A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. This is my first time writing a fanfic, and so your feedback has been very encouraging.

Warning- this is a much darker and more serious chapter. It contains hints of domestic abuse, both physical and mental, and so if that bothers you please do not read.

Morgana:

I stood outside of my house, searching inside myself to gather up the courage I knew I would need. Every normal, happy thought that had been occupying my brain- Vivian's face when a substantial load of physics homework had been dumped on us this afternoon; Merlin Ambrose's cheekbones; my new, enchanting yet shy friend Gwen-had been cruelly erased and replaced with the sheer panic that I bitterly hated yet always experienced when in the proximity of the house in which I slept.

Taking deep, calming breaths, I attempted to force my feet to complete the last few steps towards the front door and failed miserably. God, I was so goddamn weak. An overwhelming urge to cry, to just sink to the floor and sob uncontrollably, hit me with full force but I wrestled it back angrily. How could it be, that after all these years it still took me so long to enter my own home? Was I really so pathetic?

I was sure that if I ever talked to anyone about my... domestic situation, they would find my thought processes incredibly odd. I'd heard many a time that children from "unhappy" homes spent all their time obsessing over the pain, making few friends and lacking the motivation to participate in many areas of life. I was the bizarre opposite, a perpetual abnormality. I enjoyed school and achieved more than acceptable grades, adored talking to the other people and I especially loved my friends. School was my happy place, my oasis in the desert. I found it surprisingly easy to pretend to have a normal life inside its ugly walls and it was almost too easy to forget about him. Not a single thought of my father crossed my mind when I was at school, unless someone made a comment that was directly related to him, or something happened to bring back a familiar nightmare.

And yet, even though it had been years, I still had to fight back tears as I took in the crumbling brick building. Surely I should be immune by now? Hadn't I conditioned myself to be strong about it yet? I shook these thoughts out of my head and, steeling myself, entered the house with a quick, almost unconscious sign of the cross. I needed divine intervention to handle him.

I crept into the house, attempting to sneak past him but was soon pulled to a halt by his overpowering, deep voice: "And where do you think you're going, eh?"

His figure came out of the living room and I glanced wearily at his sneering face, trying to assess his mood in order to formulate a safe response. The sickly sweet stench of alcohol oozed from his clothes and I tried- God, I tried- to tamper down the fear that rose in my throat as I caught sight of the feral look in his eye. "I was just going to get a head start on some homework," I replied quietly, while attempting to put some space between us. He didn't allow it, dragging me back to him by a thick clump of my hair. I bit down on my lip to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape as I felt the roots of my hair protest against my scalp. My father did not often put his hands on me, preferring to resort to an endless stream of verbal abuse. In a way it was almost worse-not knowing which I punishment I would be subjected to everyday.

"Like hell you are," he growled. "Katrina's coming over and this house is in no state to greet her. You're cleaning it, now." I knew better than to argue, torn between relief that he and Katrina had not fought after all, and revulsion at their twisted relationship. I nodded, as it was best to say as little as possible around Uther le Fay, and tried not to make a sound as he dragged me to the small living room that was littered with broken bottles and various other forms of rubbish.

"Get to work then, little bitch," he spat at me while making himself comfortable on the sofa.

I began to clean immediately, struggling to block out the tirade of vicious curses and pointed insults that left my father's mouth as I worked. It was all in vain; every word cut me like a blunt knife, and so I instead focused on not showing any response to the words. I felt my face slip into the familiar blank expression I had mastered after years of living under this scarred and rotting roof, while he continued in a gleeful tone that hurt far more than any of his words ever could.

"Look at how pathetic you are," he jabbed, ruthlessly. I shuddered as I felt his cold eyes burn into my back. "you can't speak, you can't even look at me- you wouldn't last one minute in the real world, you little piece of shit. You're lucky I even allow you to live here or you wouldn't even be alive right now. Is there anything you can do? Oh right, how could I possibly forget. You's perfectly capable of killing your own mother." I flinched at his last words while he let out a cruel, humourless laugh, and I attempted to speed up my task with vigour.

It was in the early hours of the morning when I finally managed to finish my homework. It had taken me hours to clean the tiny building of all the junk that had accumulated over the period of one day and a further hour of making Katrina and my father dinner, after which they spent the evening engaging in a game of "who-can-maim-Morgana-the-most." Needless to say, I was exhausted.

Ignoring the grunts and moans coming from the room next door, I slipped into the minuscule bathroom and examined the bruise that had appeared on my right cheek, courtesy of my father's favourite belt. Katrina had particularly enjoyed that one. I sighed, as I hardly ever bruised, even when the blows were particularly painful. Apparently, I wasn't so lucky this time. Hopefully, no one would notice that I would be wearing make up tomorrow.

I stared at the mirror, hard. No matter what pain he tried to inflict on me, I did not want my father- my only living relative- to be condemned for his actions. After everything I'd done, everything I'd taken from him, I owed it to him. I did not want to be a weak, spineless child who could not endure a few harsh words and a little bit of physical contact, particularly when they were deserved. There were innocent children out there who were beaten from dawn to dusk daily without fail and yet did not utter a whimper or word of complaint. And so I returned to my room, got down onto my knees, and prayed in earnest for the strength that I did not possess, and forgiveness I did not deserve.

I'm sorry, Mum.

A/N: And there we have an insight into the less picturesque aspects of Morgana's life. I never wanted this story to be one-dimensional, and so while there will be humour, lightheartedness and fluff, there will also be angst and drama. Gwen and Morgana carry a lot of baggage in their lives.

On a lighter note, I hope you all had a fantastic Easter.

Coming up: Gwen discovers Morgana has an indisputable crush on a certain adopted brother of hers... (Also for all the romantics out there, there will be some Arthur-Gwen interaction).