmacking and scrap metal dealing, and were decent farm hands for as long as they stayed in one place for more than three weeks at a time. Her father Ned, however, was special. In his youth he was a slim man possessing a wiry sort of strength built up by hard labor, and his left hook could take most people by surprise in a pub brawl. Rather than put himself to work helping local farmers, he devoted his time to boxing. He threw himself into match after match, winning bets and prizes and the admiration of his mates. Despite some losses he was wildly successful in local competitions and haphazard Romanchal matches, building up a decent reputation for himself. He didn't need the encouragement of his friends to begin throwing himself into the more established underground rings whenever they were close enough to a city, though some of them took credit for the day he met Charlotte. In the midst of taking a pummeling to the face, he caught the eye of a beautiful woman with fire red hair that fell down to her elbows in waves. It might have been the lighting or the concussion, but he could have sworn he saw a halo around her head and the moment his opponent was on the mat writhing in a pool of himself, he asked her out for drinks.

Running off with a traveler was not what Charlotte's parents had in mind for her when they envisioned her future, but after a month-long whirlwind romance with the charmingly crooked, fast-talking man, that was exactly what she did. She was madly in love, and the rosy portrait he painted of life on the road was too enticing to say no to. It only took two months for the image to melt into the dreary grey reality of things and for her rebellious side to slip away. Labor did not suit her; sewing did not suit her; cooking did not suit her; and seeing after the animals did not suit her. The partner that had pledged to never leave her side was always off in a pub or a brawl. Or worse, he was busy acting the part of the clown, feeding off of the laughter of a community she grew to despise. By three months she was ready to leave, and by four months she knew she had to stay. She was pregnant, and a gypsy father was better than no father at all. With all their differences, the hope that a child would bring them back together again was a hope she carried with her for the full term of the pregnancy.

Having a little troublemaker running around did not improve things.

Ned doted on his daughter just as he had doted on Charlotte during her pregnancy. If he could take her with him, he did, despite the fact that his destinations usually involved an excessive amount of drinking and the occasional wild bonfire. She grew up on his heels, the spitting image of her dad and all too happy about that fact. She had his long dark hair and his big bright hazel eyes that glittered with so much amber and orange they were nearly gold. By the time she was old enough to talk, she sneered every time someone called her Charlotte, preferring to be called Charlie almost exclusively. Charlotte belonged to her mother. The wet blanket that insisted wild hair needed to be combed and tied back. The one who put her foot down and said "no, our little girl can't stay up until sunrise," and "no those toys don't belong to you."

Toys and other household objects, most frequently shiny ones, had an uncanny way of disappearing from where they had been a moment ago and into Charlie's little pockets. For the longest time, her quick fingers were blamed whenever she was made to turn out her pockets. All the insisting in the world could not make her mother believe she was innocent. Neither of her parents had any way of knowing she was telling the truth half the time. Both of them were muggles, after all.

Moving from place to place became more difficult as Charlie grew older. She and the few other children among the travelers were forced into school. For the first time, Charlie understood was it was to be different. Her temporary schoolmates would stare at her handed down, patchy clothes and her uncombed hair, and they would whisper. Appearances mattered, and at first transferring schools every few months was a blessing. Wherever she went, she could reinvent herself. She could manipulate her hair, sew together new clothes, and change her mannerisms right down to the way she walked. She could put on a new face in every village; make new friends and spin wild romantic tales about what life on the road was like, until they all wanted to chase after the caravans when they left. She became more confident dealing with other people, quickly learning the importance of how one speaks. Vernacular and pronunciation can change the perceptions of others just as much as appearances, and if Charlie could not talk the talk she might as well not walk the walk. Rather than devote her time to maths or history, she focused on learning the intricacies of the accents she came in contact with, until she could transform her own lilting way of speaking to suit the area around her. Even if she was regarded as a gypsy, the more she fit in with her peers the easier it was for them to forget she was different.

The only problem arose when Charlie found herself forming genuine attachments to the people she met. They made her laugh and she made them laugh, and they were happy to engage in the sort of harmless mischief most schoolchildren get into when left to their own devices. When she could make friends like those, she dreaded the move. The caravans would disappear in the wee hours of the morning, and save for scorch marks and tire treads they left nothing behind. Sometimes her friends promised to write or call. Charlie would smile, make a quick joke, and change the subject. No one wrote and no one called. There was no practical way to keep track of her, even if once or twice she slipped a letter into the post. The only friends that maintained were those she traveled with. Keeping herself emotionally detached from the brick and mortar folk was easier, no matter how engaging and animated she was on the surface. She still had her kin, and those were bonds that could not be broken easily.

Nothing could shake the friendships Charlie forged with her peers and her adults. Or at least, that had always been her impression.

The first attempt to deliver Charlie's Hogwarts letter was a failure. The staff member arrived just half an hour too late. The cluster of caravans had begun their migration to the next town early in the hopes of avoiding the local police. The second attempt to give her the letter was less than successful, when the dutiful representative showed up during a particularly rowdy birthday celebration and the paper became much needed kindling for the bonfire. It wasn't until the third attempt that the letter finally fell into Charlie's hands. She was perched in front of yet another fire in the act of roasting perhaps the five hundred thousandth marshmallow she had ever cooked, when the reasonably frustrated gentleman just trying to do his job dropped the sealed piece of paper right on top of her skull. After some colorful swearing, vigorous rubbing, and confused glares, she picked it up and stumbled her way through the most elegant script she'd ever laid eyes on.

It was perhaps the most elaborate prank she had ever been subjected to, even though she maintained that she wasn’t naive enough to fall for it. Five demonstrations of proof and almost half an hour of arguing later, Charlie was finally convinced of her nature, and was ready to show her parents the strange gentleman when they got back from the pub. Ned was over the moon, and it took some very insistent shushes for him to not simply holler out the window that his little girl was a wizard. Charlotte was more skeptical, concerning herself with the money and the logistics of paying for the extremely long list of supplies. Despite her protests, when it came time to purchase Charlie's schoolbooks and all her other odds and ends, Ned picked up his family and ushered the little community to travel south. Keeping it all a secret from her kin was, at that time, the most difficult thing Charlie had ever managed. Especially when word got around that she was being sent away to a special school far up north.

Becoming an outsider among her own kind was a slow process Charlie didn't even notice until she was back for the summer holidays following her first year at Hogwarts. In what felt like just a few months she had missed everything. She was usurped and almost a stranger. She had missed fights, and first kisses, and the sort of adventures she used to tell other people about. Even if she could have told them the mad stories inherent with attending a school for witchcraft, she could feel they wouldn't have wanted to hear it. They were preoccupied with their own adventures and she was no longer part of them. The lives that had been so intertwined from birth were pulling apart at the seams and she could not stitch them back together fast enough.

Finding her place at Hogwarts had not been any easier. The Hogwarts students were people she would spend the next seven years with. There was no running away; no disappearing into the romantic rolling hills of the countryside. Her housemates were there when she woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night, and she soon realised that if she was going to survive she could not simply blow off her duties or keep her friendships on the surface. It became nearly impossible to hide behind her masks in the presence of two of her dormmates, Hensley Dowling and Eve Whelan. They were engaging and excited to hear about her stories on the road. The real stories -- not the ones she'd told all her primary school classmates, began to creep out and both girls were eager and accepting. However much it made Charlie's stomach turn, there was no way she could keep up the barriers she had carefully built around herself. Hensley and Eve wanted to be her friend and in the quiet hours of the night she needed to be able to let her defenses down to recharge. The Hufflepuff had to stay, and she had to be her, or she would be picked apart until all that was left were the bleached bones that held her small frame together.

At the very least, the majority of her studies were engaging. In all of her practical classes, her vinewood wand constantly swished and flicked, and produced a fair number of powerful spells that boosted her confidence and stroked her ego. Transfiguration quickly became her absolute favorite class, and was one of the few in which she felt driven to read its texts from cover to cover without skipping more than a few pages deemed just a little too boring. Every year her classes became more and more exciting, and it was beyond her how someone could make the ability to change the world around you dull, but some authors always found a way. That was why when it came to History of Magic, she was utterly doomed. No amount of studying helped her retain much of her lessons, and more often than not she would crack open her book only to open her eyes two hours later, having done a nosedive into the index page. At first Potions was not much better, but the realisation that potions could be used to concoct things like boil-inducing colas and soap that made your skin itch, she quickly found the appeal and began to make the effort.

The pranks she pulled became an outlet that garnered attention and admiration from her peers. She found a few friends in the activity too, and made it her mission to wander the halls exploring every inch of the castle. Secrets were around every corner and sometimes it seemed like the doors themselves jumped around the castle and led to different places. There was no keeping her contained, especially when paired with a few other wanderers that wanted to create a map of Hogwarts in their heads. The small clan of troublemakers she'd had among her kin were nothing compared to the group she found herself running with on midnight trips to the kitchens and out to the forbidden forest. For a place made of stone there was so much adventure to be found within its walls, and the thrill of almost being caught out of bed after curfew was enough to keep Charlie out and about well after two in the morning.

Returning home every holiday became steadily less practical and less exciting. As much as she loved to see her father's face when she stepped onto the platform, keeping up the pretense she was not a witch was simply too exhausting. Especially after she bought herself a little owl named Buzzard. Keeping it caged and in their caravan was not an option, but the other kids weren't the only ones to notice one owl seemed to follow them around all summer and disappear in the fall.

Every year it became steadily more obvious that her surface friendships were now with the people she had called family. Their loyalty had not run dry and she was sure they would still have her back in a fight and would humor her if she wanted the attention, but her life was a secret. The identity that lay beneath the masks, the one that was called a traveler had been joined by one that went by witch and there was no turning back.

The only person who shared in her enthusiasm for her new life was her father. Whenever she sent him an owl, he sent her a note right back and without fail he was always there at King's crossing to send her off and welcome her home. One day in the spring of her fifth year, all that changed. The letter she received was from her mother. It took every ounce of self-control for Charlie not to burst into tears over breakfast. For three days she couldn't stomach much at all, and the sight of breakfast sausages still makes her stomach turn. Slowly, she allowed the details of the letter to slip to the housemates she regarded as her closest friends. Her father would not be greeting her at King's Cross this summer, or any summer. Few pub brawls are fair, and two nights prior her father had wound up at the wrong end of one of those fights.

Charlie's summer was a melancholy one. She spent her days by herself, indulging in her loneliness and bouts of misplaced aggression. The community that came together in an attempt to support both her and her mother was turned away with a few snarled rejections at nearly every turn. The renewed loyalty they displayed only served to make her feel guilty for all the distance and secrets she put between them. All she wanted was to go back to Hogwarts, where she could lose herself in her spells and her pranks and pretend that in just another day she'd get a new letter from her father.

Time does wonders soothing all sorts of things, but even being back at Hogwarts cannot wash away the nights she falls asleep and her idol is alive again. Although she started the year more closed off and confrontational than usual and far more invested in her studies than ever before, Charlie is taking steps to curb her remaining anger and push away her desire to wallow in her sorrows. The masks she spent so much time creating in her childhood are back on full display, helping her at least keep up the appearance that everything is alright -- that everything is stable.

--------------------
user posted image
the oncoming storm | 05 CHARLIE COOPER
hufflepuff | loyalty, endurance, true victory

{ workshop plotter }
PM
^
Charlie Cooper
 Posted: Oct 16 2014, 05:24 PM
Quote

"4AM knows all my secrets"

AGE:
16
YEAR:
6th
HOUSE:
Hufflepuff
CLASH:
HEIGHT:
5'2"
STATUS:
Cursed
POSTS:
2065
Rep: 50 pts [ + | - ]

Charlie Cooper
© снʌяɩιε // she
Awards: 86



Changes
  • Minor grammar corrections
  • Detail on clothing added
  • Height change
  • Clarification on style of walk
  • Typical friend group added
  • Clarification on loyalty struggle added
  • Details on mother relationship added
  • Details on likes added
-->Beginner Edition<--

Full Name: Charlottie Cooper

Age: 16

Bloodline: Muggleborn

Appearance:

There is a common misconception among most genteel folk that travelers are an utterly filthy people. In fact, the opposite is widely claimed by many of those who take to their caravans and travel from place to place. Though they live cluttered lives, filth has a way of picking up and moving with them unless it is properly taken care of. Under normal circumstances plenty of nomads living on the borders of small northern villages take care of themselves to prevent the accumulation of undesirable muck and dirt. For most, it can be claimed that they are at least reasonably capable of taking care to ensure their faces are clean and their clothes are free of stains. Charlie's mother had other ideas, especially concerning her rambunctious little devil of a daughter.

Attempts to enforce strict regulations on just how thoroughly Charlie scrubbed her face and washed her hair were met with defiance and rebellion, and for the first seven years of her life she looked like something that had crawled out of the Jungle Book. There was always mud on her bare feet, grass stains on her jeans, and brambles in her long wild brown hair. No matter how many times the smudges were wiped off her face, in a matter of minutes there was always a fresh cluster. Her porcelain skin seemed to make a job of hiding under a fine layer of dust and grime, and Charlie couldn't have cared less. There was no one to look pretty for, and she didn't see why her mother cared so much about hair and manners and putting on makeup when there was so much else to do. Grooming was an utter waste of time, considering she would just have to clean herself up again before being allowed into bed.

Primary school changed all that. Within her own little group of traveler youths, there was nothing to whisper about or mock others for. Aside from good-natured ribbing, they were all in the same boat and whatever differences they had, they were all the same deep down. Charlie's new classmates had no such reserves. They gleefully whispered and sneered, and in some cases bullied. It became readily apparent that Charlie had to contain her appearance. So she began to comb her hair and she began to wash behind her ears, and although she couldn't do much to stop herself from staining her various uniforms with mud and grass she became more diligent about cleaning them up and patching up the holes. When the general behavior toward her shifted, it became clear that everyone would judge her on her appearance, and this knowledge quickly became a tool for the arsenal she employed to control the perceptions of others.

The urge to manipulate her appearance only grew as she aged, focusing mostly on her hair and what she could sculpt of her face using makeup. Though her wardrobe was cheap and limited, she had a number of adults teaching her to sew and soon enough her attire became an eclectic splash of bright and mismatched colors that she piled on in all sorts of layers. Everything about her looks became an accessory that could be changed and over the years she went through all sorts of phases; from multicolored navy and sea-foam locks that went all the way down to her waist, to a china doll bob so platinum it gleamed when it caught the light. She learned every cheap and homeopathic remedy to keep her hair tame and sleek so long as it suited her to do so. This did not change throughout her years at Hogwarts. Though she did not always have the time to pick some outrageous new hairstyle every day, she took plenty of opportunities to push the boundaries what was acceptable for the dress code in her effort to embrace her self-expression.

Returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year, the Hufflepuff has since returned to her natural deep brown shade much to the surprise of her friends. The journey across the color spectrum was a long and winding one, and those closest to her might speculate that her decision to return to the hair color she was born with is due a desire to hold onto something that makes her think of her of her father. Now her face is framed by long thick locks of hair and heavy bangs, which help to accentuate the large hazel eyes she inherited from him, and remind her that he is not so far away. Long lashes rim her lids, perfect for batting innocently or peering up through. Her irises themselves can at times seem as colorful as her hair once was, flecked with emerald and gleaming with ambers and oranges that make delicate rings around her deep dark pupils. It is near impossible to see what lurks behind them short of the usual glee and innocence she tries to exude.

There is, however, little innocence to be found in the smile that resides between her slender chin and her slightly upturned nose. The devil lives in that quirky pair of pale pink lips, and one has to wonder if she ever really learned how to grin using the whole of her mouth. More often than not the right side of her mouth tugs into a knowing little smirk that occasionally parts even wider to reveal a surprisingly well-maintained set of teeth. Surprising, not because of the presumed inability for travelers to clean themselves, but because when Charlie eats, food gets everywhere and she rarely thinks to clean it off. At Hogwarts, where there is a veritable cornucopia of things to be feasted upon, there is no chance of seeing her messy habits reined in from the moment she opens her mouth, giving her housemates the impression that she eats a good deal more than she does.

Growing up there was never enough food to go around, especially not for children that didn't have to throw themselves into farm labor or other draining tasks. The self-restraint the young girl showed on behalf of the younger ones to make sure they had enough took everything in her. Hunger was something she learned to embrace, mentally equating the aching in her stomach with generosity and other good things. Those rare days when she allowed herself to eat more than was absolutely necessary to function, she made a mess of things -- cramming the food into her mouth and chewing it over until it was a fine mush that no longer had much taste at all. Her portion sizes may have been small but her enthusiasm could not be squashed. As long as she finally sated the hunger, she had no concern for how many crumbs she had on her lips, or if she had a milk mustache; she felt full and that was the best feeling in the world.

This sporadic style of eating paired with sub-par portions has had no small part in stunting Charlie's growth. Her father stood at least a head taller than her at six foot two, and her mother was only slightly shorter than him. Though she might stand somewhere between five foot two and five foot three, rounding up and walking on the balls of her feet so that she might appear a little taller is a habit she has been unable to break. Her frame is slight and her waist is small, and no one would claim she was particularly curvaceous or well-endowed. Her knobby knees bother her more than her lack of a voluptuous bosom, however.

Despite all her attempts at grace and situational awareness, for whatever reason she can't explain her knees always appear bruised or in the process of bruising. Between the bounce in her step and the urge to walk on the balls of her feet, she has a habit of falling down and her knees take the brunt of it. They stick out from her slender legs, making her feel very much like an infant giraffe still learning to walk. This does not stop the sixth year from wearing her favorite patchwork skirts or too short shorts, because even though she tends to cover the offending joints up with stockings or tights for the sake of fashion, making self-deprecating jokes is more entertaining than hiding her flaws. For this reason, she isn't too worried about fixing whatever scrapes and scars she earns. Learning to fight at a young age led her into a fair amount of scuffles resulting in more than one permanent mark on her pale skin. Some she won and some she lost, but she was always proud to walk away with a badge her father would celebrate, even if they came to fade over the years.

Personality:

A lot can be said about growing up among travelers. The hardship of traveling from town to town, always staying on the outskirts can weather one for the ups and downs of adulthood. It might even be said being a wanderer creates dozens of little realists who are fully aware of what it's like to go to bed hungry and wake up even hungrier, unlike their idealistic counterparts who dream of Twirls and 99 Flakes every night. However, among those shackled to their brick and mortar homes, there is one belief that is near unanimous: travelers breed grubby little con artists. Charlie Cooper is a girl that embodies all these things.

At young age, Charlie quickly became been a keen observer of the human condition. Growing up within a very tight-knit community instilled her with a strong sense of loyalty. It was impossible not to notice how people started locking their sheds and bringing their bikes inside when the travelers rolled in with their barely functioning caravans and dogs. The sense of us and them was a prevalent part of her childhood, and being among people who gave to their neighbors without thought made her more generous than the villagers she met. Those that spared the travelers some form of kindness were repaid tenfold, and they weren’t easily forgotten.

Out of necessity Charlie grew to be an expert on other people, even if she is still occasionally more than a little ignorant about herself. She prides herself in being a social chameleon who can slip from group to group, at home in almost any setting despite how out of place she might at first appear. She knows when to listen, when to watch, and when to speak. She understands the power words have in either tearing a person down or building them up. Although she could never be accused of having too much tact, Charlie prefers the latter.

She is the sort of well meaning person that will remark on how much an acquaintance’s nose looks like a great big beak before their shocked expressions remind her to add that she finds large noses very aesthetically pleasing. That tendency doesn't stop others from being attracted to the confidence she exudes, and even if a person were put off by her sometimes backhanded compliments or her more-or-less harmless pranks, her lopsided smile makes holding grudges difficult. Even when she's caught accidentally stuffing someone's favorite quill into her pocket or popping a chocolate frog she was sure was hers into her mouth, a sheepish grin and a heartfelt apology can get her out of most awkward situations. Of course next week, more often than not, she'll find a way to take those twenty sickles floating around in your pockets without technically asking.

Living among the lawless primed Charlie for a life of delinquency, whether she recognizes that as fact or not. The adults that surrounded her led a life of drinking and smoking and it was no surprise to any of them when she started sneaking tastes of both before she was ever a teen. Being the bad kid in school had some appeal and because of that she learned that acting out and pulling pranks gave her the attention she thirsted after. Acting out also gave her opportunities to cover up for her personal failings. Although she does not spend much time thinking about her physical flaws, the thought that her abilities might not be good enough has a way of haunting her. Her inability to read and write well is perhaps her largest insecurity and teachers that ask her to quote passages or ask her to read off an answer on her assignment are met with crass jokes to make her peers laugh. As long as she plays the clown, students will be laughing on her terms, without ever realising her defiance isn't some grand act of a rebellion but simply a cover up of her inabilities. Her only attempts to overcome her failures in literature manifested in the relaxing art of graffiti. Spraying her words on wall, be it with magic or paint, is the only slow and meditative way of conquering her fear of her scratchy handwriting and her worries of things being spelt wrong. To her fellow Hogwarts students, the occasional tags that pop up are just another stunt in the long line of many.

A less amusing vice is Charlie's difficulty with taking things that don't belong to her. If anything happens to catch her eye she often ends up hoarding it in her pockets or in her trunks. Her life was one where her belongings could either fit on the caravan or they got left behind, and now that she has a more or less permanent home in the Hufflepuff dorms, she has begun to accumulate perhaps an item too many. Unfortunately for her peers, her hands are quick and subtle, and her study of people has made her quite capable of the misdirection necessary for pilfering something right out of someone's hand or off their wrist. Her concept of stealing is slightly warped for two main reasons. One, because she is rather insistent that she does not steal, she simply borrows for extended periods of time as is the tradition among her kin. And two, if the person in question does not notice the item is missing they can't have valued it very much anyway, and she would appreciate it far more. The only people who are even remotely safe from Charlie's idle hands are the ones she respects and values as close friends, who either admonish her on behalf of her victims or find the whole affair amusing when she empties her pockets with a coy little smile.

Being able to charm and cajole with the best of them has always served to secure her as an unassuming leader among her peers and beyond, despite her age. It is a position she takes to naturally, with a few well-timed jokes, and the ability to make others feel at ease. Her sense of pride might make it appear as though she would have no other place in a group other than leader, but she can listen to the advice and direction of others without prejudice. Although she is headstrong, occasionally reckless, and in possession of a rather limited amount of patience, she has it in her to be a careful planner that thinks before she acts. This does not, however, extend to her studies.

Charlie has been known to put off assignments until the last minute and disregard her books entirely, and has occasionally come up with rather colorful reasons about why her homework could not be completed. Although she would never admit the tendency to do so is because of her sub-par reading skills, she often claims she has "much better things t'do than lose her nose in a big dumb book." Charlie preferred to spend her time making people laugh and getting into trouble with the sort people who would laugh at the mischief she so enjoyed making. To her, people who spend their lives buried in their books might as well be another class of human, especially when there is magic to be played with. They, like those who have unfounded prejudices, are the type of person the prankster generally can't stand. The bitter taste of discrimination is a tough one to be rid of, and Charlie has never particularly had much patience for those who engage in such closed-minded behavior. Her quiet disdain does not necessarily mean she goes out of her way to make enemies of those she does not like. Instead, she studies them, just as she does the introvert who shies away from others and the anxious worry-wart who stresses over their classes. If there is more to be gained by being their friend than their enemy, Charlie will tentatively wander through their social circles. After all, even bigots can be counted on to have a few galleons squirreled away, ripe for the taking.

Charlie's closest friends are the people who remind her of her kin. At first she was shocked to find anyone who made her think of home, but even then it was difficult for her to warm up and allow them into her life. In truth, revealing what was behind her mask was almost painful for the young Hufflepuff, and was something she only really accomplished in her second year. When no one belittled her offers of friendship, the twelve year old was quickly encouraged to make more genuine friends. The select few who see her as she is tend to be the nonjudgmental, generous sorts; the people who repay her loyalty with their own. Of course exceptions can be made for those who know how to have a good time. Anyone who will laugh at her antics or even better, join in on them, is the best sort of friend. Mischief is always better when there are others to share it with, and now that Charlie is in her sixth year at Hogwarts she has a collection of friends from all backgrounds and walks of life that she wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

History:

Stability was never much of a factor in Charlie's life.

Her father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler back as far as anyone cared to count. Their life was one of roaming around the northern English countryside, occasionally going so far north they disappeared into Scotland. They dealt in tarmacking and scrap metal dealing, and were decent farm hands for as long as they stayed in one place for more than three weeks at a time. Her father Ned, however, was special. In his youth he was a slim man possessing a wiry sort of strength built up by hard labor, and his left hook could take most people by surprise in a pub brawl. Rather than put himself to work helping local farmers, he devoted his time to boxing. He threw himself into match after match, winning bets and prizes and the admiration of his mates. Despite some losses he was wildly successful in local competitions and haphazard Romanichal matches, building up a decent reputation for himself. He didn't need the encouragement of his friends to begin throwing himself into the more established underground rings whenever they were close enough to a city, though some of them took credit for the day he met Charlotte. In the midst of taking a pummeling to the face, he caught the eye of a beautiful woman with fire red hair that fell down to her elbows in waves. It might have been the lighting or the concussion, but he could have sworn he saw a halo around her head, and the moment his opponent was on the mat writhing in a pool of himself he asked her out for drinks.

Running off with a traveler was not what Charlotte's parents had in mind for her when they envisioned her future, but after a month-long whirlwind romance with the charmingly crooked, fast-talking man, that was exactly what she did. She was madly in love, and the rosy portrait he painted of life on the road was too enticing to say no to. It only took two months for the image to melt into the dreary grey reality of things and for her rebellious side to slip away. Labor did not suit her; sewing did not suit her; cooking did not suit her; and seeing after the animals did not suit her. The partner that had pledged to never leave her side was always off in a pub or a brawl. Or worse, he was busy acting the part of the clown, feeding off of the laughter of a community she grew to despise. By three months she was ready to leave, and by four months she knew she had to stay. She was pregnant, and a gypsy father was better than no father at all. With all their differences, the hope that a child would bring them back together again was a hope she carried with her for the full term of the pregnancy.

Having a little troublemaker running around did not improve things.

Ned doted on his daughter just as he had doted on Charlotte during her pregnancy. If he could take her with him, he did, despite the fact that his destinations usually involved an excessive amount of drinking and the occasional wild bonfire. She grew up on his heels, the spitting image of her dad and all too happy about that fact. She had his long dark hair and his big bright hazel eyes that glittered with so much amber and orange they were nearly gold. By the time she was old enough to talk, she sneered every time someone called her Charlotte, preferring to be called Charlie almost exclusively. Charlotte belonged to her mother. The woman whose spiteful glare was always turned toward her daughter. The wet blanket that insisted wild hair needed to be combed and tied back. The one who put her foot down and said "no, our little girl can't stay up until sunrise," and "no those toys don't belong to you."

Toys and other household objects, most frequently shiny ones, had an uncanny way of disappearing from where they had been a moment ago and into Charlie's little pockets. For the longest time, her quick fingers were blamed whenever she was made to turn out her pockets. All the insisting in the world could not make her mother believe she was innocent. Neither of her parents had any way of knowing she was telling the truth half the time. Both of them were muggles, after all.

Moving from place to place became more difficult as Charlie grew older. She and the few other children among the travelers were forced into school. For the first time, Charlie understood was it was to be different. Her temporary schoolmates would stare at her handed down, patchy clothes and her uncombed hair, and they would whisper. Appearances mattered, and at first transferring schools every few months was a blessing. Wherever she went, she could reinvent herself. She could manipulate her hair, sew together new clothes, and change her mannerisms right down to the way she walked. She could put on a new face in every village; make new friends and spin wild romantic tales about what life on the road was like, until they all wanted to chase after the caravans when they left. She became more confident dealing with other people, quickly learning the importance of how one speaks. Vernacular and pronunciation can change the perceptions of others just as much as appearances, and if Charlie could not talk the talk she might as well not walk the walk. Rather than devote her time to maths or history, she focused on learning the intricacies of the accents she came in contact with, until she could transform her own lilting way of speaking to suit the area around her. Even if she was regarded as a gypsy, the more she fit in with her peers the easier it was for them to forget she was different.

The only problem arose when Charlie found herself forming genuine attachments to the people she met. They made her laugh and she made them laugh, and they were happy to engage in the sort of harmless mischief most schoolchildren get into when left to their own devices. When she could make friends like those, she dreaded the move. The caravans would disappear in the wee hours of the morning, and save for scorch marks and tire treads they left nothing behind. Sometimes her friends promised to write or call. Charlie would smile, make a quick joke, and change the subject. No one wrote and no one called. There was no practical way to keep track of her, even if once or twice she slipped a letter into the post. The only friends that maintained were those she traveled with. Keeping herself emotionally detached from the brick and mortar folk was easier, no matter how engaging and animated she was on the surface. She still had her kin, and those were bonds that could not be broken easily.

Nothing could shake the friendships Charlie forged with her peers and her adults. Or at least, that had always been her impression.

The first attempt to deliver Charlie's Hogwarts letter was a failure. The staff member arrived just half an hour too late. The cluster of caravans had begun their migration to the next town early in the hopes of avoiding the local police. The second attempt to give her the letter was less than successful, when the dutiful representative showed up during a particularly rowdy birthday celebration and the paper became much needed kindling for the bonfire. It wasn't until the third attempt that the letter finally fell into Charlie's hands. She was perched in front of yet another fire, in the act of roasting perhaps the five hundred thousandth marshmallow she had ever cooked, when the reasonably frustrated gentleman just trying to do his job dropped the sealed piece of paper right on top of her skull. After some colorful swearing, vigorous rubbing, and confused glares, she picked it up and stumbled her way through the most elegant script she'd ever laid eyes on.

It was, perhaps, the most elaborate prank she had ever been subjected to, even though she maintained that she wasn’t naive enough to fall for it. Five demonstrations of proof and almost half an hour of arguing later, Charlie was finally convinced of her nature, and was ready to show the strange gentleman to her parents when they got back from the pub. Ned was over the moon, and it took some very insistent shushes for him to not simply holler out the window that his little girl was a wizard. Charlotte was more skeptical, concerning herself with the money and the logistics of paying for the extremely long list of supplies. The spite Charlotte had nurtured over the course of eleven years had never abated. Years of bickering and having her opinions ignored by both her husband and her daughter did not leave her feeling particularly generous when confronted with another talent for Ned to fawn over. Despite her protests, when it came time to purchase Charlie's schoolbooks and all her other odds and ends, Ned picked up his family and ushered the little community to travel south. Keeping it all a secret from her kin was, at that time, the most difficult thing Charlie had ever managed. Especially when word got around that she was being sent away to a special school far up north.

Becoming an outsider among her own kind was a slow process Charlie didn't even notice until she was back for the summer holidays following her first year at Hogwarts. In what felt like just a few months she had missed everything. She was usurped and almost a stranger. She had missed fights, and first kisses, and the sort of adventures she used to tell other people about. Even if she could have told them the mad stories inherent with attending a school for witchcraft, she could feel they wouldn't have wanted to hear it. They were preoccupied with their own adventures and she was no longer part of them. The lives that had been so intertwined from birth were pulling apart at the seams and she could not stitch them back together fast enough.

Finding her place at Hogwarts had not been any easier. The Hogwarts students were people she would spend the next seven years with. There was no running away; no disappearing into the romantic rolling hills of the countryside. Her housemates were there when she woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night, and she soon realised that if she was going to survive she could not simply blow off her duties or keep her friendships on the surface. It became nearly impossible to hide behind her masks in the presence of two of her dormmates, Hensley Dowling and Eve Whelan. They were engaging and excited to hear about her stories on the road. The real stories -- not the ones she'd told all her primary school classmates, began to creep out and both girls were eager and accepting. However much it made Charlie's stomach turn, there was no way she could keep up the barriers she had carefully built around herself. Hensley and Eve wanted to be her friend and in the quiet hours of the night she needed to be able to let her defenses down to recharge. The Hufflepuff had to stay, and she had to be her, or she would be picked apart until all that was left were the bleached bones that held her small frame together.

At the very least, the majority of her studies were engaging. In all of her practical classes, her vine wood wand constantly swished and flicked, and produced a fair number of powerful spells that boosted her confidence and stroked her ego. Transfiguration quickly became her absolute favorite class, and was one of the few in which she felt driven to read its texts from cover to cover without skipping more than a few pages deemed just a little too boring. Every year her classes became more and more exciting, and it was beyond her how someone could make the ability to change the world around you dull, but some authors always found a way. That was why when it came to History of Magic, she was utterly doomed. No amount of studying helped her retain much of her lessons, and more often than not she would crack open her book only to open her eyes two hours later, having done a nosedive into the index page. At first Potions was not much better, but the realisation that potions could be used to concoct things like boil-inducing colas and soap that made your skin itch, she quickly found the appeal and began to make the effort.

The pranks she pulled became an outlet that garnered attention and admiration from her peers. She found a few friends in the activity too, and made it her mission to wander the halls exploring every inch of the castle. Secrets were around every corner and sometimes it seemed like the doors themselves jumped around the castle and led to different places. There was no keeping her contained, especially when paired with a few other wanderers that wanted to create a map of Hogwarts in their heads. The small clan of troublemakers she'd had among her kin were nothing compared to the group she found herself running with on midnight trips to the kitchens and out to the forbidden forest. For a place made of stone there was so much adventure to be found within its walls, and the thrill of almost being caught out of bed after curfew was enough to keep Charlie out and about well after two in the morning.

Returning home every holiday became steadily less practical and less exciting. As much as she loved to see her father's face when she stepped onto the platform, keeping up the pretense she was not a witch was simply too exhausting. Her mother did not make it easy, constantly pressuring her to use magic to make their lives easier regardless of school rules. The arguments they had both concerning magic and day-to-day mother-daughter disagreements seemed to grow more intense every year. Ned only perpetuated Charlotte's bitterness, choosing to side with his marvelous daughter rather than work with his wife as a partner. As much as Charlie enjoyed feeling right and vindicated, the weight of her Charlotte's glares and sniping comments wore her down like crashing waves over a seaside rock and some days the young girl felt on the verge of cracking under the brunt of it all. Between her mother's complaints and her father's excitement, hiding her magic felt near impossible at times. Especially after she bought herself a great big owl named Buzzard. Keeping it caged and in their caravan was not an option, but the other kids weren't the only ones to notice one owl seemed to follow them around all summer and disappear in the fall.

Every year it became steadily more obvious that her surface friendships were now with the people she had called family. Their loyalty had not run dry and she was sure they would still have her back in a fight and would humor her if she wanted the attention, but her life was a secret. The face that lay beneath the masks, the one that had been only traveler had been joined by one that went by witch, and there was no turning back. Sometimes Charlie wished she could, however much of a blessing magic might have been. The new-found elasticity of bonds she thought were iron clad was frightening to say the least. At times she felt she was losing her grip on her identity, allowing it and the rich heritage to be swallowed up by her new ties to the world of magic.

The only person who shared in her enthusiasm for her new life was her father. Whenever she sent him an owl, he sent her a note right back and without fail he was always there at King's crossing to send her off and welcome her home. One day in the spring of her fifth year, all that changed. The letter she received was from her mother. It took every ounce of self-control for Charlie not to burst into tears over breakfast. For three days she couldn't stomach much at all, and the sight of breakfast sausages still makes her stomach turn. Slowly, she allowed the details of the letter to slip to the housemates she regarded as her closest friends. Her father would not be greeting her at King's Cross this summer, or any summer. Few pub brawls are fair, and two nights prior her father had wound up at the wrong end of one of those fights.

The girl's summer was a melancholy one. She spent her days by herself, indulging in her loneliness and bouts of misplaced aggression. The community that came together in an attempt to support both her and her mother was turned away with a few snarled rejections at nearly every turn. The renewed loyalty they displayed only served to make her feel guilty for all the distance and secrets she put between them. Charlotte did not make matters easier, becoming more bitter than ever as she obsessed over a life that had been wasted on a reckless drunk. Rather than bond with her daughter in their grief, she blamed her. Charlie was too much like Ned, and instead of forcing him to buckle down he had only ever been encouraged by her adoration. There was no comfort to be found in the jaded woman's arms, and as far back as Charlie could remember there never had been. All the Hufflepuff wanted was to go back to Hogwarts, where she could lose herself in her spells and her pranks and pretend that in just another day she'd get a new letter from her father.

Time does wonders soothing all sorts of things, but even being back at Hogwarts cannot wash away the nights she falls asleep and she finds her idol alive again. Although she started the year more closed off and confrontational than usual and far more invested in her studies than ever before, Charlie is taking steps to curb her remaining anger and push away her desire to wallow in her sorrows. The masks she spent so much time creating in her childhood are back on full display, helping her at least keep up the appearance that everything is alright -- that everything is stable.

--------------------
user posted image
the oncoming storm | 05 CHARLIE COOPER
hufflepuff | loyalty, endurance, true victory

{ workshop plotter }
PM
^
Charlie Cooper
 Posted: Mar 7 2015, 01:01 PM
Quote

"4AM knows all my secrets"

AGE:
16
YEAR:
6th
HOUSE:
Hufflepuff
CLASH:
HEIGHT:
5'2"
STATUS:
Cursed
POSTS:
2065
Rep: 50 pts [ + | - ]

Charlie Cooper
© снʌяɩιε // she
Awards: 86



-->Novice Edition<--

Full Name: Charlottie Cooper

Age: 16

Bloodline: Muggleborn

Appearance:

There is a common misconception among most genteel folk that travelers are an utterly filthy people. In fact, the opposite is widely claimed by many of those who take to their caravans and travel from place to place. Though they live cluttered lives, filth has a way of picking up and moving with them unless it is properly taken care of. Under normal circumstances plenty of nomads living on the borders of small northern villages take care of themselves to prevent the accumulation of undesirable muck and dirt. For most, it can be claimed that they are at least reasonably capable of taking care to ensure their faces are clean and their clothes are free of stains. Charlie's mother had other ideas, especially concerning her rambunctious little devil of a daughter.

Attempts to enforce strict regulations on just how thoroughly Charlie scrubbed her face and washed her hair were met with defiance and rebellion, and for the first seven years of her life she looked like something that had crawled out of the Jungle Book. There was always mud on her bare feet, grass stains on her jeans, and brambles in her long wild brown hair. No matter how many times the smudges were wiped off her face, in a matter of minutes there was always a fresh cluster. Her porcelain skin seemed to make a job of hiding under a fine layer of dust and grime, and Charlie couldn't have cared less. There was no one to look pretty for, and she didn't see why her mother cared so much about hair and manners and putting on makeup when there was so much else to do. Grooming was an utter waste of time, considering she would just have to clean herself up again before being allowed into bed.

Primary school changed all that. Within her own little group of traveler youths, there was nothing to whisper about or mock others for. Aside from good-natured ribbing, they were all in the same boat and whatever differences they had, they were all the same deep down. Charlie's new classmates had no such reserves. They gleefully whispered and sneered, and in some cases bullied. It became readily apparent that Charlie had to contain her appearance. So she began to comb her hair and she began to wash behind her ears, and although she couldn't do much to stop herself from staining her various uniforms with mud and grass she became more diligent about cleaning them up and patching up the holes. When the general behavior toward her shifted, it became clear that everyone would judge her on her appearance, and this knowledge quickly became a tool for the arsenal she employed to control the perceptions of others.

The urge to manipulate her appearance only grew as she aged. She would spend hours at a time practicing new looks and mannerisms, honing skills that only became more intricate and convincing as she aged. Though her wardrobe was cheap and limited, she had a number of adults teaching her to sew and soon enough her attire became an eclectic splash of bright and mismatched colors that she piled on in all sorts of layers. She sculpted her features with makeup, and took to home remedies to lighten and darken her hair. She learned every cheap and homeopathic remedy to keep her hair tame and sleek so long as it suited her to do so. Occasionally her long locks would change in ways adults readily blamed on hours in the sun, but Charlie knew better. If she thought long and hard enough, she could bring out the undertones in her hair, and all she suffered for her efforts was a headache. Sometimes her mother's red curls would shine and glimmer through the brown, and other times she would bring out the dusty blonde hues belonging to her grandmother. When she was old enough, she began pinching packs of dye from convenience stores to help her hair along. Everything about her looks became an accessory that could be changed and over the years she went through all sorts of phases; from multicolored navy and sea-foam locks that went all the way down to her waist, to a china doll bob so platinum it gleamed when it caught the light. This did not change throughout her years at Hogwarts. Though she did not always have the time to pick some outrageous new hairstyle every day, she took plenty of opportunities to push the boundaries of what was acceptable for the dress code in her effort to embrace her self-expression.

Returning to Hogwarts for her sixth year, the Hufflepuff has since returned to her natural deep brown shade much to the surprise of her friends. The journey across the color spectrum was a long and winding one, and those closest to her might speculate that her decision to return to the hair color she was born with is due a desire to hold onto something that makes her think of her of her father. Now her face is framed by long thick locks of hair and heavy bangs, which help to accentuate the large hazel eyes she inherited from him, and remind her that he is not so far away. Long lashes rim her lids, perfect for batting innocently or peering up through. Her irises themselves can at times seem as colorful as her hair once was, flecked with emerald and gleaming with ambers and oranges that make delicate rings around her deep dark pupils. It is near impossible to see what lurks behind them short of the usual glee and innocence she tries to exude.

There is, however, little innocence to be found in the smile that resides between her slender chin and her slightly upturned nose. The devil lives in that quirky pair of pale pink lips, and one has to wonder if she ever really learned how to grin using the whole of her mouth. More often than not the right side of her mouth tugs into a knowing little smirk that occasionally parts even wider to reveal a surprisingly well-maintained set of teeth. Surprising, not because of the presumed inability for travelers to clean themselves, but because when Charlie eats, food gets everywhere and she rarely thinks to clean it off. At Hogwarts, where there is a veritable cornucopia of things to be feasted upon, there is no chance of seeing her messy habits reined in from the moment she opens her mouth, giving her housemates the impression that she eats a good deal more than she does.

Growing up there was never enough food to go around, especially not for children that didn't have to throw themselves into farm labor or other draining tasks. The self-restraint the young girl showed on behalf of the younger ones to make sure they had enough took everything in her. Hunger was something she learned to embrace, mentally equating the aching in her stomach with generosity and other good things. Those rare days when she allowed herself to eat more than was absolutely necessary to function, she made a mess of things -- cramming the food into her mouth and chewing it over until it was a fine mush that no longer had much taste at all. Her portion sizes may have been small but her enthusiasm could not be squashed. As long as she finally sated the hunger, she had no concern for how many crumbs she had on her lips, or if she had a milk mustache; she felt full and that was the best feeling in the world.

This sporadic style of eating paired with sub-par portions has had no small part in stunting Charlie's growth. Her father stood at least a head taller than her at six foot two, and her mother was only slightly shorter than him. Though she might stand somewhere between five foot two and five foot three, rounding up and walking on the balls of her feet so that she might appear a little taller is a habit she has been unable to break. Her frame is slight and her waist is small, and no one would claim she was particularly curvaceous or well-endowed. Her knobby knees bother her more than her lack of a voluptuous bosom, however.

Despite all her attempts at grace and situational awareness, for whatever reason she can't explain her knees always appear bruised or in the process of bruising. Between the bounce in her step and the urge to walk on the balls of her feet, she has a habit of falling down and her knees take the brunt of it. They stick out from her slender legs, making her feel very much like an infant giraffe still learning to walk. This does not stop the sixth year from wearing her favorite patchwork skirts or too short shorts, because even though she tends to cover the offending joints up with stockings or tights for the sake of fashion, making self-deprecating jokes is more entertaining than hiding her flaws. For this reason, she isn't too worried about fixing whatever scrapes and scars she earns. Learning to fight at a young age led her into a fair amount of scuffles resulting in more than one permanent mark on her pale skin. Some she won and some she lost, but she was always proud to walk away with a badge her father would celebrate, even if they came to fade over the years.

Personality:

A lot can be said about growing up among travelers. The hardship of traveling from town to town, always staying on the outskirts can weather one for the ups and downs of adulthood. It might even be said being a wanderer creates dozens of little realists who are fully aware of what it's like to go to bed hungry and wake up even hungrier, unlike their idealistic counterparts who dream of Twirls and 99 Flakes every night. However, among those shackled to their brick and mortar homes, there is one belief that is near unanimous: travelers breed grubby little con artists. Charlie Cooper is a girl that embodies all these things.

At young age, Charlie quickly became been a keen observer of the human condition. Growing up within a very tight-knit community instilled her with a strong sense of loyalty. It was impossible not to notice how people started locking their sheds and bringing their bikes inside when the travelers rolled in with their barely functioning caravans and dogs. The sense of us and them was a prevalent part of her childhood, and being among people who gave to their neighbors without thought made her more generous than the villagers she met. Those that spared the travelers some form of kindness were repaid tenfold, and they weren’t easily forgotten.

Out of necessity Charlie grew to be an expert on other people, even if she is still occasionally more than a little ignorant about herself. She prides herself in being a social chameleon who can slip from group to group, at home in almost any setting despite how out of place she might at first appear. She knows when to listen, when to watch, and when to speak. She understands the power words have in either tearing a person down or building them up. Although she could never be accused of having too much tact, Charlie prefers the latter.

She is the sort of well meaning person that will remark on how much an acquaintance’s nose looks like a great big beak before their shocked expressions remind her to add that she finds large noses very aesthetically pleasing. That tendency doesn't stop others from being attracted to the confidence she exudes, and even if a person were put off by her sometimes backhanded compliments or her more-or-less harmless pranks, her lopsided smile makes holding grudges difficult. Even when she's caught accidentally stuffing someone's favorite quill into her pocket or popping a chocolate frog she was sure was hers into her mouth, a sheepish grin and a heartfelt apology can get her out of most awkward situations. Of course next week, more often than not, she'll find a way to take those twenty sickles floating around in your pockets without technically asking.

Living among the lawless primed Charlie for a life of delinquency, whether she recognizes that as fact or not. The adults that surrounded her led a life of drinking and smoking and it was no surprise to any of them when she started sneaking tastes of both before she was ever a teen. Being the bad kid in school had some appeal and because of that she learned that acting out and pulling pranks gave her the attention she thirsted after. Acting out also gave her opportunities to cover up for her personal failings. Although she does not spend much time thinking about her physical flaws, the thought that her abilities might not be good enough has a way of haunting her. Her inability to read and write well is perhaps her largest insecurity and teachers that ask her to quote passages or ask her to read off an answer on her assignment are met with crass jokes to make her peers laugh. As long as she plays the clown, students will be laughing on her terms, without ever realising her defiance isn't some grand act of a rebellion but simply a cover up of her inabilities. Her only attempts to overcome her failures in literature manifested in the relaxing art of graffiti. Spraying her words on wall, be it with magic or paint, is the only slow and meditative way of conquering her fear of her scratchy handwriting and her worries of things being spelt wrong. To her fellow Hogwarts students, the occasional tags that pop up are just another stunt in the long line of many.

A less amusing vice is Charlie's difficulty with taking things that don't belong to her. If anything happens to catch her eye she often ends up hoarding it in her pockets or in her trunks. Her life was one where her belongings could either fit on the caravan or they got left behind, and now that she has a more or less permanent home in the Hufflepuff dorms, she has begun to accumulate perhaps an item too many. Unfortunately for her peers, her hands are quick and subtle, and her study of people has made her quite capable of the misdirection necessary for pilfering something right out of someone's hand or off their wrist. Her concept of stealing is slightly warped for two main reasons. One, because she is rather insistent that she does not steal, she simply borrows for extended periods of time as is the tradition among her kin. And two, if the person in question does not notice the item is missing they can't have valued it very much anyway, and she would appreciate it far more. The only people who are even remotely safe from Charlie's idle hands are the ones she respects and values as close friends, who either admonish her on behalf of her victims or find the whole affair amusing when she empties her pockets with a coy little smile.

Being able to charm and cajole with the best of them has always served to secure her as an unassuming leader among her peers and beyond, despite her age. It is a position she takes to naturally, with a few well-timed jokes, and the ability to make others feel at ease. Her sense of pride might make it appear as though she would have no other place in a group other than leader, but she can listen to the advice and direction of others without prejudice. Although she is headstrong, occasionally reckless, and in possession of a rather limited amount of patience, she has it in her to be a careful planner that thinks before she acts. This does not, however, extend to her studies.

Charlie has been known to put off assignments until the last minute and disregard her books entirely, and has occasionally come up with rather colorful reasons about why her homework could not be completed. Although she would never admit the tendency to do so is because of her sub-par reading skills, she often claims she has "much better things t'do than lose her nose in a big dumb book." Charlie preferrs to spend her time making people laugh and getting into trouble with the sort people who would laugh at the mischief she so enjoyed making. To her, people who spend their lives buried in their books might as well be another class of human, especially when there is magic to be played with. They, like those who have unfounded prejudices, are the type of person the prankster generally can't stand. The bitter taste of discrimination is a tough one to be rid of, and Charlie has never particularly had much patience for those who engage in such closed-minded behavior. Her quiet disdain does not necessarily mean she goes out of her way to make enemies of those she does not like. Instead, she studies them, just as she does the introvert who shies away from others and the anxious worry-wart who stresses over their classes. If there is more to be gained by being their friend than their enemy, Charlie will tentatively wander through their social circles. After all, even bigots can be counted on to have a few galleons squirreled away, ripe for the taking.

Charlie's closest friends are the people who remind her of her kin. At first she was shocked to find anyone who made her think of home, but even then it was difficult for her to warm up and allow them into her life. In truth, revealing what was behind her mask was almost painful for the young Hufflepuff, and was something she only really accomplished in her second year. When no one belittled her offers of friendship, the twelve year old was quickly encouraged to make more genuine friends. The select few who see her as she is tend to be the nonjudgmental, generous sorts; the people who repay her loyalty with their own. Of course exceptions can be made for those who know how to have a good time. Anyone who will laugh at her antics or even better, join in on them, is the best sort of friend. Mischief is always better when there are others to share it with, and now that Charlie is in her sixth year at Hogwarts she has a collection of friends from all backgrounds and walks of life that she wouldn't trade for anything in the world.

History:

Stability was never much of a factor in Charlie's life.

Her father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler, and his father was a traveler back as far as anyone cared to count. Their life was one of roaming around the northern English countryside, occasionally going so far north they disappeared into Scotland. They dealt in tarmacking and scrap metal dealing, and were decent farm hands for as long as they stayed in one place for more than three weeks at a time. Her father Ned, however, was special. In his youth he was a slim man possessing a wiry sort of strength built up by hard labor, and his left hook could take most people by surprise in a pub brawl. Rather than put himself to work helping local farmers, he devoted his time to boxing. He threw himself into match after match, winning bets and prizes and the admiration of his mates. Despite some losses he was wildly successful in local competitions and haphazard Romanichal matches, building up a decent reputation for himself. He didn't need the encouragement of his friends to begin throwing himself into the more established underground rings whenever they were close enough to a city, though some of them took credit for the day he met Charlotte. In the midst of taking a pummeling to the face, he caught the eye of a beautiful woman with fire red hair that fell down to her elbows in waves. It might have been the lighting or the concussion, but he could have sworn he saw a halo around her head, and the moment his opponent was on the mat writhing in a pool of himself he asked her out for drinks.

Running off with a traveler was not what Charlotte's parents had in mind for her when they envisioned her future, but after a month-long whirlwind romance with the charmingly crooked, fast-talking man, that was exactly what she did. She was madly in love, and the rosy portrait he painted of life on the road was too enticing to say no to. It only took two months for the image to melt into the dreary grey reality of things and for her rebellious side to slip away. Labor did not suit her; sewing did not suit her; cooking did not suit her; and seeing after the animals did not suit her. The partner that had pledged to never leave her side was always off in a pub or a brawl. Or worse, he was busy acting the part of the clown, feeding off of the laughter of a community she grew to despise. By three months she was ready to leave, and by four months she knew she had to stay. She was pregnant, and a gypsy father was better than no father at all. With all their differences, the hope that a child would bring them back together again was a hope she carried with her for the full term of the pregnancy.

Having a little troublemaker running around did not improve things.

Ned doted on his daughter just as he had doted on Charlotte during her pregnancy. If he could take her with him, he did, despite the fact that his destinations usually involved an excessive amount of drinking and the occasional wild bonfire. She grew up on his heels, the spitting image of her dad and all too happy about that fact. She had his long dark hair and his big bright hazel eyes that glittered with so much amber and orange they were nearly gold -- and sometimes her mother swore that they were. Her sunny eyes and long dark hair had an uncanny way of turning just a touch too orange and a fraction too blonde. Charlotte blamed tricks of the light and the undertones in her hair, but Ned took the subtle shifts in her appearance to mean she was an old and sensitive soul. Emotional eyes, he called them, frequently guessing how she felt just by looking at her. It became a game they played together -- the first of many -- and no matter what she did to try and hide her feelings, Ned always guessed right.

By the time she was old enough to talk, she sneered every time someone called her Charlotte, preferring to be called Charlie almost exclusively. Charlotte belonged to her mother. The woman whose spiteful glare was always turned toward her daughter. The wet blanket that insisted wild hair needed to be combed and tied back. The one who put her foot down and said "no, our little girl can't stay up until sunrise," and "no those toys don't belong to you."

Toys and other household objects, most frequently shiny ones, had an uncanny way of disappearing from where they had been a moment ago and into Charlie's little pockets. For the longest time, her quick fingers were blamed whenever she was made to turn out her pockets. All the insisting in the world could not make her mother believe she was innocent. Neither of her parents had any way of knowing she was telling the truth half the time. Both of them were muggles, after all.

Moving from place to place became more difficult as Charlie grew older. She and the few other children among the travelers were forced into school. For the first time, Charlie understood was it was to be different. Her temporary schoolmates would stare at her handed down, patchy clothes and her uncombed hair, and they would whisper. Appearances mattered, and at first transferring schools every few months was a blessing. Wherever she went, she could reinvent herself. She could manipulate her hair, sew together new clothes, and change her mannerisms right down to the way she walked. She could put on a new face in every village; make new friends and spin wild romantic tales about what life on the road was like, until they all wanted to chase after the caravans when they left.

At first the young gypsy would spend hours reinventing herself, but with practice it became a talent she could call upon at the drop of a hat. She would shift her stance and her stature, and her smile would take on a different quirk. It would have been shocking to those around her if her kin hadn't become so used to her penchant for changing herself. She never discussed this habit or her reasons with her fellow travelers. In a community centered around sharing, this was something just for her, and she had a sneaking suspicion the adults would have teased her if she shared her secret suspicionst. Because Charlie was absolutely convinced that if she thought hard enough, her hair would bend to her will and change. Perhaps the fourth or fifth time she stared into the cracked mirror while fashioning her hair in a new style for a new school, her jaw dropped. While contemplating hair dyes and how people would respond to her if she were blonde, her hair began to lighten, as if kissed by the sun. Which was exactly what Charlotte said when she saw her daughter, harping on the young girl for spending too much time running around like a little hellion outside. From that moment on, Charlie kept her mouth shut on the subject, and began purchasing hair dye when she was old enough in the hopes of helping her hair bend to her will. She found quiet joy in her secret, reveling in her own ability to manipulate others simply by changing herself.

Charlie steadily became more confident dealing with other people, and traveling instilled in her the importance of how one speaks. Vernacular and pronunciation can change the perceptions of others just as much as appearances, and if Charlie could not talk the talk she might as well not walk the walk. Rather than devote her time to maths or history, she focused on learning the intricacies of the accents she came in contact with, until she could transform her own lilting way of speaking to suit the area around her. Even if she was regarded as a gypsy, the more she fit in with her peers the easier it was for them to forget she was different.

The only problem arose when Charlie found herself forming genuine attachments to the people she met. They made her laugh and she made them laugh, and they were happy to engage in the sort of harmless mischief most schoolchildren get into when left to their own devices. When she could make friends like those, she dreaded the move. The caravans would disappear in the wee hours of the morning, and save for scorch marks and tire treads they left nothing behind. Sometimes her friends promised to write or call. Charlie would smile, make a quick joke, and change the subject. No one wrote and no one called. There was no practical way to keep track of her, even if once or twice she slipped a letter into the post. The only friends that maintained were those she traveled with. Keeping herself emotionally detached from the brick and mortar folk was easier, no matter how engaging and animated she was on the surface. She still had her kin, and those were bonds that could not be broken easily.

Nothing could shake the friendships Charlie forged with her peers and her adults. Or at least, that had always been her impression.

The first attempt to deliver Charlie's Hogwarts letter was a failure. The staff member arrived just half an hour too late. The cluster of caravans had begun their migration to the next town early in the hopes of avoiding the local police. The second attempt to give her the letter was less than successful, when the dutiful representative showed up during a particularly rowdy birthday celebration and the paper became much needed kindling for the bonfire. It wasn't until the third attempt that the letter finally fell into Charlie's hands. She was perched in front of yet another fire, in the act of roasting perhaps the five hundred thousandth marshmallow she had ever cooked, when the reasonably frustrated gentleman just trying to do his job dropped the sealed piece of paper right on top of her skull. After some colorful swearing, vigorous rubbing, and confused glares, she picked it up and stumbled her way through the most elegant script she'd ever laid eyes on. Although she had always hoped there was something special about her -- that the quiet talents she kept to herself meant something --the letter was too good to be true. The hope that sprang up in her heart was immediately struck down.

It was, perhaps, the most elaborate prank she had ever been subjected to. Nevertheless, a prank was a prank, and she was convinced someone was having a go at her. Five demonstrations of proof and almost half an hour of arguing later, Charlie was finally convinced of her nature, and was ready to show the strange gentleman to her parents when they got back from the pub. Ned was over the moon, and it took some very insistent shushes for him to not simply holler out the window that his little girl was a wizard. Charlotte was more skeptical, concerning herself with the money and the logistics of paying for the extremely long list of supplies. The spite Charlotte had nurtured over the course of eleven years had never abated. Years of bickering and having her opinions ignored by both her husband and her daughter did not leave her feeling particularly generous when confronted with another talent for Ned to fawn over. Despite her protests, when it came time to purchase Charlie's schoolbooks and all her other odds and ends, Ned picked up his family and ushered the little community to travel south. Keeping it all a secret from her kin was, at that time, the most difficult thing Charlie had ever managed. Especially when word got around that she was being sent away to a special school far up north.

Becoming an outsider among her own kind was a slow process Charlie didn't even notice until she was back for the summer holidays following her first year at Hogwarts. In what felt like just a few months she had missed everything. She was usurped and almost a stranger. She had missed fights, and first kisses, and the sort of adventures she used to tell other people about. Even if she could have told them the mad stories inherent with attending a school for witchcraft, she could feel they wouldn't have wanted to hear it. They were preoccupied with their own adventures and she was no longer part of them. The lives that had been so intertwined from birth were pulling apart at the seams and she could not stitch them back together fast enough.

Finding her place at Hogwarts had not been any easier. The very first week of school, one of her Professors pulled her aside to ask some uncomfortable questions. She had predictably gotten into a scuffle with a weasel of a Slytherin who dared to insult her gypsy blood. Anger overtook her in a way it never had before, and she descended upon the kid as though possessed by the fires of hell, becoming a whirlwind of fists. Although the boy hadn't landed so much as a slap on her, her head screamed in pain, and by the time the Professor managed to reel her in it was too late. Her golden eyes had become black pits of hate, and a sea of whispers surrounded her. The secret she had kept to herself for the last five years was out. She could change her appearance at will. Metamorphagus, they called her. Something that might have made other children feel special only served to separate her further from the pack, ostracizing her the way she always felt it would if her secret became known. For someone who wanted to be adored and esteemed by her peers, the isolation was devastating. Years spent hiding her emotions behind a self-crafted mask were put to use, and she forced herself to grin through the turmoil roiling around in her stomach. There was nothing she could do to change her nature, so she wore her ability like a badge of pride. Stubbornness set in, and she refused to bend to the pressure of the students around her. She decided that if anyone was going to manipulate anyone, she would be the one in control, however difficult it might be.

To make matters worse, the Hogwarts students were people she would spend the next seven years with. There was no running away; no disappearing into the romantic rolling hills of the countryside. Her housemates were there when she woke up in the morning and went to sleep at night, and she soon realised that if she was going to survive she could not simply blow off her duties or keep her friendships on the surface. It became nearly impossible to hide behind her masks in the presence of two of her dormmates, Hensley Dowling and Eve Whelan. They were engaging and excited to hear about her stories on the road. The real stories -- not the ones she'd told all her primary school classmates, began to creep out and both girls were eager and accepting. However much it made Charlie's stomach turn, there was no way she could keep up the barriers she had carefully built around herself. Hensley and Eve wanted to be her friend and in the quiet hours of the night she needed to be able to let her defenses down to recharge. The Hufflepuff had to stay, and she had to be her, or she would be picked apart until all that was left were the bleached bones that held her small frame together.

At the very least, the majority of her studies were engaging. In all of her practical classes, her vine wood wand constantly swished and flicked, and produced a fair number of powerful spells that boosted her confidence and stroked her ego. Transfiguration quickly became her absolute favorite class, and was one of the few in which she felt driven to read its texts from cover to cover without skipping more than a few pages deemed just a little too boring. Every year her classes became more and more exciting, and it was beyond her how someone could make the ability to change the world around you dull, but some authors always found a way. That was why when it came to History of Magic, she was utterly doomed. No amount of studying helped her retain much of her lessons, and more often than not she would crack open her book only to open her eyes two hours later, having done a nosedive into the index page. At first Potions was not much better, but the realisation that potions could be used to concoct things like boil-inducing colas and soap that made your skin itch, she quickly found the appeal and began to make the effort.

The pranks she pulled became an outlet that garnered attention and admiration from her peers. She found a few friends in the activity too, and made it her mission to wander the halls exploring every inch of the castle. Secrets were around every corner and sometimes it seemed like the doors themselves jumped around the castle and led to different places. There was no keeping her contained, especially when paired with a few other wanderers that wanted to create a map of Hogwarts in their heads. The small clan of troublemakers she'd had among her kin were nothing compared to the group she found herself running with on midnight trips to the kitchens and out to the forbidden forest. For a place made of stone there was so much adventure to be found within its walls, and the thrill of almost being caught out of bed after curfew was enough to keep Charlie out and about well after two in the morning.

Returning home every holiday became steadily less practical and less exciting. As much as she loved to see her father's face when she stepped onto the platform, keeping up the pretense she was not a witch was simply too exhausting. Her mother did not make it easy, constantly pressuring her to use magic to make their lives easier regardless of school rules. The arguments they had both concerning magic and day-to-day mother-daughter disagreements seemed to grow more intense every year. Ned only perpetuated Charlotte's bitterness, choosing to side with his marvelous daughter rather than work with his wife as a partner. As much as Charlie enjoyed feeling right and vindicated, the weight of her Charlotte's glares and sniping comments wore her down like crashing waves over a seaside rock, and some days the young girl felt on the verge of cracking under the brunt of it all. Between her mother's complaints and her father's excitement, hiding her magic felt near impossible at times. Especially after she bought herself a great big owl named Buzzard. Keeping it caged and in their caravan was not an option, but the other kids weren't the only ones to notice one owl seemed to follow them around all summer and disappear in the fall.

Every year it became steadily more obvious that her surface friendships were now with the people she had called family. Their loyalty had not run dry and she was sure they would still have her back in a fight and would humor her if she wanted the attention, but her life was a secret. The face that lay beneath the masks, the one that had been only traveler had been joined by one that went by witch, and there was no turning back. Sometimes Charlie wished she could, however much of a blessing magic might have been. The new-found elasticity of bonds she thought were iron clad was frightening to say the least. At times she felt she was losing her grip on her identity, allowing it and the rich heritage to be swallowed up by her new ties to the world of magic.

The only person who shared in her enthusiasm for her new life was her father. Whenever she sent him an owl, he sent her a note right back and without fail he was always there at King's crossing to send her off and welcome her home. One day in the spring of her fifth year, all that changed. The letter she received was from her mother. It took every ounce of self-control for Charlie not to burst into tears over breakfast. For three days she couldn't stomach much at all, and the sight of breakfast sausages still makes her stomach turn. Slowly, she allowed the details of the letter to slip to the housemates she regarded as her closest friends. Her father would not be greeting her at King's Cross this summer, or any summer. Few pub brawls are fair, and two nights prior her father had wound up at the wrong end of one of those fights.

The girl's summer was a melancholy one. She spent her days by herself, indulging in her loneliness and bouts of misplaced aggression. The community that came together in an attempt to support both her and her mother was turned away with a few snarled rejections at nearly every turn. The renewed loyalty they displayed only served to make her feel guilty for all the distance and secrets she put between them. Charlotte did not make matters easier, becoming more bitter than ever as she obsessed over a life that had been wasted on a reckless drunk. Rather than bond with her daughter in their grief, she blamed her. Charlie was too much like Ned, and instead of forcing him to buckle down he had only ever been encouraged by her adoration. There was no comfort to be found in the jaded woman's arms, and as far back as Charlie could remember there never had been. All the Hufflepuff wanted was to go back to Hogwarts, where she could lose herself in her spells and her pranks and pretend that in just another day she'd get a new letter from her father.

Time does wonders soothing all sorts of things, but even being back at Hogwarts cannot wash away the nights she falls asleep and she finds her idol alive again. Although she started the year more closed off and confrontational than usual and far more invested in her studies than ever before, Charlie is taking steps to curb her remaining anger and push away her desire to wallow in her sorrows. The masks she spent so much time creating in her childhood are back on full display, helping her at least keep up the appearance that everything is alright -- that everything is stable.

--------------------
user posted image
the oncoming storm | 05 CHARLIE COOPER
hufflepuff | loyalty, endurance, true victory

{ workshop plotter }
PM
^
0 User(s) are reading this topic (0 Guests and 0 Anonymous Users)
0 Members:

Topic Options
Add Reply
New Topic
New Poll


 


 



Infinity Rising Wolf Out jcink forum Last Resort Shadowplay Lochland Grove OOTA  photo hr_banneri2014_zpsclfhj2jt.png Avalon a Panfandom RP Kousei, an island paradise for the natural and supernatural awaits Code 8 The Beginning A Change of Heart Storybrooke War Is Brewing Forum Roleplay Site A BRILLIANT MAGIC Ascension Of Darkness


AUTUMN 2017
Welcome to Wizarding Realm! We are an alternate universe Harry Potter site set in the present day at Hogwarts. All of our lovely students are back from their summer terms refreshed and (hopefully) ready to buckle down for classes. Join us! :D Please Register using Proper Case!!
BE A LIGHT TO EACH OTHER ♥