Sophya Domitrova is nineteen years old, a mechanic , and was formerly in the house of Ravenclaw
                            ââSometimes people donât want to hear the truth because they donât want their illusions destroyed.
Her parents always pushed her to use her magic the best way possible so Sophya has a natural grace and ability with her magic that is way ahead of witches her own age.
She is empty and apathetic in silent ways as if the blue in her eyes is an ice wall between her struggling heart and everybody else. She would cry alone and cry at roses, but never in times of tragedy and always for aesthetic reasons, the way an art critic would. Not that her there is art in her heart unless literally, but because her mind links the most abstract thoughts to everything that should never make anybody cry, like poppies on a field. Russian to the core, there is a certain harshness and rough edges that she involuntarily possesses, from the way she speaks - no matter how much she swallows the last letters of the words going out through her teeth, the accent breaks through and she has to clear her throat for minutes to go back to faking a British one - to the practical way she thinks. If she liked something, she would take off the heels she only wears to copy Mia Selwyn and chase it with glimmering eyes shamelessly. She doesnât know how to walk in them anyway, always tripping, always stepping like sheâs pushing the ground away. The fact that she would get tired too soon, get distracted by the next shiny thing and move on with grace is just as true - for she lacks the determination to get anything more difficult done.
 She wears menswear when she can and when nobody she cares about sees, but can paint the pureblood picture if needed, flaws only here and there. Nothing simpler than that - she is still fighting not to trip, although the crystal shoes are numbers too small for her feet and she has never learned how to walk properly. She has a quick quill and tall legs, and doesnât know how to purse her lips against each other, dismissing serious talk regardless of context. When asked, despite every trait of her personality proving otherwise, she does see herself as an old, realist, wise soul and expects to be treated as such. Loneliness is her element, stronger than air, and what sheâs breathing, but itâs carbon monoxide still. Not lovable or reasonable, not a person one can understand, Sophya loses all the effect of her charm and humor - two things she could have possessed if her harshness didnât block them. But there is something deeply funny about her, a dose of crazy boyishness and practical approach that passes by delicateness spitefully. It isnât grace, but ambition and a clumsiness she would be perfect at approaching if she wasnât trying so damn hard to imitate girls with long necks.
 At first, she was in love with the sunkissed boy, charming in all the three languages he was using cursively in Durmstrang and with a sharp tongue she turned red dreaming about. Sophya wasnât a girl who kept diaries and tattooed âSophya Marksâ on every piece of parchment she could put her quill on. Sophya saw love as a contract because he taught her to, but it was the only concept she came with from back home, wanting to spite two parents two married for love and have always been disgusting at dinner parties. Jonathan Marks represented the epitome, the idealism of every duty her family skipped from the pureblood book and she sighed in rose gardens as she was pressing her knuckles against the thorns to break them, because he would never be hers. That was, to her, love - harsh, cruel, cold, motivating. She was dreaming, but not a dreamer. She knew pale girls like herself wouldnât reach for the sun, for their skin would burn before even her first finger rose to the sky, but she dived in anyway. The love affair in her mind didnât have to stop. Jonathan was giving her a rose, freshly cut to avoid any thorns. Jonathan was pressing his lips against the back of her palm, marking her and causing her to sleep on her hand for nights in hopes his perfume miraculously stuck. Jonathan was smiling ambiguously and suddenly, she had a purpose.
 Later on, at Hogwarts, she saw the resemblance between her, Mia Selwyn, and the moon for the first time. She wanted to be Mia and envied her with green fire, so the imitation game began. Sophya started wearing her hair in a bun, although too curly to ever be tamed, dark red lipstick looking like blood on her bleached face and every detail of Mia - even and especially those she didnât feel fit with her spirit - became part of her. Soon, her obsession with mirroring Jonathanâs right hand in order to take her place or at least join as his left one turned into an obsession with Mia in and outside of the things that Jonathan admired about her. Soon, it wasnât that she wanted to take a step toward him, but toward her, and she decided that moonlight is better. They were taking ballet classes together and the other girlâs bare neck was the only poetry she would see on pas de deux. Although not a romantic, she knew that the only things worthy of affection were those she worshiped, and as much as still conflicted about it, she does no longer reject the idea of wanting to kiss a girl on the lips so the lipstick would spread, coming to terms with it. With a weakness - her only one, as she would like to think - for both, she memorizes by heart every word coming out of their mouth and makes it hers, repeating thoughts and concepts she not only doesnât understand, but doesnât relate to either. After all, she has always been better at learning by memory than by logic.
 Her legs are long, but plastic, which is why ballet looks like kazatsky when sheâs the one dancing. Her feet are always hurting and she would kill to wear sneakers forever and be considered pretty and graceful despite that. Alas, itâs impossible, and she is stuck between what she is and what she should be in order to be a girl.
 She became a parrot quite some time ago. Having her own opinions was something she lost as a child, if she ever did possess such a thing even then. Yet, she aspires for greatness and wants power to drip from her fingers like honey. Little does she know that, in spite of her best efforts to mirror Miaâs act and state Jonathanâs opinions, she cannot make Sophya Domitrova great by being somebody else. Little does she know that reciting and knowing other peopleâs words by heart - word by word, without a blink, without a comma added by her - wasnât turning her into a woman that is articulate and coherent. At the end of the day, she was still a weak, pale girl with only good-will to follow. Not that she ever minded, as long as the lie was sweet enough to swallow, and Jonathan in particular always knew how to make his words bloom in the insides of her heart.
» {+ positives} smart, polite, educated
» {- negatives} distracted, depending, proud
» blood status: purebloodÂ
» elemental power: air
» affinity level: big affinity + studious
» date of birth: 21st November
» wand: 12 inches, sycamore core,  dragon heart string, unyielding
» faceclaim: Emma Roberts
SOPHYA DOMITROVA IS PLAYED BY RALUCA
