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Santiago de la Cruz
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Santiago de la Cruz:
Application for Hogwarts School
→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.
Name: Santiago de la Cruz
Birthday: November 13, 1958
Hometown: Salamanca, Madrid, Spain London, England
Bloodline: Halfblood
Magical Strength (pick one): Transfiguration
Magical Weakness (pick one): Conjuring & Summoning
Year (pick two): 4th Year, 5th Year if necessary
Biography:
MADRID, SPAIN
1958
He won’t remember it—the way he’s carried through the streets that will soon become familiar, bundled too tightly, or the frantic edge in her voice as she begs them to take him. He won’t remember the hollow clang of church bells or the sharp slap of a door closing behind her.
But sometimes, he dreams of a voice that sounds like the beginning of a song and the end of a prayer. And sometimes, in those dreams, he swears he smells salt, incense smoke from Sunday Mass, and orange blossoms.
MADRID, SPAIN
SALAMANCA
summer of 1961
3:35 p.m.
The hush of jute soles skims over sun-warmed stone, softened by the quick, uneven patter of small feet—beige espadrilles smudged with dust and streaked green from crushed grass. The air is thick with summer, heavy and slow, carrying the faint sweetness of jasmine tangled with the warm, yeasty scent of freshly baked bread drifting from the bakery down the street. Somewhere, a radio crackles through an open window, its tinny strains of guitar barely rising above the lazy rustle of plane leaves overhead.
His footsteps—the quick, uneven rhythm of a toddler—stop suddenly. He sees it. Or thinks he does. A flicker of movement slipping between whitewashed walls, low and fast, swallowed by shadow before he can catch more than the shape of it. His heart jumps, and his small fingers curl into his father’s sleeve, digging in.
“Papá?”
“Un perro,” his father said, hand heavy on his shoulder. “Un callejero.”
He believes him. Even as the shadow lingers too long. Even as the wind shifts, and something in him whispers otherwise.
Un perro - A dog
Un callejero - A stray
MADRID, SPAIN
summer of 1965
Paint stains his fingertips—cerulean and ochre smudged across his palms, under his nails. The canvas is chaos—half sky, half something more, something wild and strange that he doesn’t have the words for yet. Something that already makes the dark green of his eyes burn when he picks up a brush, when he sees hues and texture, angles and shadow.
“A tu madre,” his father says, voice low, almost distant. “Le habría encantado esto.”
He doesn’t understand the wistful sound of it, the sadness barely buried, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he wipes his hands on his shirt, smearing blue and gold carelessly, and says, “No he terminado todavía.”
A tu madre, Le habría encantado esto. - Your mother would have loved this
No he terminado todavía - I’m not done yet
MADRID, SPAIN
summer of 1967
Dust hangs in the air, stirred by the weight of footsteps on old wood. Thin shafts of light cut through the attic, hazy and golden, catching the edges of boxes stacked and forgotten. The one in front of him smells of olive wood and lavender, faint traces of candle wax, and something fruity—subtle but lingering, like it was packed away with summer still clinging to it.
The photos slip from his fingers, scattering across the worn floorboards. Black-and-white smiles, brittle at the edges, frozen in time.
One photo lands face-up. A girl, no older than ten, maybe younger, stares back—sharp-eyed and intense in a way that feels too familiar, intense eyes that look too much like his, but lighter than his.
“Se murió,” his mother had said when he’d asked. “Un accidente.”
Her voice had been sharp. Final. He hadn’t asked again.
But later, in the dim light of his room, he draws her anyway. Over and over. Graphite smudges his fingers, stains the side of his hand as he sketches and erases, the lines too sharp, too soft, never quite right. A tilt of the head is off, a shadow falls wrong, the curve of her mouth slips away no matter how many times he tries to fix it.
Still, he keeps at it. Keeps trying. As if the pencil might give him the answers his parents won’t. As if he can pull her from memory and shape her into something solid, something whole, something that won’t keep slipping through his fingers.
Se murió, - She died
Un accidente - An accident
BEAUXBATONS
1971
His bow cuts low, arm sweeping back with a practiced elegance that feels like instinct—like home, even if home spat at him, rejected and threw him out like garbage. His wand is steady in his hand, even as his pulse kicks up, even as he resents the feel of its light wood grain against his fingertips. Santiago doesn’t let it show. Opponent or not, he doesn’t falter.
The spell snaps, quick and harsh, and Santiago doesn’t wait to see if it lands before pivoting, deflecting the next—movements smooth, precise.
Someone calls his name. Cheers echo from the edge of the hall. He doesn’t look.
When it’s over, he lowers his wand, chest heaving, dark curls sticking to his forehead. The other boy glares, defeated. Santiago only smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Later, when the dorm is quiet and empty, he sketches the duel. The sweep of movement. The snap of light. The way the other boy’s arm had buckled. The charcoal stains his fingertips, black smudges he doesn’t bother wiping away. His wand lies forgotten, pushed to the corner of his desk like something borrowed. Something foreign.
He doesn’t show anyone the sketches. Or the paintings that follow.
MADRID, SPAIN
summer of 1973
She’s smaller than he thought she’d be. Smaller but sharper and softer all at once—angles and curves and eyes that burn when they land on him. As much as his do when they look back at her.
His first instinct is to walk past. Through her. He almost does.
“Dónde estabas?” The question slips out, raw and too young, before he can stop it. His voice cracks on the last word, and his stomach twists, nails biting into his palms.
She flinches. Just barely. Like lightning splitting through dark storm clouds. It’s enough.
His jaw tightens. The next words come out cold, sharp enough to cover the ache clawing at his chest. “Olvídalo.”
He shoves past her, shoulders square, not looking back even when he doesn’t feel her gaze on him anymore. Even as his stomach drops at this. Even as anger rises like bile in his throat—at himself, at her, at everything.
But he doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t run either. He goes with her, already knowing it’s too late to turn back, knowing he doesn’t have anything to turn back to.
Dónde estabas? - Where were you?
Olvídalo - Forget it
permission to powerplay Florencia de la Cruz given by player.
→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
Note: This section is optional, and is up to you to complete.
House Request: Ravenclaw
Personality:
Stubborn, confident, and guarded. He’s also loyal, loving, and warmly mischievous, like his mother (though he'd hate this comparison), when he’s comfortable. Passionately artistic, intense, studious and academically motivated. Guarded, mistrustful, and angry at the world.
Appearance:
Features very similar to his mother. Dark brown hair is often messy, has the dark green eyes of his father. Athletic, but lanky build of a teenager. Still growing.
→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
Option I:
The dungeons. A place eleven-year-old Evangeline had not yet travelled since her arrival at Hogwarts.
A place she really was just fine with not knowing; but it was too late. The dare had been accepted, even if it had been done in fear of being kicked out of Gryffindor, like the older girls had said she would because Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.
The air changed instantly when she hit the main corridor of the dungeons. The dampness was almost too much for her and she instinctively took a deep breath to avoid the sensation of being suffocated. There was also a sour burning smell which Evangeline assumed was from many, many Potions lessons.
Further and further she walked, her steps so slow and gentle they made no noise against the stone walls and floor. The feeling that she wasn't alone crept up her spine and raised the tiny hair on the back of her neck. Shivering, Evangeline wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly, she missed the warmth and comfort of the Gryffindor common room. The fire was always going and it made her feel at ease.
Why had she let those girls talk her into this? She was only eleven, she didn't have to be brave. Surely the Headmistress would not kick her out of Hogwarts for not being brave.
If only she had these thoughts while being dared to search for the ghost of one Emma Birch, whom supposedly haunted the dungeons. It was not, Evangeline had learned, the place where the sixteen-year-old girl's life had ended but as she had been from the house with a snake as its mascot, it was the place her spirit had returned to. That common room was down here somewhere, she'd been told.
Something - the small blonde girl wasn't quite sure what - but something made her stop in her tracks suddenly. There was a low, dull thumping noise. Or maybe that was her heart beating so loudly she thought it was coming from outside her body.
"H-h-hello?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Remembering that she was supposed to be brave, Evangeline tried again.
"Hello! Is Emma Birch here?"
The sound of her own words bouncing back at her off the walls made her jump.
Roleplay Response:
He didn’t bother looking up right away.
The tip of his charcoal dragged across parchment, the soft scrape loud in the dungeon’s hush. Shadows stretched long across the floor, twisting from the low torchlight flickering against stone. He’d come down here for the quiet. For the cold that settled in his chest, steadier than the heat that never really left him. It reminded him of Madrid; of narrow alleys and church bells at dusk.
He didn’t expect anyone else.
The voice hit first. Small. Wavering. And Santiago paused mid-stroke, the fine edge of his charcoal hovering just above the half-finished curve of a jawline he hadn’t gotten quite right. Then came the name—Emma Birch.
He didn’t flinch, but his brow creased, mouth pulling into a slight frown as his shoulders tensed.
Santiago set the charcoal down slowly. Tilting his head back, he found himself looking up at a girl—small, maybe eleven, red tie. Gryffindor. Weren’t they supposed to be brave? This one didn’t look brave. She just looked like a scared little girl.
He didn’t know or care who Emma Birch was. But he did want her to stop shouting. It echoed.
“Are you lost?” His accent carried through, still shaped by his Castilian roots, though softer now, rounded by three years attending Beauxbatons. His words came smooth and deliberate. His tone wasn’t particularly warm, but he still gave her his attention, waiting.
He silently was hoping she’d just say no and leave.
→ ABOUT YOU.
Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Monty King, Rocío Valdés, Billie Dragomir, Tala Bellestorm, etc.
How did you find us?: Waayyyy too many years ago, so Google, probably?
Roisin Byrne:
Dear Mr. de la Cruz,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Term begins on 1 January. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki, and we encourage you to spend your summer there. Should you choose, you may also visit our Elsewhere board via the Floo Network to visit or purchase school supplies.
Yours sincerely,
Hufflepuff Head of House
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