Chapter Text
a/n This story is very loosely based on the novel “The Scarlet Pimpernel” by Baroness Orczy, first published 1905. I will not be following the plot of the story; rather I am using the character concept of the Scarlet Pimpernel. For those of you not familiar with the story, it is set during the Reign of Terror following the start of the French Revolution. The title is the nom de guerre of its hero and protagonist, a chivalrous Brit who rescues French aristocrats before they are sent to the guillotine. The Pimpernel leads a double life: apparently nothing more than a wealthy fop, but in reality, a formidable swordsman and a quick-thinking master of disguise and escape. The band of gentlemen who assist him are the only ones who know of his secret identity. He is known by his symbol, a simple flower, the scarlet pimpernel.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is considered by many to be the first “alter-ego” literary hero; Marvel co-creator Stan Lee stated: "The Scarlet Pimpernel was the first superhero I had read about, the first character who could be called a superhero" and is the origin of many of the stories and tropes we enjoy today.
This work is being submitted in response to a prompt in the Harmony out of the Ordinary Fest 2026. The prompt is Harmony x Mugglery, essentially mixing the two worlds together.
oOoOoOoOo
Prologue – The Terror
Paris, July 19th, 1794
Henri Granger, the 12th Comte de Senlisse, leant back against the prison wall and fought against the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. He tried his best to find a comfortable position on the hard, stone floor, but the chains shackled to his wrists and ankles prevented him from doing so to his satisfaction.
This was his second night in gaol. The second night since his relatively peaceful existence had been brutally interrupted by the arrival at his chateaux of a dozen soldiers, accompanied by the Mayor of the municipal council. The Mayor had accused him of being “an enemy of the Committee of Public Safety,” arrested him, and then imprisoned him. Most worryingly for Henri, his beloved wife and daughter had also been removed from their home and he had no idea as to their whereabouts.
He'd always known that this day might come, despite his general sympathies for the aims of the revolution. Although an aristocrat, and wealthy by the standards of the majority of French citizens, the Comte de Senlisse could in no way be considered part of the Ancien Regime, nor did he possess the extravagant wealth of the true noble elite. Henri was a farmer at heart, a man of the soil who had always done his best to ensure the welfare of the tenants who worked on his land. He had been an advocate of Liberté, Égalité, and Fraternité long before the Bastille had been stormed in 1789, and as a consequence, had thus far successfully navigated the social and political upheaval that had befallen his beloved France.
Until now.
Despite his support for the principles of the revolution, and for his adherence to the new laws and regulations, it seemed that his time had run out. He’d an inkling as to why this was the case. Since the executions en masse began in September the previous year, Henri had watched as more and more innocent men and women were sent to the guillotine on the word of informants and spies.
Informants and spies who had profited greatly from the demise of these “enemies of the state.”
In his case, he deeply suspected his neighbouring landowner, Jean Papin, who’d had his eye on the Senlisse estates and fortune for many years. It would seem that the right words to the right person was enough to condemn a man in these turbulent times, and it did not help his cause to realise that he was simply an innocent victim of greed, rather than a true counter-revolutionary. Either way, he was doomed.
He could almost forgive and understand his circumstances were it not for the fact that his family had also been dragged into his demise.
That he would never forgive.
But he knew his anger was impotent. He was at the mercy of his captors and he could see no way out of his predicament. No one would speak for him for fear of retribution. No one would come to his aid.
He had heard tales – myths really – of men and women who had been rescued from circumstances such as his by a mysterious stranger who seemed able to defy all protections; circumvent all security, and pass through any walls as if they did not exist. A man who was invisible, faceless and unknown, yet one who had successfully freed dozens of prisoners who’d seemingly vanished into thin air. The only sign that such rescues had taken place was the calling card left behind each time such an escape had occurred.
A pimpernel flower, coloured scarlet and gold.
He’d discounted such tales as superstitious nonsense. For all that the revolution claimed to be secular and modern, he knew that the ordinary people of France still held to the old ways and the old myths and legends. He held no faith in such stories, in such magic.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys jangling on the other side of his cell door and he managed to lift himself to his feet so he could meet what he was about to face head-on. He heard the door being unlocked and watched as it was finally forced open after three attempts, the damp air clearly warping the wood and causing it to stick.
Three men entered his cell. Two he recognised, one he did not, and it was the latter who gave him the greatest cause for concern. Grotesque was the only description that befitted such a man. His height was difficult to determine because he walked with a pronounced stoop. He was clad all in black leather, including a hood that covered most of his face so that only his mouth was visible. He had seen many such men similarly attired and he tried his best not to shudder.
Men like this were the last many would see before they faced the retribution of Madame Guillotine, for this man was his executioner.
Strangely, the realisation helped to calm him as his fate had clearly been determined. He turned his attention to the two men he did know and recognise.
‘Citizen Lamack. Are you finally here to release me from this unjust imprisonment?’
‘I am not, Monsieur Granger. I am here to inform you of your fate. You have been found guilty of being an enemy of the Committee for Public Safety. The sentence is death.’
‘I have been found guilty? Do I not receive a trial, sir?’
‘A trial has been held in absentia. Witnesses provided evidence against you that satisfied the tribunal.’
Henri let his cynicism show. ‘I am to take it that Monsieur Papin was your witness?’ he asked, turning his gaze upon the man he once considered a neighbour.
‘He was. He is a fine citizen and supporter of the republic. His word is his bond.’
Henri shook his head, knowing that arguing was futile. He would not give these men the satisfaction of showing his very real fear. Instead, he asked that which was foremost on his mind.
‘My wife, Lucile? My daughter Hermione? What is to become of them? You know they are both innocents, just as you know I have committed no wrong.’
Lamack grimaced at his words. ‘The guilt or innocence of your wife is yet to be established. If she is guilty, she will meet the same fate as you. If not?’ He shrugged. ‘Then I am sure a woman with her assets will be able to make a living somehow. There are many men willing to pay for such things.’
Henri supressed his rage at these words. Losing his temper would not help his family and he knew that Lamack was well aware of this.
‘And my daughter? My Hermione? She is not yet two years old!’
‘We are not monsters, Granger. We do not execute children. She will be sent to the workhouse to earn her keep when she is old enough.’
A death sentence, Henri knew. Child mortality rates in the workhouses were astronomically high and were his beloved daughter to end up in such a place, she would be unlikely to see out the year.
For the first time, Henri Granger’s resolve broke and tears filled his eyes. He lowered his head, unable to face his tormentors.
‘Citizen Dembele will see to your needs now, Monsieur Granger,’ said Lamack, gesturing to the executioner. ‘I recommend you follow his instructions to the letter, for this will go easier for you if you do. Your fate is sealed,’ he finished, before nodding abruptly and leaving the cell. With one last look of gloating, Papin followed suit, leaving just the two of them in the cell.
When the door closed behind them, Dembele stepped forward and Henri did his best not to flinch at the man.
I will die like a man. I will not give them the satisfaction of showing my fear.
In later years, Henri would reflect on the next few moments. On the miracle. For Dembele did something he most certainly not expect.
He bowed.
‘My Lord,’ the executioner began, ‘it is my honour to make your acquaintance.’ His accent was surprising; he spoke the French of the aristocracy. ‘It is imperative that you trust me and do everything that I ask. I will soon have you out of here.’
Henri could not hide his shock. ‘Have me out of here?’
‘That is unless you wish to remain?’ replied Dembele with a smile. ‘We do not have much time,’ he added, as he began to unlock his shackles. ‘This prison has been secured with anti-apparition charms. While this is a complication, it was not unexpected. The Committee are not unaware of my capabilities. We must get ourselves to the courtyard.’
What?
‘Anti-apparition? What is this of which you speak, sir?’
‘All will be explained in time, my Lord. For now, you must follow my instructions.’ Henri felt his shoulder being gripped firmly. ‘I am here to save your life, my Lord. You must trust me.’
Henri Granger, the 12th Comte de Senlisse, was many things, but he was not a fool. He nodded his assent as Dembele took his arm and led him to the door.
‘One final thing,’ Dembele said, before reaching into a concealed pocket in his side. From it, he removed a flower that he placed on the floor where Henri had been sitting.
It was a pimpernel of Scarlet and Gold.
The next few minutes passed in a blur for Henri. Dembele had seemingly transformed from a hunched, lame monster into a young, energetic, man. He led Henri down the dank, stone corridor that led towards the courtyard, not making a sound. As they reached the main door, he stopped them both, before removing a cloak from seemingly nowhere. He threw it over them both.
‘It is vital that you remain under this cloak, and do not make any noise. Do exactly what I say.’
With the instruction given, Dembele gently pushed open the door and pulled them both through. Henri nearly cried out in alarm when he saw one of the prison guards turn towards them as the door opened, but the man seemed to look through them as they passed, even though he was staring straight at them. Finally, the guard gave a perplexed shrug before closing the door behind them as they passed, seemingly invisible to his gaze.
Dembele led them out into and across the courtyard, making for a fire close to the main wall. Henri watched as the man bent down and surreptitiously picked up an old tin kettle that lay near the fire before turning to face him.
‘Take hold of this and under no circumstances are you to let go. The next few moments are going to be quite exciting.’
As if in a dream, Henri gripped the handle of the kettle and watched as Dembele removed a thin stick of wood from his pocket before touching the kettle with it.
‘Portus,’ was the last thing Henri heard before feeling himself being pulled into a maelstrom.
oOoOoOoOo
Sirius Black, the 17th Earl of Blackford, stood waiting impatiently next to a large oak tree, the largest tree in the small wood that was situated at the edge of his estate.
This was not the first time he had found himself in this situation, but despite the familiarity, he was unable to relax. To put it simply, there was too much at stake.
For the twelfth time in as many minutes, he removed a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time, noting with faint amusement that the hands seemed to be going backwards, such was his anxiety.
He replaced the watch with a deep sigh and, just as he began to pace back and forth, he felt a sudden surge of magic and two figures were deposited on the grass before him. The first, clad in black leather, stood tall and unruffled by his sudden arrival, whereas the second man fell crashing into a heap.
Sirius supressed a grin and stood to formal attention as he watched the first man help the second to his feet, the latter cursing all the gods as he did so.
‘What form of witchcraft is this?’ demanded the man. ‘Where am I? And who are you, sir, to perform such an act?’
‘My Lord Senlisse?’ replied the first man, calmly. ‘Welcome to Britain. It is my honour to present to you the Earl of Blackford.’
Despite his discomfort, his aristocratic breeding kicked in and Henri Granger, Comte de Senlisse, righted himself and turned to face the second man standing before him. A man who offered him a stiff bow.
‘My Lord, it is an honour to meet you,’ said Sirius, formally.
On instinct, Henri bowed in return. ‘My Lord Earl.’ He took a moment to compose himself. ‘You must forgive me, but I find myself somewhat at sea given the witchcraft I have just experienced!’
‘It is not witchcraft, my Lord. It is simply magic,’ replied Sirius.
‘Magic? What is this of which you speak? And am I really in Britain? How is this possible? You mock me, sir! You jest! You cannot be serious!’
For probably the first time in his life, Sirius ignored the obvious pun on his name and regarded the Comte solemnly. ‘I would never jest about magic, my Lord, nor would I ever mock a man as brave as yourself. And yes; you really are in Britain. But I fear explanations must wait as there are more important matters at hand. Or should I say, more important people?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Instant understanding crossed the face of Henri Granger. ‘My family? My wife and daughter?’ he asked in a whisper, the fearful hope evident in his voice.
‘I have the honour of hosting them in my humble abode, my Lord. Both the Comtesse and the Lady Hermione are safe and awaiting your arrival as we speak.’
This was too much for Henri, and he broke down in tears, falling to his knees as he did so. ‘Please take me to them, my Lord Earl. I cannot thank you enough, Sir.’ He twisted round on his knees towards Dembele, but found to his shock that the man had simply vanished.
‘My Lord? Where has he gone? I must express my gratitude! There is nothing I can do to repay the debt I owe him, but I must thank him! Who is he, sir? I know he is the Pimpernel, but who is he, my Lord?’ he cried through his tears.
Sirius shook his head. ‘I cannot say, my dear Comte, for his identity is known to but a few trusted souls.’ That Sirius was one of those souls was a detail that did not need to be shared.
‘Fear not, though, my Lord,’ he continued. ‘I am sure he is aware of your sentiments and there is no debt. Come now!’ he added, helping Henri to his feet. ‘Your family awaits you. It will not do to have them waiting any longer.’
Henri Granger dragged himself to his feet and allowed himself to be led towards the lights in the distance. Lights that gave promise of welcome and of security and of his beloved family.
Of home.
oOoOoOoOo
Sirius watched quietly from the corner of the drawing room as the Granger family were reunited amid scenes of joyful disbelief. He had witnessed dozens of such scenes as desperate families rejoiced in their salvation and tried to come to terms with their miraculous rescue, but he never tired of such moments and he felt himself deeply moved, as he always did.
He heard the door behind him open and felt rather than saw his friend slip into the room.
‘You were late, Prongs,’ he whispered.
‘Couldn’t be helped, Padfoot,’ replied James Potter, the 19th Duke of Gryffindor, as he moved to stand beside his best friend. ‘The two scoundrels responsible proved harder to confound than I anticipated. It was actually easier to rescue the wife and daughter – I had thought they would prove to be the more challenging, but thankfully they were being held together. The fortune proved a challenge as well.’
‘You retrieved it?’
James nodded. ‘I did. I will open a vault for the Comte at Gringotts.’ He smiled. ‘Lamack and Papin had agreed to give some to the Committee and split the rest of it between themselves. They are in for a rude surprise when they realise it is gone, not to mention the Comte’s escape. The news will be all over Paris and there will be some awkward questions for them to answer. They may yet share the fate they had planned for our noble friend!’
Sirius nodded his understanding with a smile, not taking his eyes from the family before him. ‘Speaking of our noble friend, I believe the Comte is currently learning that his daughter is a witch,’ he said with a smile, remembering conversation he’d had with the Comtesse earlier in the day.
‘And that his salvation is as a consequence,’ James replied grimly, his mood suddenly darkening. ‘There were others, Padfoot. Non-magicals who will meet a horrible fate.’
Sirius sighed. ‘We have been over this, my friend. We cannot save everyone. Voldemort is ever increasing his influence in France. Daily, we see the terror spread throughout that benighted land. If we try to save everyone, we merely expose ourselves and bring about our ruin.’ He turned to face the Duke. ‘You must stop this, James. Better we save some than none at all. If we fall, there is nothing to stop the darkness spreading. You know Dumbledore agrees.’
‘I know,’ replied James, ‘but that does not ease my conscience nor does it soothe my soul. Especially when one considers some of those we have saved.’
‘You speak of Lord Malfoy?’
‘Who else? I must confess that in my darker moments, I suspect he may have deserved the fate that awaited him, had we not intervened.’
‘You have proof he is in league with Voldemort?’
‘No proof. Just a feeling. I fear he may be a Trojan Horse into our society. He will be carefully watched. As will your cousin,’ he added, referring to Lady Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black.
Sirius nodded his understanding, fully aware of the darker leanings of his extended family. ‘What of Moony and Wormtail?’
‘I know not where they are, nor what they are doing, my friend. Dumbledore must have them on a mission for the Order. I’ve had no letters from either for some time.’
‘Nor I,’ replied Sirius. ‘I find it disconcerting. Voldemort’s power grows, yet we spread ourselves thin. You think Voldemort will make his move soon? Will leave France?’
The Duke of Gryffindor grimaced at the question. ‘I think he might. He has stirred the pot sufficiently across the Channel that I fear he will now move onto his homeland. His influence in muggle politics is obvious; this latest Terror has cost us thousands of souls. We must remain vigilant and closely watch our own muggle leaders.’
‘Kinglsey is watching Mr Pitt as we speak,’ replied Sirius, ‘and Hestia has obtained a place at Court to monitor the King. We are doing all we can, I think. I trust it will be enough.’ He noticed the troubled look on his friend’s face and sighed, before turning back to observe the Grangers.
‘Let us speak of lighter things, my friend. How is young Harry?’
Despite his mood, the Duke of Gryffindor smiled. ‘He is well. He is with the Duchess at the moment. It will soon be one year since the day of his birth. I cannot believe the time has flown so fast!’
‘Time makes fools of us all,’ replied Sirius. He nodded to the family in front of him. ‘By my calculation, he may have a future friend in the Lady Hermione. They will attend Hogwarts together if the Comte keeps his family in Britain.’
‘I see no other choice for him, Padfoot. Voldemort has opened Pandora’s box. The muggles are at war and the continent is aflame. Even if Voldemort is defeated, the war could last years. Decades, even,’ he added grimly. ‘I see no road back to France for the Comte.’
Sirius nodded soberly. ‘And the prophecy?’ he asked quietly, taking the conversation back to darker themes. It could not be helped; these were dark times.
James grimaced. ‘Lily refuses to give it any credence and I am inclined to agree with her, despite what Dumbledore asserts. We will take all precautions; I will do everything in my power to ensure my son is not sacrificed on the altar of Voldemort’s ambition.’
‘As will I, your Grace,’ replied Sirius, formally. ‘But your Grace must know the Terror started in France once Voldemort knew of the prophecy? That his hand is behind this?’
‘I know, my Lord Black. I know what he is capable of and of what he has done thus far.’ He paused before continuing. ‘When I asked you to be Godfather to my son, I knew it might be more than a mere ceremonial role.’
‘As did I.’
‘Then I have your word you will protect him should the worst happen?’
‘You know you have it, my friend. I will raise him as my own. Die for him if necessary. Kill for him. You know this. You have my word.’
‘Thank you, old friend,’ whispered James. ‘Thank you.’
Both men turned their attention once again to the Grangers, their joyful reunion a beacon of light and hope in an otherwise cruel world.
oOoOoOoOo
October 31st, 1794
Sirius Black awoke with a jolt in response to the monitoring alarm that had just gone off in his London townhouse. Taking only a few seconds to realise the significance of the noise, he immediately apparated to Godric’s Hollow, only to come undone by the scene that confronted him. The cottage in Godric’s Hollow, one supposed to be safely hidden under a Fidelius charm, lay almost in ruins. Pulling out his wand, Sirius advanced up the garden path and tentatively entered. He nearly broke down at the sight that awaited him.
James Potter, Duke of Gryffindor, lay dead. His best friend was dead.
After overcoming the initial shock and grief at discovering the body of his brother in all but blood, he raced up the stairs to the nursery, only to find Lily, dear sweet Lily, lying on the floor in front of Harry’s cot, her sightless eyes revealing nothing of the events that had transpired.
Sirius collapsed to his knees and let out a wail of pain that could probably be heard back in London. It was then that the miracle occurred.
‘P’foot, where mama? Dada?’
He turned to the voice, astonished at the sight of his Godson, a mere toddler, standing in his cot, tears streaming down his cheeks. Sirius did not hesitate; he immediately pulled the child into his arms and tried to offer him the comfort he himself could never hope to find.
‘Things are going to be fine, Harry, I promise,’ he’d whispered into the boy’s ear. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
He sank to the floor, the child still in his arms, and tried to make sense of the scene. There was a black cloak on the floor next to a wand that he most certainly recognised.
Voldemort’s wand.
The Dark Lord had clearly descended on the home of the Potter’s and had wreaked destruction and death.
But where was he?
He pulled Harry away from him a little in order to examine him and was taken aback by the lightning bolt scar now visible on his forehead.
What in Merlin’s name caused that?
These were the last coherent thoughts of Sirius Black, Earl of Blackford, as at that moment, three Ministry Aurors burst into the room, wands raised.
‘Stupefy!’
oOoOoOoOo
The Earl of Blackford did not look up as the door to his prison cell swung open. He sat, his hands in chains on the table in front of him, and wallowed in his grief and his rage.
‘Where is my Godson?’ he asked without preamble, his eyes still cast downward.
‘He is safe, my friend,’ came the reply, in a voice that was both familiar and comforting.
Sirius looked up abruptly at the voice. ‘Albus? What happened? Where is Harry? Why am I here?’
‘I will answer you last question first, if that is agreeable, my Lord. You are here because the current administration believe you to be in league with Voldemort and that you betrayed the Duke and Duchess.’
‘I would never…’
‘I know, my dear boy. I have already given my sworn testimony to the Ministry that you were not the Secret Keeper and had nothing to do with this. An arrest warrant has been issued for Pettigrew and I am here to release you.’
Sirius sagged in relief. He’d suspected that the Ministry would try and pin these murders on him as the House of Black did not have enemies to seek. He’s been concerned that Dumbledore might have left him hanging out to dry, but it seemed he had misjudged the Headmaster.
‘And Harry?’
‘He is safe with Lady McGonagall as we speak. Come, my friend. Let us go to him. The Duke and Duchesses’ wishes in this matter were made clear in their Will. You are to have full custody of Harry.’
Sirius felt strong arms lift him from his chair and with a quick flick of the Headmaster’s wand, he felt the shackles fall to the ground around his feet.
‘We have much to discuss, my Lord,’ Dumbledore continued. ‘Let us take you home where we can reunite you with Harry. With your son,’ he added softly.
Sirius could not speak, could only nod through his tears as Albus Dumbledore led him to his salvation.
oOoOoOoOo
a/n The Terror started in France September 1793 and lasted until July 1974. It is estimated that 35,000 people were sent to the guillotine.