Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris was a beautiful city. A beautiful, free city. Back then, when the world still seemed in order.
Yes, back when the word order still carried meaning for the younger generation.
And now?

The city vibrated. People worked, ate their croissants on the go, corrected tourists, hurried to work with grim faces. In a rush, in quick steps, constantly stressed. That was modern life!

Yet even in this rush, the sun seemed to shine—almost too warmly for the hour—over the rooftops of Paris.

Just like on that July day in 1996, when it gleamed happily on the cathedral of Notre Dame.
The beauty of 833 whole years: tall white towers, thundering bells, and below them, crowds of people.

It was 9 a.m., and the priests opened their doors to the faithful, the tourists, and the seekers.

Just 3 kilometers west, in the Latin Quarter, in a particularly charming corner, another building rose.
Not as large as the cathedral, no—but a kind of miniature version.

Gothic, majestic, strictly Catholic.
Notre Dame High. A school closely connected to the building 30 minutes away.
Inside, it admittedly bore little resemblance at first glance to the beautiful church on the Île de la Cité.

Instead of two priests, two teachers opened the heavy school doors to a crowd of pushing children.
Instead of holy,reverent silence in one hall, there was "life, laughter, noise" in the other hall.
Where priests baptized babies,fifth graders gleefully splashed each other with their drinking water. It was, after all, quite warm.
Where the congregation read the Bible in one place,twelfth graders racked their brains over their endlessly long theology homework.
A particular teacher had,once again, overdone it.

Summer break was over, yet the spirit of those joyful summer days—spent with friends, family, or in the wild, in this or that foreign southern land—poured into the cold school building.

The air conditioning could not repel what flowed in in uncontrolled currents.

The shrill voices seemed to throw the Catholic high school into a single, joyous chaos.

Arms flew into the air everywhere, friends who hadn't seen each other in weeks embraced. Shouts and laughter filled the hall as a group of boys unpacked a football jersey signed by Zinédine Zidane and proudly showed it off.

Even the usual gossipers chewed gum and chattered excitedly about the latest rumors with the same enthusiasm as those showing off their homework.

It was full, nerve-wracking, and colorful.
Too colorful.

It was the world of the children, the teenagers, the students. Full of life and warmth.
Which would shortly... fall completely silent.

The main entrance door opened.
An iron door with a metallic handle that was hard to push down.Something—or someone—had entered the building and now lingered like a shadow in front of the door, which slammed shut with a bang.

The rustling of keys—and the young people looked up.
Some immediately went silent, then looked away.

The mere presence of this dark figure triggered an instant chain reaction.
From beginning to end: the children’s noise suffocated into icy silence.

Director Claude Frollo, the lord, the supreme scholar, the father, was back.

He glanced around briefly, then walked through the crowd with hands clasped behind his back.

His back was as proud and straight as a cathedral tower. His once black hair had turned gray. Always short, always neatly groomed—except during particularly stressful phases or deep thought. Hence the faint wrinkles on his pale face. The dark circles bore witness to long, sleepless nights.

In his right hand, he clutched a rosary; under his arm, a heavy book.
With every step of his polished leather shoes on the linoleum floor, this immense, commanding presence seemed to reclaim his realm of obedience and discipline.

One icy glance, carrying a weariness that ran to the bone, was enough to scatter laughing groups into whispering clusters.

The newly enrolled children stared at him with a mixture of fear and admiration.
The older students snorted contemptuously, lowered their heads, or froze.

No one was truly pleased to see him.

A young, inexperienced teacher walked past him with a pounding heart.
He adjusted his large horn-rimmed glasses, smiled nervously, and raised his hand.
“I greet you, Monsieur Frollo,” he said, trembling.

But to the director, he seemed not even worth a glance.
…Lowly life.

Frollo continued like a ghost until he reached his office, retrieved the keys from his belt. Another metallic jingle, and with a twist of the hand, the heavy wooden door opened.

He crossed himself, murmured something, and stepped in.
His office was a sacarium of his own being. File folders stood at perfect right angles; not a speck of dust desecrated the polished oak desk. The smell of old leather and bitter coffee lingered, ingrained into the wallpaper.

First, Frollo placed his rosary on the desk. Then, without further thought, he sank into his high-backed leather chair.

He closed his eyes, letting out a quiet groan. The holidays had been a torment of emptiness. Only the memory of order, the rhythm of power, had kept him alive.
It felt good for this man of achievement to be back in this familiar, symbolic place.

He placed his heavy Bible atop a stack of corrected papers. Instead of opening it, his large, slender hand hovered in the air.
Was he hesitating?

No, such a thing was impossible for a man like him.

His hand continued downward almost mechanically.
He opened the top drawer. Between strict lesson plans and disciplinary regulations lay, hidden like a forbidden relic, a small, somewhat faded photograph.

The director stared at it as if it were sacred.
Sara Esfahani. Fourth grade. Two braids, a laugh like honey that could illuminate the darkest corners of the room. His best—no, his “good” student. His symbol of purity in a world of increasing decay.

His little light.

Frollo’s shoulders slumped, revealing the natural curvature of his spine, shaped over four decades hunched over books.
With ungainly yet careful fingers, he lifted the well-protected photo.

Something strange happened to his face: his eyes softened.

Over the summer, he had intensely thought about how to impart the final great lessons in life to his students—or at least to those he deemed worthy. How to seize, shape, and strengthen their minds against the sins of this worldly realm.

Of course, Sara had a summer reading assignment.
Of course, he would question her about it.
Now, all he had to do was wait.

A rare crooked smile tugged at his mouth as he continued staring at the sweet photo.
It was neither mocking nor creepy, but genuine, wistful.

The smile of a father longing to see his daughter again, in spirit.

For a moment, the burden felt lighter…

Then the noise broke in.

First a dull thump. A group of agitated voices. Then the crash of a heavy body against a locker. Violence.
The silence was broken.His realm was desecrated. Frollo's face froze into a mask.
Who had the audacity...?

With a swift, angry movement, he shoved the photo back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and rose.

Three large steps, and he flung open his office door, stepping out like a dark, furious silhouette. An apparatus ready for attack.
“What is the meaning of this—!”
The sentence died on his lips.

His whole body froze. Only a quick blink.
The sneer on his face faded away.
He couldn’t believe it.

There, among a few terrified boys—whom Frollo blurred into the background—stood her. In the middle of the hallway. He didn’t see her looking at him, but he faintly heard her furious hiss at another student. It was holy wrath. Sunlight seemed to shine through the windows upon her.

It was not the girl from the photo…
She. Long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a wild waterfall. And her posture… no longer that of a pleading student, but of a wolf defending her territory. In her grasp: the collar of a much larger boy pressed against the lockers. Behind her, Quasimodo ducked, staring fearfully at his father.

Frollo saw the group of boys surrounding her. But they did not look at him, at their director. They stared at her. Her new curves, accentuated under the slightly tight T-shirt. Her defined arms. Her fierce, utterly captivating face.

He searched for the child. For a split second—nothing.

That was not his Sara. It just couldn't be. That was a stranger. A breathtaking, furious, completely foreign woman.

His mind refused to make the connection. Sara. His Sara. His little, pure Sara. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded against his will.

No smile nor sneer remained on the director’s face. He said nothing, unusually silent, staring. No reprimand, no harsh tirade, not even discipline.

Inside him raged a storm, an unholy chaos of impressions and stimuli.

Quasimodo, noticing Frollo’s unusual behavior, tried to alert Sara.
He tapped her shoulder. “Sara… uh…”
That was all it took. She released the bully, pressing him once more against the locker.
“Don’t touch him again,” she hissed.
Again that voice…

Quasimodo looked from his friend over to the director and scratched his cheek awkwardly.

The boys around her stared in astonishment. “Impossible… that really IS Saint Cicatrice! Look at her hand.”
“That cannot possibly be little miss Scar-hand...”
“She looks so pretty—uh, I mean… you barely even notice that thing on her hand anymore.”

Frollo didn’t hear the excited whispering. Probably for the better. But he saw Sara, turning to Quasimodo, laying that hand on his deformed shoulder, looking at him. Her face, just like in the photo.

Wait... she- she was looking at him...!

“Monsieur Frollo!” An angelic voice… a distant call from memory.
He heard a child. He saw a woman.

Frollo’s eyes widened as she now faced him. God in heaven. He saw everything. And wanted to see nothing.
Damn it, he had to do something!

Driven as if by divine hand, he walked toward the group. His face showed no expression, only a faint pink tint on his cheeks.
“Uh-oh…” murmured one of the boys.

Quasimodo fidgeted, unsure where to look.
Sara alone smiled at him, unafraid and warmly.

Everyone expected one thing: a scolding.
Instead, he opened his mouth and said in a deep, rumbling voice, “Miss… Esfahani.”
A noticeable tremor in his baritone. He didn’t know what to say. A brief pause. He didn’t even look at the others.
“Good morning. Would you… explain to me what has happened here?”

The boys behind her—including Quasimodo—blinked, confused, stepping back like startled chickens.
They had no idea what was wrong with the director, but it scared them.

“Good morning, Monsieur. I… apologize for the noise. It was… the usual. I assure you I meant no harm. Quasimodo was…” she answered softly, stepping forward.

Claude Frollo turned pale and automatically took the same number of steps back.
“I know that,” he interrupted sharply. The tremor in his voice remained. Nothing more.

Sara raised her eyebrows in surprise, as did Quasimodo.
What was going on? What had happened to his voice? Was he alright?

His gray eyes scrutinized her as if she were a ghost, as if he had to be sure it was really her.

He opened his mouth, raised his index finger as if to admonish, but then lowered it again.
Instead, he pressed his lips together, a strange pang shot through his chest.

A moment of silence. Nobody said a word. There only existed him and her. Sara waited patiently for him to continue, wholly focused on this man, who was after all her mentor.

Then he spoke.

“You…” he began again, in the softer voice, still unsure, still... agitated.
Just as he was about to say, “have changed,” the loud clack of fine shoes interrupted him.

Confused, everyone turned.

The director’s skin flushed once more as this person arrived. Heat rose up his neck.

What on the holy name of God was that…?!
"Not a girl, a woman!" A voice in his head shouted.

Just as unholy as the first.
Just as transformed, just as fearless.

Esmeralda.

With a gesture as boyish as her appearance back then, she threw an arm around Sara and grinned at the onlookers, but especially at him, outrageously.

“Oh, hello, esteemed Director. Seen Sara already, hm?”

His cheeks gradually reddened. She had interrupted that moment and now… this!
It was pure, uncalled-for provocation.

Esmeralda's grin widened, revealing the lollipop in her mouth. She was trying to look especially cool—but to Frollo, it was anything but that. This was disrespect on a whole new level.

Worse than her usual chewing of gum was, in his view, this new far-too-short skirt and open blouse. How openly, how proudly she wore it... Barely within the rules of paragraph 2, 25–40, IF she weren’t the gypsy—uh, student of diverse cultural background.

A scandal he would soon correct with… great pleasure.

The teenage boys now stared at both women. Hormonal and driven by instinct, they gawked like animals.
And yes, he, Claude Frollo, the guardian of morality, did too.

Frollo’s eyes narrowed into slits, fists clenched.
Adrenaline pumped through his veins.
Calm down. Not in front of her. Not in front of Sara… Not now.

Only Quasimodo looked puzzled, glancing from his foster father—who had so far ignored him—to his two friends.

Sara tried to avoid Esmeralda’s cheeky advances, giggling and pushing away the lollipop she held to her face.
“Stop it, Esme! This isn’t the time, it’s about Quasimodo now.”

“Little spoilsport!... But wait, what happened?”

Quasimodo looked embarrassingly aside while his father still stood motionless.

Sara turned back to Frollo, small worry lines between her eyebrows.
Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“Monsieur Frollo. Is everything in order? You wanted to say something…”

The word "order" seemed to snap him out of his trance.
Just as he wanted to reply, Esmeralda grabbed Sara’s arm.

“Come on. The old man will scold those idiots soon enough.” She threw Frollo a challenging look, then pulled both Sara and Quasimodo away, leaving a breathless silence behind.

Frollo stood there, nailed to the spot. The world around him had shifted. The axis of his existence was out of balance.

He and the three pubescent boys beside him stared at the girls’ departing backs.

Once they were out of sight, the tyrant’s gaze shot at them. The poor souls met it with trembling knees and chattering teeth.

Now, it was time for retribution.

“Into. My. Office.”

Chapter Text

As Quasimodo, Sara, and Esmeralda walked down the school hallway toward the auditorium, Quasimodo nervously smoothed down his expensive clothes.

The black suit he wore was slightly too large and adorned with a ridiculous red bow tie. Normally, he wore bright colors, following the girls’ fashion advice—today, he looked distinctly out of place.

More so than usual.

Many classmates avoided him. Some because they didn't dare to speak to him, others because they wanted nothing to do with someone like him. A peculiar mix of pity and subtle arrogance weighed on his deformed back. Yet he was surprisingly broad and strong-more than ever before. He tried his best to smile. His pale face always carried a strange air of fatigue or melancholy, mainly because his right eye was half-covered by a large, egg-shaped wart. An unfamiliar sight. And people, in turn, feared what was unfamiliar for them.

Quasimodo sighed deeply and ran a hand through his red natural curls, a gesture he had likely picked up from his foster father. "God in heaven..." he muttered. A slight lisp in his voice. "Th-this was a disaster."

“You mean this weird suit the old man forced on you?” Esmeralda chuckled.

“N-no!" He protested with wide eyes. "Although… yes, that too, but th-this—”

He turned to Sara.
“I’m so sorry for putting you in this situation, I—”

He froze instantly, cheeks flushed as Esmeralda patted his back, reassuring him. Slowly, he looked up at her.

She was giving him the "don’t you dare"- sister-stare.
“You always think it’s your fault. It never has been. If it weren’t for those idiots, then—”

Esmeralda clenched her fists and glanced at Sara, trying to look for a reaction. To her surprise, Sara remained calm.

Instead of scolding the bullies she had nearly beaten up moments ago, Sara laughed warmly and lifted her hands to loosen the bow tie around Quasimodo’s stiff collar.

“That doesn’t suit you… green would have been better. Something with a pretty pattern. I told this Monsieur Frollo, you know…”

The three of them stopped in the middle of the hallway. Esmeralda helped him out of the jacket.

“Man, what an old-fashioned, weird guy. Forcing you into a fashion disaster like this.” She shot a quick glance at Sara. “He’s insane.”

“Esmeralda,” Sara asked gently, and now her friend actually looked at her. Their eyes met—brown to green.

“Okay, okay! Not insane…” Esmeralda conceded. She paused for a moment, tossing the ridiculous jacket over her shoulder.
“Then he’s… I don’t know… just totally uptight. One of those typical macho types who thinks he has to shape you into his mold!”

“He said one should start the first year of school with decency and discipline. It’s a special day after all…” Quasimodo murmured, then sighed deeply.

“You… you misunderstand him, Esme… He just wants me to… make a good impression. He’s my father.”

The word hung heavily between them: father.
Sara stayed silent, a smile still on her face while she was fiddling with the fabric of the bow tie.

Quasimodo knew she understood him—she was, in a way like a little sister to him, and as such in a similar position regarding Frollo.

However this was a fact to him: Without his father, he would be… nowhere. Nobody. He had saved him from death itself after all and had given him life.

But the way Esmeralda crossed her arms and looked away with a “Mhm” never failed to spark insecurity in Quasimodo.
He tried to focus on his polished, traditional leather shoes to forget about the guilt forming in his gut.

Sara smiled at him as she finally untied the bow. Her expression was gentle.
“There, finally done. He had it tightened way too much…”

Quasimodo scratched his slightly reddened neck. Now free of jacket and bow tie, he stood there in just his pants and shirt.

“Better now!" Sara said "Goodbye funeral-Quasi, hello victorious conqueror of the evil red-ribbons!"

At that comment, the boy chuckled a bit. His features softened.
“Thank you, Sara, Esme…”

Esmeralda’s assessing glance shot back to her bestie, who merely nodded, lost in thought.

"Nothing to thank for, love..."
Sara looked down briefly, exhaling softly, as if barely holding herself together.

She thought about Frollo.
His gaze earlier… something had been different. Not the usual paternal strictness. But vulnerability. Confusion. It was strange. She wondered if everything was alright, but she didn’t want to ask Quasimodo now. Surely he would tell her if something had happened in the last 3 months.

Had she perhaps disappointed the principal with her outburst in the hallway?
She bit her lower lip. Monsieur Frollo had taught her so much, had always been there for her, had always believed in her. She didn’t want to disappoint him. Not him.

Sara's smile faltered for a second. Her fingers, still holding the red silk of the bow tie, stilled. She shoved the fabric into her bag, the movement a little too sharp, and lifted her chin. The feeling lasted only a second: the worry was gone, the brave girl had ruthlessly pushed it down.

Sara's gaze grew determined again.
“You don’t have to be ashamed for him. Understand?” Sara paused, a peculiar glint appearing in her eyes, one that hadn’t been there before.
“And next time someone attacks you, hit back.”

As Sara said this, Esmeralda spun toward her like a new person, grinning, throwing a triumphant arm around her.
“That’s what I have been waiting for!!! That’s how it’s done!”

“Even if… they’re stronger than me?”
Quasimodo asked with a quiet laugh. Always the rational one.

“Who could be stronger than you?”
Sara winked mischievously.

Fueled by the energy between them, Esmeralda added:
“We really don’t know what Frollo feeds you, but you are definitely stronger than any of those wannabe american football players! They know it too, that’s why those cowards only attack you in a group! You could lift me and Sara together, Big Buddy! Just clench a fist, and they crawl into their holes!”

“I… I don’t know…” Quasimodo nervously fiddled with his chunky fingers.
“That would be…—”

“Self-defense,” Sara interrupted him seriously.

“We’ve watched and stayed silent long enough.” Esmeralda added, her tone sharpening. “Look at us. All our work over the summer hasn’t been for nothing after all!”

“I…” he lowered his head and nodded. “You’re right. Probably...”

Sara and Esmeralda just stared at him.
"Definetely!" He corrected with reddened cheeks. He was grinning now.
His shoulders relaxed under the sudden weight of approval from his friends.

“But you should still…” Sara softened, hooking her arm through his, “…always take good care of yourself. Promise us.”
Quasimodo smiled at both of them.

“Promise.”

At that moment, the bells rang in the distance from the small school tower. It was the signal for assembly. Through the tall hallway windows, groups of students could already be seen streaming toward the auditorium.

“Let’s go, or we’ll miss seats for the speech!” Esmeralda called joyfully. A telling, almost gleeful sight, considering who was about to give a speech....

------
Monsieur Frollo’s icy, furious voice could be heard even through the thick wooden walls, muffled:
“Your punishment will be as follows: I expect forty hours of detention with Bible exegesis. A small course, so to speak. I will speak with our school priest; he will correct your work and inform me if any of you fail to apply yourselves. To ensure you recite the Lord’s Prayer, a small choir will convene daily in my office. During first break or after school, one hundred times, as long as I demand it.” A short pause.
“Now go.”

The door to his office opened with a soft, oily creak that echoed through the empty hallway.

The boys staggered out. They looked as if they had been through hell. Their faces were ashen, uniforms crumpled as if torn apart and patched together. One of them, the instigator of the scuffle, still rubbed the aching hand with which he had been forced to copy “I shall not bully my schoolmates” a hundred times.

They said nothing. Their lower lips trembled. One boy struggled in vain to hold back tears.
Frollo had instilled sheer terror in them. Even more than usual. The principal had been calm. Unnervinhly so, silently staring at an invisible spot across the room, not acknowledging them in the least, even as he made them copy lines.

The scolding sermon had not come. Instead, there was that eerie glint in his eyes, normally empty and dull. Was it the infernal anger, the fire of revenge they had provoked in him? Or something else?

The boys flinched as the heavy door slammed behind them with a boom.

Claude Frollo paused in his office, hand still gripping the handle as if holding on to avoid sinking. The man was panting slightly.

Something vibrated in the air, something that disturbed his usually iron composure.
As if sensing it, he clutched his chest.
It seemed to be his heart.
This thing which fluttered and pounded, as if trying to escape the confines of his body.

He gritted his teeth. His gaze swept over the papers spread across the desk—discipline reports, graded exams, schedules, and his speech. Everything in place. Everything under control.

And yet…
Something was wrong… something… in the air.

He strode quickly to the other side of the room where his mirror stood. His long fingers gripped the plain frame.

The first thing he saw was an angry, flaming gray.
The pink rims around his eyes spoke of vacation fatigue, of the struggle against his own impatience.
His perfectly parted hair was disheveled. He ran a hand through his head to smooth the stray strands back. Then he looked again into the mirror.
A slight twitch of his lower lip betrayed that his inner turmoil still pulsed, that nothing was yet perfect.

He was sweating.

God, what was wrong with him?
He couldn’t stop… thinking…

“Three idiots… and an… unusual… surprise,” he muttered quietly.

He forced himself to take a deep breath. His fingers pressed against his temples as if to shut off the flood of thoughts.

Calm down, Frollo, calm down… you hallucinated. It wasn’t real…

But the images did not fade.
Sara. Her smile, her large amber eyes, full of anger, full of strength, full of... need. Full of... fire.

Light that shone too brightly, consuming everything.

A body that had changed. That could fight, turn, hold, strike.

So young, so... outrageously full... and... beautiful.

...Temptation.

He shuddered at the word, all color draining from his face.

“No, no, no…” he repeated, shaking his head. He turned from the mirror, knowing he was on the verge of a terrible realization: that his own heart was corrupted, that his soul craved purity it did not possess.

His panicked mind raced, seeking an explanation for this blasphemy, for the change in her, in him—and inevitably thought of the arm around her.

A name formed in his mind.
Esmeralda.

He thought of the mascara on her eyelids, her long brown legs, the far-too-short dark blue skirt. The school uniform that this stubborn, chaotic girl had always refused. Only that cheeky grin, that godless provocation… perfected.
Her arm around Sara.

Raging fury overcame him.
Frollo walked back to his desk, placing his large hand directly on the Bible: La Bible de Jérusalem, a 1970s translation.

Before him, the empty, messy chairs the boys had occupied. But what he saw wasn’t their fear. He saw Sara’s eyes searching for him in the hallway, her hand on Quasimodo’s shoulder. Her voice when she had called him…

And of course...
Jasmine… and something lemony. Sara’s perfume… Now... in his room?

He closed his eyes as if to push away the rose scent. And saw again those beautifully shaped brown legs, a lollipop between white teeth, and…
Her arm around his girl…

He ground his teeth.

His gaze fell on his speech.

For ten whole years, he had allowed this… bad influence. Not removed her from Sara, not from his school. Her and… her kind. These troublemakers.

It had been foolish of him. He had held himself back for Sara. Always for her. But now...

A cold smile formed on his face. In that moment, he didn’t even seem human.

Es.me.ral.da.

Unruly. Cheeky… and now actively turned towards the path of sin. With her dark, unruly curls, her lipgloss and those skimpy, torn beggar-clothes.

Without any shame at all!

Even if she looked quite se---

...
...
...

Before her could think any further, he mechanically opened up his bible. He didn’t even blink once. Nor did he actually look at the open pages.

Where was I?

...
He should have seen it coming! This seed of corruption—he had suppressed it too late!

She thought herself clever, this little missy, yet she didn’t know what she had done.
That stupid grin had been a declaration of war against him! And he would make sure she would never grin like that again!

The girl had wanted it herself.
It was now all or nothing.

And Frollo was certain he would claim victory. Today. In front of everyone. In front of Sara.
In the auditorium.