A/N: It's cool to see so many followers and favourites after such a short amount of time, so thank you for that. Reviews would be pretty encouraging, as well.

CS

Morgan walks with a purpose straight towards the giant building made of marble, her hand in his and the crowd seems to part for them on instinct. He thinks it must be a strange sight for children of black and grey to pave their way through a sea of colour without much effort. (But she's brighter than them all, somehow, as though she's both the darkest black and a kaleidoscope of rainbow hues.)

"There," she says, and Tom focuses on a tall, sophisticated man exiting the entrance to their destination. "Do your best to remain calm, please."

Her words give him an annoying sense of anxiety ̶ (why is that a necessary thing to say? What's wrong with him? Who is he?) ̶ but he squeezes her hand as a silent promise to try. His magic is especially responsive when he's under emotional duress, he knows, and it wouldn't do to make a bad first impression. (He doesn't care about whether people like him or not. They mean nothing to him.)

When they move closer, the man's features become more distinguishable ̶ all sharp features that are indicative of obnoxiously high breeding ̶ but the first thing that Tom notices is how his almond-shaped eyes almost immediately land on Morgan as if compelled to look at her. Tom feels himself cease to breathe as those amber eyes widen in alarm before a strangled, desperate sort of hope rises to the surface. Abruptly, the wizard comes to a stop and leans back as if unexpectedly winded as he gapes at the sight of her.

(Oh, lord, he sees her. He sees how special and wondrous Morgan is and he's going to try to take her away from ̶ )

Tom hisses through his teeth in a forced exhale and tightens his grip on Morgan's hand as he struggles to push down the vile, hostile emotions that claw at his insides. (He abhors him. Without a name, without an introduction; he disdains this man like disdains the one who tried to invade their room in the middle of the night.)

And though she says nothing, Morgan glances at him, which makes him feel as though he's already disappointed her. "Breathe," she whispers, her mien unchanging.

He breathes and clings onto the assurance that she's not disappointed; that she's not judging him for being inadequate. (She won't leave him. She promised.)

"Jannetta?"

Tom twitches, and he's irritated with himself as he realises how he's unconsciously pushed himself against Morgan's shoulder like he's subtly attempting to hide behind her. But he doesn't move away. Instead, the only part of him that moves is his head as he raises to look at an awed, handsome face staring down at Morgan and Morgan alone.

(He's both irked and relieved to be treated as invisible.)

Morgan blinks, looks into this man's eyes and they both watch as he looks as though he's ready to fall to his knees. "No," she denies. "Her daughter."

The man shatters into a thousand pieces and Tom smiles with genuine delight.

. . .

. . .

His name is Maxence Marie and he is Morgan Myriam Marie's biological father. Tom fails to understand why there's a need for such overtly alliterative names, but he doesn't voice his incomprehension. He doubts Morgan would bother to explain and Maxence would likely not even hear him. (Arse.)

Tom's mood is so sour that he can't even bring himself to appreciate how the interior of this ice cream parlour ̶ (does it truly need to be called, 'Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour'? Does the world really need to know whose parlour this belongs to from the start?) ̶ is magically made to be much larger than the exterior would imply.

Morgan offers him another lick of their shared ice cream, which he does with a mulish frown. It's nice; sweet. He doesn't know what flavour it is. It still does little to lift his mood since Maxence sits across from them and stares. (The way he stares at Morgan is a complex mixture of tumultuous emotions, but the fact that Tom is reminded of the adults back at the orphanage makes him want to stab something. Preferably someone sitting right across from him.)

"I could've bought two," Maxence points out with an accent on his tongue, a mild furrow to his brow as he watches the two children before him. "I still can." Is he only saying that because he doesn't want the two of them to share? Or is it simply because he's a fair soul who just wants two kids to have an equal amount?

With great restraint, Tom manages to not sneer and shatter the nearest window with his errant magic. When Morgan doesn't deign to answer for the next ten minutes or so, he becomes uneasy as he notices that her father seems to be already accustomed to her demeanour.

"We've never had it before," she finally explains, her free hand reaching over to wipe away the dab of ice cream from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. He catches the dark, conflicted gleam in Maxence's eyes as she licks her thumb and that's ̶ "We might not have liked it or our stomachs might've rejected it," Morgan continues, sliding her heavy-lidded eyes towards him and raising a single brow. Tom feels as though he's coming undone. (But he'll follow her anywhere. Always.)

Maxence's frown becomes more pronounced with bemusement. "Never? Where do you live? Doesn't Jannetta ̶ " he cuts off, a haunted glaze over his eyes as he takes a moment to reorient himself. It doesn't work to fix his composure, for he meets his daughter's blank gaze and buries his face in his hands.

Tom is gratified to see the clear display of denial and grief. Morgan finishes the ice cream ̶ at his insistence ̶ with an admirable dispassion. "Nowhere, now," she replies as Maxence props his elbows on the table, face still hidden. "I'd like for you to take us in, please."

"Of course," Maxence mutters, the words sounding both like a curse and a resigned acceptance. He intertwines his fingers and places his forehead against the makeshift support, looking rather despondent and pathetic. "She… You're… Of course. For her."

"For her," Morgan repeats. Nothing in her voice changes and yet the sense of foreboding is clear.

Tom's not the only one who notices.

. . .

. . .

"I don't like him," Tom hisses as he glowers at the back of Maxence's head. "You know I don't. Must we go with him?"

Morgan stares ahead at nothing in particular as they follow their soon-to-be guardian while he finishes running errands. (Tom trusts her. He does. But… He's unnerved and the feeling is heavily disliked.) "It'll work out," she murmurs. It's not much of a reassurance. "He doesn't live alone. His brother makes the final decisions since he's the patriarch." That, however, is better, though only marginally so. Sometimes, she can so cryptic. He's lucky that he's familiar with it; he might've thrown something in frustration, otherwise.

He still has grievances about the situation, but not wanting to whine like some overindulged brat, Tom opts to scowl at the ground. He should question her, shouldn't he? How does she know what she does? How can she possibly know all these little details when they're the same age and have been together since infancy?

But he doesn't. (As long as she stays with him, it doesn't matter.) Instead, "Your mother was like you, wasn't she?" is what he asks. Maxence mistook her for Jannetta and Tom doesn't know how to feel.

"Yes," is Morgan's easy response. "But she was meant to leave."

"I said I'd stay, didn't I?" is what he hears, instead.

CS

A/N: Turns out there's a song called 'Changing Shape' by Anthony Green. It's not bad and the lyrics sort of fit with this story, so that's a nice coincidence. As a side note, I sort of imagine that Tom looks at Morgan like he's on drugs or something. Any thoughts on Tom being such an angry boy would be fun to read.

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