[Summary] — Druella/Cygnus (platonic) [Royalty!AU] Druella is sent to the Kingdom of Slytherin in an attempt to keep her safe, but her troubles have only just begun.

A/N — This is based on the first episode of the BBC version of Merlin (though obviously a very condensed version). The lyrics are from Familiar Taste of Poison by Halestorm.

[2496]


I tell myself,

That you're no good for me

I wish you well,

But desire never leaves

…oOo…

"Mother, are you sure this is a good idea?" Druella asks, worried frown pulling down the corners of her lips. "Slytherin, after all … it's … it's not safe for people like me."

Her mother cups Druella's face in her palms, kissing her cheek. "I know you're scared —" Druella would argue, but her mother's hold on her face makes talking a little difficult "— but it's really the best place you could go. Hiding in plain sight." Druella is unconvinced, and that must show on her expression because her mother continues: "It's not safe for you here, either. It's not safe for you anywhere. At least in Slytherin, there are people who might be able to help you. To understand."

Druella had heard tales, when she was a child, of parents who killed their children when they were like her. Who removed the stain on their family before it could become a problem. Who acted as if the child had never existed and carried on with their lives like normal. There were times she wished her mother had been one of those people. Mostly, however, she thinks she is better off the way she is.

She nods, pulling away. "I know, Mother," she sighed, because really she did know. In this small village bordering the Kingdoms of Slytherin and Ravenclaw, it was so easy to tell who was different — who didn't belong — that she was lucky to have made it out of childhood at all, regardless of her mother's intervention.

"I'll miss you," she says, allowing herself a rare moment of openly-expressed emotion. "I won't like being so far away."

Her mother smiles, though her eyes are rapidly filling with tears. "I'm sure that's not true. You'll be having the time of your life. Your uncle lives in the castle —" she sniffs loudly "— isn't that exciting?" Druella nods again; she's not particularly excited about living in a castle — it seems awfully confining, especially for someone used to spending most of their time in the open fields or grassy hills — but she doesn't wish to upset her mother further.

"I suppose it might," she concedes. "And I haven't seen Uncle …" she trails off awkwardly.

"Horace, dear."

"Uncle Horace —" she nods her thanks "— in so long."

"He might not recognise you," her mother says, taking her chin in her hand once more and tilting her face, looking at her from different angles. "You've grown so beautiful." Druella knows this isn't true.

"I might not recognise him," she counters. Her mothers only response is a slightly exasperated smile. "I can write to you?" she asks, unable to mask the insecurity in her tone, knowing that she must leave soon.

"Of course," is her mother's warm response. She wraps her daughter in her arms. "I'll find someone to read them to me."

Druella nods, her own eyes filling with tears now, though she hopes she is successful in hiding them, and gives her mother one final hug goodbye.

.oOo.

The town at the centre of Slytherin is nothing like she's ever seen before. There's so many people, and they're all in such a rush; the market place is crowded with more people than her entire village twice over has, and the area is a lot smaller than she had thought it would be. And the smell. Atrocious to say the least.

"Excuse me?" she asks a gentle looking woman. The woman turns an angry glare on her, eyes flashing gold in warning, and Druella backs up, spewing apologies. Slytherin is nothing like she's used to.

She struggles on, finding herself moving in the opposite direction of the majority of the crowd, struggling to keep her knapsack close and not have it disappear off with a stranger.

"Are you alright?" a man asks. He is much shorter than she expected.

"I — yes, I — thank you," she stutters; her mother had always taught her it was rude to stare, but this man is the size of a child. If it weren't for the clear signs of age to his face and his long beard he's likely have mistaken him for one. If she had merely glanced over, not hearing hims speak first, she's almost certain she would have. "I'm looking for my uncle," she says. "He's the court physician."

"You're Horace's niece?" the man asks, face lighting up with recognition. "He's spoken of nothing else all week." That would be nice, Druella thinks, had she known a week ago that she was coming here. As it is, it all feels a little too out of her control.

He nods and smiles politely, adjusting her pack on her shoulders. "Well, I suppose I mustn't keep him waiting."

"Yes, quite, quite," the little man nods, disappearing quickly into the crowd. She'd forgotten to ask his name. She turns quickly. "Watch where you're going, you great oaf!" she yells as she forcefully slams into another body.

"Who do you think you are?" a man snaps; she can tell from his clothing that he is rich, but that doesn't excuse bad manners. She willingly ignores the fact that she hadn't been paying attention either — at this point, she is hot and irritable and more than a little hungry. Her eyes travel up, landing on his face. Under any other circumstances, she might have found him attractive. As it is, he orders two of the men with him to seize her. So, naturally, she punches him.

Had she known he was the youngest prince of Slytherin, well … she'd probably have done exactly the same thing.

.oOo.

A rather rotund man steps up to the bars of her cell. "You must be Druella, I presume."

"Uncle Horace?" she asks; she doesn't recognise the man, but who else in Slytherin would know her name?

"You've made quite the entrance," he says. "Caused a bit of a stir in the market, you did."

"I'm sorry," she says, though she is not feeling particularly apologetic. "I didn't mean to."

"I'm sure you didn't, my dear."

"What happens now?" she asks; this is the one question anyone has yet to answer. "Am I to be hanged?"

"Of course not." She lets out a sigh of relied. "The king much prefers burnings." Suddenly, she is tense once more. "But I've spoken to the king — I'm his physician, you know — and we've come to an agreement."

"Oh?" She doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she can already feel them rising.

"Yes, you are to be released tomorrow."

"Really?" Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad here after all, her uncle clearly had some —

"After spending a day in the stocks."

Fantastic.

.oOo.

She trudges up to her uncles quarters sullenly, pulling bits of rotten fruit from her hair and leaving a trail of the juices in her wake. It would have to be someone else's problem, she decides; she's suffered enough for one day. At least her uncle had managed to give her directions to his rooms before he'd left the guards to take her to the stocks. The one useful thing he'd done since she got here.

If it ever came down to this choice again, she'd probably choose the fire. People had brought potatoes to throw at her. Potatoes.

"Oh, what is that smell?" Horace says by way of greeting.

"That would be me, uncle."

"Did you not bathe?"

She doesn't deign this with a response. Instead, she says: "Might I go to bed, please?"

"Not smelling like that, good heavens no," he says, pulling out his wand and muttering a quick scouring charm. He seems rusty — the spell does the job, for the most part, but it is not particularly refined, and still leaves bits of the fruit behind — and she imagines how she could have done better, had she …

But, she supposes, what is left will be easy enough to deal with. "Now," he says, pocketing his wand. "I need you to deliver these to Mrs Figg."

"But Uncle —"

"Your mother had said you'd be useful to have around. That you are a hard working girl. Helpful. That you're —"

"Yes, of course, Uncle," she sighs. She hadn't considered how much trouble her mother must have gone through to convince him to agree to this. "Where will I find her?"

"She lives in the village," he says vaguely, handing her a small vial. "Tell her not to drink it all at once." And then her uncle is leaving, carrying a basket full of other such vials. She presumes Mrs Figg must have been a bit out of her uncle's way.

With a sigh, Druella resigns herself to another long day.

.oOo.

She considers penning a letter to her mother, but what would she say? That within five minutes she'd punched the kings youngest son? That she's spent her first night in the dungeons and her first full day in the stocks? Her mother would be livid. Whatever punishment the king would come up with if he were to ever find out what she was would pale in comparison.

She decides against writing a letter. Perhaps it would be best to wait until she has something a little more positive to say. And besides, her uncle is already calling her.

"Yes Uncle Horace?" she asks, pushing aside the loose scrap of parchment she had found. "Did you need some help?"

"No, no," he mutters. "You are to attend the feast tonight." This is the first she's hearing of a feast. "Everyone living in the castle is expected to go," he continues, "to welcome the visiting royals from Gryffindor. It's a rather momentous occasion." She tunes out; she's heard plenty on the rivalry between the two kingdoms, and her uncle had the ability to make even the most interesting of topics sound boring with his slight embellishments. Somehow, he always manages to be of great importance in these stories, and she is not in the mood to hear about how he personally brought about the union between the two kingdoms, or other such nonsense he's likely to spew when he gets like this.

She nods, humming noncommittally whenever there's a long pause, and it seems to be enough.

"Well?" he asks, looking at her expectantly. Perhaps she hadn't been as subtle as she'd thought.

"Sorry, Uncle?"

"Aren't you going to change? You can't be expecting to wear that to a feast, surely."

She looks down at her simple dress; it's a bit worn, and perhaps a little stained, but it's one of the finer things she owns and she doesn't see the problem with it. She tells her uncle as much.

He tsks disapprovingly — but really, what had he expected? — but brushes it off. "No matter, I suppose. No one will be looking at you." If she had been perhaps a little more vain the comment might have stung, but as it is she barely suppresses an eye-role and asks:

"When is the feast?"

"Well, now, of course," he says. She is left to wonder how her uncle had managed to survive into old age. She wasn't an imbecile: there was a potion in the beginning stages of brewing, one her mother made frequently, that needed constant stirring. He had forgotten.

.oOo.

The feast is every bit as dull as she had thought it would be — in the few moments before it'd started that she'd been aware there was a feast, that is — with various royals and nobles making idle chat and treating even the most trivial conversation as if it were of the utmost importance.

She stifles a yawn. Or tries to. Her uncle shoots her a glare that promises later retribution if she continues to look bored. Standing straighter, she tries to wake herself up by opening her eyes wide and holding herself stiff. She may just look like a lunatic, though, if the wide berth one of the serving girls gives her as she passes is any indication.

Ah, well. She watches the girl as she makes her way across the room, hoping she might trip at the very least. Anything to break up the monotony of this feast. She didn't know how the inhabitants could stand this; she'd been told these feasts were far from a rare occurrence.

The serving girl doesn't trip. She proves far more entertaining than that.

Druella finds herself moving before she's even registered that something is wrong, running towards the youngest prince.

She pushes him, and he hits the stone floor hard. There is yelling and accusations, all thrown in her direction, and she can't quite say she doesn't deserve it, because she had technically attacked the prince for the second time that week. Her new life in Slytherin was off to a phenomenal start.

The king stands slowly.

"You — you have saved my son's life," he says. What? She turns, looking to where he is indicating. There is a knife embedded in the prince's chair, right where his head had been. She hadn't even fully registered that the serving girl had thrown a knife. "You will receive a reward, of course," the king continues.

"Oh, no, that's alright," she mutters. The prince looks a spectacular combination of indignant, enraged and absolutely mortified, and she finds that payment enough.

"You will be rewarded to your service to the Kingdom of Slytherin," he says.

"Well, if you insist." Who was she to turn down a reward from the king?

"You are to be appointed prince Cygnus' official Sorcerer." Well, she supposes, it might have been an honour if the prince hadn't been an utter prat. That, and the fact that she has a distinct lack of any magical ability.

She meets her uncle's eyes across the room; he is watching her with that look of his that so clearly says 'only you could manage this' which is, unfortunately, becoming all too familiar.

A not so insignificant part of her is excited for this new role — not the part where she is forced to serve the prince directly, but the part where she can claim to have magic — though she knows it is very unlikely she will have it for long. As soon as the king realises she is a squib, she will be killed, her death made even more gruesome by the fact that she had managed to gain a position of such importance in the royal household.

But, in her defence, people just assumed you had magic until proven otherwise. And a lot of people didn't even bother with magic in their everyday lives — a terrible waste of skill, in her opinion.

Well, she thinks, it's about time she figures out how to properly fake being a witch, anyway. Perhaps her uncle would help?

She risks another glance, but he is looking increasingly more irritated with each passing second.

For now, she is on her own.

…oOo…

I can fight this to the end