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CRUZ BELLO
Pureblood Wizard
Age
27
Wiz Friends
33
ABOUT
Occupation
Investor
Birthdate
December 30th
Lives in
London
Sexuality
Heterosexual
Status
Engaged
In a relationship with
Octavia Angelis
Alias
Bowie

PHOTOS

OWL STATUS

CRUZ BELLO
Last Active: Oct 12 2017, 10:59 PM
Let's play the blame game. I love you, more.
Expand Reply   Rehoot  


CRUZ BELLO
History
I. “Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.” – BEFORE

On the seventh day of December during a particularly vicious winter, there echoed in a palatial estate the cries of a woman in the beginnings childbirth. Deep within the home, through a labyrinth of gleaming white carrara marble there was a room with its door only just ajar. Inside, Camilla Bello lay small and pallid in a bed that seemed to swallow the room itself.

Her hands reached for the gods above, sweat beading as diamonds on her crown. Around her head, the wild tendrils of her hair knotted and snarled as she writhed in a pain she would remember until her dying day.

In a semi-circle, the finest healers galleons could buy consulted with one another whilst measuring tinkling vials and laying cool hands on her brow. She was the exquisite oil-brushed Madonna and they her common folk in worship.

Another spine-jarring scream sounded in the room, startling them all.

And so went the birth of Cruz Tristao Bello. He was to be first and only heir to the Bello home.

His father emerged from the shadows, brushing aside clinical hands so that he might admire his seed. The shaded pools beneath his eyes did not disappear but instead, provided a stark contrast to the glimmering mahogany of his gaze. It swept impersonally over the weeping infant in his arms.

At first.

Cruz was two months premature. His skin was but a translucent vessel for the miniature viscera within. Covering him from head to toe, Cristobal discovered a downy layer of hair. But the lines of his face softened when he found the wailing subsided long enough for him to note the color of Cruz’s eyes.

His own eyes stared up at him.

Silence invaded the room, naught permeating the air but Camilla’s labored breaths. Cristobal placed his son in the arms of the nearest healer.

“He’ll do,” Came the terse estimation, Cristobal did not disguise the stern line of his mouth. “See to it that he nurses.”

The healer had no instance to question Cristobal on questions of aftercare for he was already gone, the echoes of his footfalls in his wake.

II. “As if you were on fire from within./The moon lives in the lining of your skin.” – BEFORE HER

The Bello Estate was sufficient for the early years of Cruz’s education.

His family did not believe in a difference in blood. Not so far as purity went, in any case. The tenets of the Bello household were based on more complex ideals than that sort of archaic standard.

Cruz would be the bastion, the guardian, the preserver of their name. Loyalty to family came before all things. He would assume his father’s role, just as his father had done before him and his grandfather before him.

He would not carve a niche for himself in the world because his niche had long been carved for him. He only needed to fit into it. It was fortuitous that Cruz was not opposed to this. Not in the beginning.

His father saw to it that he learned all the things a man must learn. Not because it would make him a man but because it would make him a better man. These trinkets and baubles of wealth did not make men but learning, knowledge, and talent made men.

Cristobal was determined that Cruz would rise above the hoi polloi.

As it were, Cruz was taught French and English. Spanish being his first language. He learned Greek but only enough to get through the Classics. While he had no use for it, he was also taught Muggle maths and science. He also was instructed in fencing and archery, taking naturally to the bow and arrow.

While Camilla did not have the same importance on her input, she saw to it that Cruz learned to speak beautifully. He was taught the importance of silvery smalltalk. She saw to it that he learned to dance. It was with her encouragement that he became a talented violinist.

The instruction of magic would come on the eve of his eleventh birthday. Upon discovering Cruz’s affinity for the arts, his father seized his violin and dancing shoes.

Tossing them into the fire, his father spoke in warning tones, “It is time to put away childish things. You are being sent to Beauxbatons.”

III. “I want/To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” – BEFORE US

Beauxbatons was a school filled with children.

Oh, did Cruz loathe them all with their running noses, ill manners, and pathetic carriage. He made it a point to sequester himself. He did not engage in clubs or silly sports. He attended his lessons and he went to his dorms. He was a gifted but reclusive student.

Through secret correspondence with his mother, he acquired another violin. This was his most trusted friend. With resin and bow, he loosed upon the world every sorrowful thought, every thrash for independence, and every shrill call for more than he had.

Instantly, the stained-glass guilt of his upbringing compounded on him, reminding Cruz that he had so much to be thankful for. What was a life of solitude in exchange for comfort, wealth, talent, and security?

The Fates, Cruz learned, were cruel mistresses.

Practicing alone in the courtyard became his escape. Every night after dinner, he’d steal out to the grounds and play til he could no longer discern rosebud from leaf from thorn. The song of his strings and stroke floated to the skies above, vanished in the ethers.

Blanketed by the velvet black of the universe and her taunting, sparkling stars, he fervently wished for more. Despite the voices of his faith and learnedness begging for his silence.

IV. “I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair./ Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.” – HER

The night of his graduation from Hogwarts, his father had thrown a bash. The party boasted a guest list of over three hundred, many of which Cruz had never even met. Dukes and Duchesses came from distant lands to chat with his mother over property values. Celebrities from the papers sniped at one another over champagne worth more than the jewels they wore. Women came and went in flocks, twittering about Cruz like so many birds.

While the party was for Cruz, he did not partake. His father saw to it that he mingled and thanked the faceless attendees. But he was not to drink, not to schmooze, and most certainly not to dance.

That night the announcement of his succession to the university would be announced. Cruz would go to Switzerland so that he might learn the intricacies of magical international trade. He would oversee the family investments, as was implied.

With a decorative champagne flute in hand, he raised a toast to himself and his new endeavor.

- - - - -
Life commenced. Years passed.

Cruz learned and excelled. He turned convention on its head, innovating new ways to invade foreign markets. His fledgling silver tongue became a razor-edged sword.

On the crest of his success, he returned to Spain from his ventures just as the tides always return to their home. It was then that he was shown to his father’s office, his mother curiously absent.

Cradled in cherry-hued leather, his fingers rested upon weathered wood as his father removed a leatherbound dossier from his desk. The contents were the next forty years of his life. As his constellation had been mapped, so had his wife.

The help in the room lifted the dossier with careful hands as Cruz had not moved upon hearing the news. Though heavy, it was gently placed in his lap. As though she were but a new thing to learn, his future wife waved from a photo he was certain was not for him.

Octavia Angelis of Greece, the handwritten note read beneath her.

“She is perfect for our family. Smart, strong, and beautiful. Your children will be similar. Perhaps you can honor our name with more than one son,” His father lifted his tumbler of bourbon with a wry smile.

V. “Tonight I can write the saddest lines/I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.” – US

They warred for hours.

Cruz’s magic crackled angrily, shattering family heirlooms in their enchanted glass cabinets. His father remained seated, only a little bemused at the display. Even as shards of his grandfather’s urn rained down on them, his father sat undeterred.

Meanwhile, Cruz was a renaissance painting of fury. The color of summer tulips painted his cheeks, his jaw muscle flexing in perfect clarity. As many masterpieces do, his body was a study of wrath in the very throes. His arms raised as if for celestial intervention. His chest heaved in a breathless pant, having screamed himself raw.

“I will not,” He whispered finally, the words as loud as the last post. “She does not love me and I deserve that much.”

His father brushed the ash remnants of his own father from his bespoken blazer, “You will. And she will. Your mother learned, so will Octavia.”

But his father was wrong.

VI. “Because of you, the heady perfumes of/Summer pain me; because of you, I again/Seek out the signs that precipitate desires:/Shooting stars, falling objects.” – NOW


Cruz knew that she hated him the moment they were tossed into the same dinner together.

But it wasn’t to say that he didn’t try.

He thought they might make the best of it. He thought she might learn to like him, if only a little. Upon their first meeting, he bent to kiss the fine-boned gold of her hand. The chill in her touch only put him off slightly.

Drawing them into a little alcove so that he might have privacy before offering the proverbial rose, he took her hand in his. Cruz ignored the glint of the ring she wore. Something of her old life.

Instead, the effortless melodic sound of his Spanish filled the air between them in a secret whisper.

“Yo te he nombrado reina. Hay más altas que tú, más altas. Hay más puras que tú, más puras. Hay más bellas que tú, hay más bellas. Pero tú eres la reina.”

When her hand slipped from his, impersonal as if he’d been a helper boy, he knew it was lost. Everything was lost. This private hell was his alone. His cross. Octavia said nothing to him or his words.

She turned and she was gone.

It would be the theme of their life.

There was no majesty in early mornings. No warmth to be had in their fleeting touches. She would look through him and he would stand for it. His life would be a production of tolerance and settling. For all anchors eventually find their watery graves.

A loveless marriage to a woman enamoured with a specter. Cruz’s entire life dedicated to becoming a man amongst mongrels, only to find he was a ghost the entire time.