Author's Note: Oh, dear. Where do I even begin? Alright, here's the thing: the plan (yes - I had a plan; it was written on post-its) was to write a few more one-shots before attempting a multi-chaptered fic. The plan called for the stories to be strictly cannon. The plan was to write something that didn't include Enjolras. The plan was to not write long, repetitive author's notes! Apparently my muse has decided to go in the exact opposite direction of my beloved plans. I had originally written a very long list of explanations and excuses as to why I've decided to write this but I've decided to simply let the story speak for itself. Keep in mind this is just the prologue...and that I am extremely unhappy with it. Alas, I've tried to rewrite it but it's just not cooperating with me. I'm just going to post it and hope the other chapters are better. I think that's all I had to say. Onwards!

Prologue

It was the screaming that woke him that night. In the countryside, where he spent his childhood, he never had trouble sleeping. He would easily drift off to sleep and would not wake up until the sun had risen. He had naturally assumed he was a heavy sleeper. Paris, however, proved him wrong. Where the country had been quiet and peaceful, the city was loud and alive even at the latest of hours. He had only been in Paris a few weeks and he was already suffering from sleep deprivation. The relentless noise was making it increasingly difficult for him to fall asleep, and when his mind would finally begin to quiet and he felt himself grow drowsy, a loud noise would immediately rouse him and make it impossible for him to sleep.

On that particular night, he had finally fallen asleep when a loud, piercing shriek wretched him from his dreams. He groaned and closed his eyes once more. Someone screaming in Paris, even in a wealthy neighborhood, was not a startling occurrence. When he had finally gotten comfortable again, another scream pierced the night and drowned out everything else. Something about it made him sit up. He sighed and quietly made his way to the window, peering sleepily towards the street and trying to will his eyes to distinguish between the dark, blurry shadows. Perhaps it was the darkness or the fact that his sleep-deprived brain was far too tired to function properly, but he failed to find the source of the screaming. Had he fallen asleep and dreamt it all? With a shake of his head, he shuffled his way back to bed, closed his eyes, and tried to will himself to sleep.

It must have worked because when he opened his eyes, it was morning and if he didn't hurry, he would be late to his first class. Thankfully for him, though, he was quick in getting ready and before he had time to contemplate his professor's wrath, he was already out the door and on his way to the university.

Though he was usually too distracted by his thoughts to pay any attention to what people were discussing on the street, he couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversations.

"- happened last night."

" - poor girl."

"Didn't you hear the screaming?"

That made him stop dead in his tracks. Screaming? Could it be that he hadn't been dreaming? He was torn between inquiring as to what had happened and being late to class. He finally sighed and accepted the telling off he would receive.

He cautiously approached the two young men - students, by the looks of them - who were standing outside a nearby café. "Excuse me, monsieur, but might I ask as to what happened last night?" he politely asked one of them.

"A woman was killed," the one with the cane began explaining but was quickly interrupted by his companion.

"But that's not why everyone's making a fuss. See, the woman was killed in one of the wealthier neighborhoods."

"And Courfeyrac here claims that he saw the entire thing," said the shorter man with a scoff.

"I did see it!"

"It's a tragedy to be sure, but I fail to see why there is such an uproar."

The two men looked at each other before leaning in closer to him. "The authorities claim they've caught the killer, that they have proof it was him."

"And you think they have the wrong man?"

"I know they do. See, the man they arrested was a working man. Poor, clearly someone who doesn't live in the neighborhood where the woman was killed. They claim he killed her to steal her money."

"And…"

"And that is impossible because the man I saw attacking the woman was certainly not poor. I didn't see his face but I assure you that there is no way he was the same man they have in prison."

"But why don't you go to the police? Tell them what you saw?"

The other man spoke up. "No one would believe that a wealthy man killed a women."

"But I heard the people in the streets - "

"The people aren't discussing whether or not the man is innocent, but whether or not he should be executed," said the young man with a sad smile.

"But, but that's absurd! How can an innocent man be killed for a crime he did not commit?"

"Are you a student?" asked the taller young man.

"Yes. I'm studying to be a lawyer."

"So am I," said one of them. "Are you new in town?"

"Yes, I only arrived a few weeks ago, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"In a few months, especially since you're studying the law, you'll learn just how unfair things are around here. Same thing happened to me. My name's Courfeyrac," he said, finally realizing that he hadn't introduced himself to the young man.

"Enjolras," said the boy distractedly.

"I'm Joly," said Courfeyrac's companion before sneezing and muttering something about allergies. The two students continued discussing the matter but Enjolras found that he couldn't bring himself to pay attention. He was far too immersed in his thoughts to participate in any type of conversation. Eventually, Courfeyrac and Joly left, claiming they had classes to attend. Their announcement reminded Enjolras of his own studies and he too left for the university.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he forgot that he usually hailed a fiacre instead of walking to class. As he walked, he saw the things that he had always unintentionally ignored. He had, of course, noticed the barefoot children on the streets and the women that called out suggestively to him, but he had never realized just how many there were. Everywhere he turned, he saw women in threadbare clothing clasping infants to their chest. Small children with thin faces would hold their tiny hands out and beg for a sou. He tried to keep walking, to not look at their desperate faces but it was becoming increasingly difficult. A man coughed violently; a woman fell to her knees; a child cried.

As he passed an alley, Enjolras heard a series of curses and screams and quickly turned just in time to see a man viciously attacking a poorly dressed girl. Anger boiled inside of him and just as he was about to intervene, he felt someone tug his arm and lead him away from the terrible scene.

"We have to help her," Enjolras said when he finally recognized his companion.

"Combeferre, we can't just leave her!"

Combeferre stopped and appeared to be contemplating the matter. Finally, he nodded his head and the two students quickly made their way back to the alley were the girl was being attacked. It only took a few seconds but by the time they arrived, it was over. Both the man and the girl were gone. The only evidence they had ever been there were the drops of blood that decorated the alley floor.

Enjolras stared at the spot, unable to move. Did someone help the girl? Was she killed? Dazed, he let Combeferre guide him away. As the walked in silence, Enjolras' thoughts were filled with everything he had seen and heard. Courfeyrac was right. It didn't take long for him to realize how unfair things were for those who weren't as fortunate as he was. What he didn't understand was why no one helped. Why didn't anyone do something to help the starving children? Why hadn't anyone stopped when the girl screamed? Why had he and Combeferre hesitated before trying to help her?

The young student was pulled from his thoughts when a boy ran in front of him, a determined look on his face. "Please, monsieur, have mercy. My brother and I haven't eaten in two days," he said, the determined look quickly vanishing and desperation taking over. "Surely, fine gentlemen such as yourselves can spare a sou or two."

Enjolras' eyes drifted to the even smaller child that they boy had pointed out. Without hesitating, he pulled five francs from his pocket and handed them over to the boy. He was rewarded by the boy's incredulous stare.

"Oh, bless you, monsieur. Thank you!" the boy said before running off to join his brother.

Enjolras turned to find Combeferre staring at the boy in horror. "What is it?" asked Enjolras.

"I - I've been in Paris a bit longer than you. I thought I had gotten used to seeing such suffering but - but that child was skin and bones. I - " Combeferre broke off, unable to say any more. Enjolras made no attempt to comfort his friend. There was nothing he could say.

They walked in silence and soon parted to go to their respective classes. As he had expected, Enjolras' professor was not pleased with his tardiness. Under normal circumstances, Enjolras, who had not missed a single word of a lecture in his short time at the university, would have been listened even more attentively and taken extra notes to make up for his mistake, but he couldn't bring himself to listen to the professors' lecture. His mind was too busy thinking about all the suffering and injustice he had seen in just one morning. It was an outrage! Something had to be done. But who? Who would be willing to fight for the people who couldn't fight for themselves? Who would oppose the unfair and prejudiced authorities that ruled not only Paris, but France as well?

The entire day was a blur and Enjolras couldn't recall a single word any of his professors said. He mind was solely focused on the people of Paris. Night came and Enjolras found himself once again lying in bed, unable to sleep. Unlike the previous nights, however, sleep eluded him not because of the noise but because of the images that kept flashing in his mind: men, women, children starving; the wealthy sitting in their lavish houses, gorging themselves on food and wine; an innocent man executed for a crime he didn't commit; a girl beaten within an inch of her life. It wasn't long before the usually stoic boy screamed and sat up in bed, his chest heaving and his hands trembling uncontrollably. He stood up shakily and made his way to the window. Normally, he kept it firmly closed- a desperate attempt to shut out the noise - but that night was different. He opened the window and breathed in the crisp night air. The noises that he so desperately hated sounded louder and more desperate to Enjolras and he found himself listening more closely, as if trying to understand what the people of Paris were saying. It was, of course, impossible to make out anything but there was something curious about the noise. It was harsh and clashing, but to Enjolras, it sounded like a song - an angry, desperate song of a people who were in need of change.

And quite suddenly, Enjolras found an idea forming in his mind…