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(We know. Because we do.)
𓃦
𝖂hen Dafne Kavanagh finds something she loves, she sticks with it.
The gold fox charm, a gift from Dex Kavanagh to his daughter, aged eight, is equally cherished as the gold bangles (charmed to twinkle in the melody of her favorite ABBA songs) fourteen-year-old Dafne bought from a Zanzibari witch in Diagon Alley. The waterfall lengths of her hair. Dark chocolate. Her nightly ritual of finding any visible constellation in the sky and wishing upon it. The smell of cardamom and cedar-wood in the air—the hint Dafne is not too far away. The merry fools she calls her mates. If stubbornness had a shape, its silhouette would mimic the likes of Dafne Kavanagh. Every iron bone of hers murmurs a prayer to never set these things free.
Other things are let go...
Her title of Daughter in regard to her Mother.
That's been taken away since Dafne was ten and the incident solidified that, yes, Leonor Rowle-Reva might love Dafne in a very distant way, but for the disappointment of her blood status, Leonor could never be proud of her. Whatever. Dafne doesn't think she was that good of a daughter to begin with; especially by her mum's family standards. It was a well known fact Rowle women had a complex relationship with their obligatory professions; more so than the complicated relationships they tend to have with one another. Even as a little girl, Dafne found herself the antitheses of the ideal Rowle women are held responsible for upholding when she sullied their pureblood streak by being born. Daughterhood, for whatever it's worth, seems like a death sentence these days. Again, whatever. Dafne thinks she'll live. Albeit, not as someone worthy to be Leonor Rowle-Reva's daughter. At least she'll always be grand enough to be Dex Kavanagh's girl.
If anything — Dafne has Dex.
And Dex has Dafne, even with her Rowle bestowed tendencies to amplify and see the magical capacity of anyone around her and for it, the looming shadow that is her mum's family threatening their idyllic days. This happens, they say, it's a gift. Dafne thinks that's a sick way to describe a defect conditional on pureblood propaganda. Never mind that this ''gift'' forces her to see too much magic in the air, constantly, everywhere, that it overwhelms her some days where she can't get out of bed. Never mind that enemies of the Rowle coven sent Azkaban-freed mercenaries after her as a child because the Sacred Twenty-Eight must remain neutral in their power balance.
