Clover stands at around ~142 cm (4'8") tall, rounding out the average height for their age— although they're constantly standing alert on their tip-toes, inching their back straight in an attempt to appear a couple inches taller.

To the chagrin of their mother, who'd given in after a couple weeks' worth of complaints— it tends to change often, anyways— their hair is currently bleached a platinum-blonde color, although their natural hair color is black, and their roots have already begun to grow back in upon their enrollment at Hogwarts. Although the color of their hair may tend to shift on its' own, with sudden changes of mood, they seem like they prefer the idea of using hair dye; it makes them feel more as if they're in control. Their hair is cut short and choppily, as if it's been done by Clover themselves within the bathroom mirror.

Their eyes are a dark brown, so much so that they appear black, and their skin is fairly tanned and warm-toned, even in the colder months.




Clover is ambitious, hot-headed, and deeply individualistic. Immature, as to be expected for their age, they tend to act before thinking, and possess a sense of stubborn determination which appears to trump all common sense. There is no wall which cannot be scaled, no challenge which cannot be trumped, no command which cannot be denied; not in their eyes, in their firm belief that they're the one, sole arbiter of their own fate.

That isn't to say they don't possess a sense of insecurity, regarding the rash manner in which they approach life— such bold ideas find their roots in a desperate wish for a more defined identity, and their over-exaggerated emotions tend to reflect their desire to project themselves are more capable they they truly are. Armed with a seemingly-sharp tongue and a strong (at the very least, they hope!) will, they make for a loyal— if not overbearing— friend, and a rotten enemy. Picking fights has always been their forte, although they aren't all-too adept at winning them just yet.

All to feel proud of the person who stares back at them in the mirror.




Clover Cassidy was born in the heart of London, England, to Arthur Cassidy and Aranya Amarin— of British and Thai descent, respectively— each of them distinctly non-magical, although each possessing very distant magical ancestry, something they wouldn't discover until a few years after Clover's birth.

Each of them working as university professors, and having met during their doctorate research, they're scholars at heart, and have both attempted to raise Clover with the same principles in mind, despite their child's more... creative tendencies. Try as much as they may, research hadn't prepared them for a child of magical talents— and even before they'd known, they'd always figured something was off with Clover; they'd never always been a bit... off, even in their youngest years..

Nothing was consistent with them, nothing forever. Always changing, always moving. It's how things had always been, ever since. They've known, for a long time by their lonesome, that they nurtured something magical inside of them; as far as they knew, this is how they've always been.

The strange changes had always been one thing; a couple sections of hair would change color when they hadn't meant them to, their eyes would look much lighter than they'd looked yesterday while staring into the bathroom mirror, their nails would change color in a way they couldn't scrub off in the kitchen sink; but given a choice, even upon recognition of their magical ability, they'd always rather put in the work to change themselves the regular way, even through intentional means. Cutting their hair by their lonesome, dying strands with tubes of acrylic paints, taking sharpies to the walls (and to their father's face, while he's sleeping!)— Clover's always stuck out like a sore thumb within their family, although their parents, well-meaning and non-magical as they are, have never truly minded, as long as they promised to clean up after their own messes.

Capricious and hot-tempered, they've always erred on the more artistic side, but otherwise ran through different hobbies like they've jumped through hurdles— a year of soccer when they were eight, a six-week pottery class, a failed attempt to pick up the guitar last year; always quick to pick up something new, and just as quick to drop it. Green with envy if they struggled, and yet quick to handwave the effort required to truly improve.

After having attended public school in London for the majority of their studies, their parents had worried to themselves that— even from a Hogwarts representative, and with the reassurance of their magical ability's confirmation— the suggestion of a boarding school, no matter how magical it may be, and no matter how formal the invitation appeared, might be 'just another one of their whims'— but with an uneasy few sighs, and after plenty of insistence, on Clover's end...

...Well, they always had been the permissive sort. If they couldn't prevent change, the only option was to embrace it.




That first sign of magic... it's something Clover's mother swears she can remember like it was just yesterday— all the way back when they were only three years old, bumbling along the half-paved cobblestone sidewalk in front of their parents' home. It'd stormed the night prior, and their mother, standing out to watch over them with a raised eyebrow, had gently warned them not to trip over the wet stones; even that young, they'd had a penchant for disregarding common sense.

With a trip and a tumble, they caught their shoe in a small crack, falling knee-first into the pavement and being further met with a throbbing pain and a bright red scrape.

"—Mom! Knees!"

With a panicked cry, they called out to their mother, who'd been turned around— just for a few moments, goodness!— to check on the front garden— and, with a click of her tongue, she'd immediately come to their aid.

With softened eyes, raising a finger up to dab away Clover's tears, she shakes her head, before calling back into the house for their father to

"Should've known. You're a little too young to be playing in the rain, after all." With a sigh, she raises a hand to pat at the top of their head, as if attempting to calm them down, before her eye is caught by something else— in the midst of a crying fit and a reddened face, the child's nails had turned a vibrant ruby-red.

"...Arthur?" She calls back into the house, squinting— "You haven't been letting our child into my nail polish, have you?"

By the time Clover had been all patched up, and they'd been properly soothed, the strange color had already faded away, washed away with their tears. It'd never been something their mother had thought to linger on, not when there was a crying child in her midst, but all these years later...