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Messages - Solange Santoro

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Archived Applications / Solange Santoro
« on: 01/08/2019 at 20:23 »

Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Solange Santoro

Birthday: 23 July 1942

Hometown: Spello, Perugia, Italy

Bloodline: Halfblood

Magical Strength (pick one): Conjuring & Summoning

Magical Weakness (pick one): Transfiguration

Year (pick two): 4th Year (1st choice), 5th Year



Sol Santoro was in love.

Sprawled across the sun-warmed sheets of her bed, book in hand, she breathed in the aroma of caffè latte that routinely announced the arrival of morning in the little town of Spello, amidst gentle murmurs from the kitchen and sounds of life awakening outside.

Sol was only nine then, but promised herself that she would live out the rest of her life in whimsical Spello. There, she would spend sun-soaked days in her mother’s overflowing garden, full of zucchine and pomodoro and schiacciare; day trips to Castellucio and the blooming plains, laughing with horses and Papà; late mornings wandering about the dappled streets with John Paul, clever little cat that he was, as her partner-in-crime.

Yes, Sol was sure of it. She loved the red potted geraniums that speckled the white walls and windowsills of quiet streets, red as her mother’s lipstick, red like the velvet sofa, the one her mother would read the newspaper on every morning. She loved the record player in her Papà’s study, the room that breathed of leather and cigarettes and earth and shelves full of books, breathy opera wavering across surreal summer scenes.

She loved Spello, and their little home, and she wouldn’t give it up for anything.


Sol Santoro was in love-- falling head over heels, without hesitation, as she had for the past eleven years. Each day bringing with it another devoted declaration to whatever pursuit, place, or person she had taken a fondness to.

At Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, there were quite a number of things to love. Hours exploring a labyrinth of endless bookshelves, only to spend several more curled up in some sunlit nook with a stack of assorted titles and a promise of pins and needles later on. Picnics with friends and strangers alike, brought together on the meticulously pruned lawn through conjured treats and passionate discussion. A daily morning exchange of flushed cheeks and shy smiles when passing by the fountain, gaze catching the teasing grin of that one cute boy in 3e Annee.

She loved Beauxbatons, and magic, and this world that was hers, and again, she would not give it up for anything in the world.


Snap, tick, click. It was after the lighter’s rasp that the candles sitting so symmetrically upon the cake were set alight. Sol pressed a kiss onto her mother’s cheek, awash in the dancing shadows of the flame. “Make a wish, Mamma."

Snap, tick, click. Lens set and motor running, the camera whirred into action at her hands. Framed through the peep sight, her mother sat haloed in warm light and cheer, brown eyes full of honeyed mirth, the picture of happiness but for a brief reflection of sadness, too quick to catch.

With a whoosh, the candles blew out, and for a moment, the room was shrouded in darkness.


This was not how it was supposed to go.

There were too many promises yet to be fulfilled. But they lay in shambles at her feet, echoes in her heart.

Solange Santoro loved many things, places, and people. She loved the sun and its shadows, the flame and its smoke. She loved the little things, like how her Papà would make her mother laugh until they both cried. She loved her mother, and how smart she was, and how pretty she looked that one special day.

Her heart burned and burned, grief fading into anger, and anger falling into a trembling calm.

Spello faded into the distance from the rearview of the car almost as quickly as her third year at Beauxbatons came to its close. She said goodbye to both, and faintly recalled a promise she had made four years ago.

Sol let out a great big sigh, and turned the camera in her hands toward the window.

The sun beat on.


So this was London.

Snap, tick, click. Camera pressed to her eye, and trunk being dragged along by her free hand, Sol Santoro let slip a small smile at the bustling city.

And though her cotton blouse stuck to her skin in the summer heat, and her luggage was too heavy, and her mind and body weary of travel, and her little family was now one less than three, she supposed that, perhaps-

Perhaps Sol Santoro was in love, again.


House Request: Ravenclaw or Slytherin.


Sol Santoro strives for perfection. She will be the best of the best, doesn’t believe in third time’s the charm, and scoffs at mediocrity. She is the solitary raised hand in class, books stacked haphazardly on her desk, quill at the ready and ink smudged on her hands.

She is always right. Stubborn and with words sharp as a blade, she’ll promise you that yes, your argument is quite the admirable effort, but it is also completely wrong. Sol Santoro promises many things, and if challenged, hidden behind an easy smile is a hard glint in her eyes that promises she’ll prove her point soon enough.

Sol Santoro is not someone you can ignore, and definitely not someone you should ignore. You can most definitely try, but she promises she’ll be there until the end of time, waiting for you to acknowledge her (very entertaining) presence. She finds herself most comfortable smack dab in the middle of things, receiving and giving attention, a Queen sitting on her throne, the Sun in its orbit.

She falls in and out of love too easily and too fast, so passionate about the smallest of things but only for the briefest of moments. Sol Santoro shines, and shines, and shines, but she seems to forget too often that the Sun burns those who come too close.


Years of southern sun have painted Solange in golden bronze and freckled skin. The wind often sends her dark curls in every which way, and her warm gaze travels to and fro almost as equally quickly. She’s searching for a story, a scene, an aesthetic shot, an interesting figure, a wad of intriguing gossip from some caught-unawares, nosy boccalone. For those who know her well, a slight rise of the brow, a quirk at the lips, a wisp of a curl behind an ear--and she’s off, questions, comments, and inquiry at the ready like a diver on the precipice of the jumping board. (Perhaps she’s the nosy boccalone herself.)

Sol Santoro is dark hair scattered just so, questioning brown eyes and a gaze you can’t quite read; a proud 5’7, tall enough to command attention and reach for jars on the shelf without help; she is loose pants and cotton blouses, eucalyptus, incense, jasmine, mandarin, sandalwood, and bay, not light or delicate at all, but rather heady, strong, and stubborn. Vibrant and dark, pleasing to the eye in a melancholic sort of way.


Option I:

Annoyance came to mind when Sol thought of her current predicament, though the word was probably an understatement of her simmering frustration. Half an hour ago she had sat cozy on the sheets of her bed, moonlight streaming through the open window and a slight breeze setting aflutter the pages of her Potions textbook.

Oh, how she yearned for the comforts of her dorm instead of trudging about in the pungent must of the Hogwarts dungeons. She had given in, of course, to the incessant encouraging of her roommates for a spontaneous frolick around the castle, though Sol now felt the blanket of regret settling heavily onto her shoulders. Somehow, along the way, she had lost the rowdy group and ended up here, tired, and yes, very, very annoyed.

”Hello! Is Emma Birch here?”

The echo set her teeth on edge. Holding back an eye roll, Sol approached the high-pitched voice, eyes narrowing as her assumptions were confirmed.

“No, Emma Birch is not here, won’t be here, and has not been here, but I am.”

Tapping her foot against the slick stone of the floor, Sol stared the girl down, a faint wisp of an amused, but tired smile at the night’s antics.

“I suppose you could accompany me back to the dorms. Unless you’d rather stay...here.”


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