This story has been inspired by the Disney movie and the book, but is slightly AU for both. Frollo has seen Esmeralda from afar but hasn't spoken to her or tried to capture her. She has met and fallen in love with Phoebus. As in the book, Frollo is a priest and Phoebus is a womaniser.

The image for this story is the heavenly Daniel Lavoie as Frollo in Notre Dame de Paris.

...

Archdeacon Claude Frollo heard the sound of the confessional box sliding open and a light step on the wood panels. The air was heavy with incense and the steep, hallowed walls of the cathedral of Notre Dame echoed with the soft voices of the choir.

He waited in the gloom for the penitent on the other side of the grille to speak, but there came only the sound of soft breathing.

'I … hello?' said a timid voice.

Frollo raised his head from his steepled fingers in surprise, but force of habit kept his eyes averted. He often recognised his flock from their voices when they came to confess, but for their sake he did not turn his eyes toward them. The grille was meant to disguise their features but it was more decorative than functional.

He cleared his throat. 'What is your confession?' Still silence. He looked up and saw a shaft of light on the other side of the partition. 'My child, you have not closed the door. And why are you not kneeling?'

The figure rushed to slide the panel closed and then fell to her knees. Her hands pressed against the grille, just inches from Frollo's face. What passion there was in those rigid hands. How they clawed at the metal.

'Monseigneur,' said a voice tight with tears. 'I don't know what to do. I feel so ashamed.'

Frollo's lips pressed together. Who was this in his confessional? The correct words were, Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

'My child, is this your first confession?'

There was a sniffle. 'Yes.'

Gentler now, 'Are you Catholic?'

A short silence, and then, 'I'm – no. I don't think so. But please help me.' The voice cracked, and the girl began to cry.

Frollo turned his head and peered though the grille. He saw long, dark curls and a cloak thrown hastily about slim shoulders. A wide, red mouth. The soft curve of a pretty cheek. He breathed in sharply through his nostrils. The gypsy! He'd watched her from afar, never daring to draw close, but there was no mistaking her. He'd fought so hard to banish her from both his thoughts and the steps of Notre Dame.

'I cannot take your confession if you have not been baptised,' he snapped.

Tearful green eyes peered at him through the grille. 'Please, Archdeacon. It is the archdeacon, isn't it? I am the gypsy who dances with the little goat just outside the cathedral and –'

He interrupted her with a strangled sound. 'My child, we do not identify ourselves in the confessional. It matters not who I am and who you are. In here it is our souls we are concerned with.'

In his secret heart he was rejoicing. She knew him? Recognised him?

'Yes,' she said, eagerness lighting up her face. 'Teach me. What do I say? Do I put my hands together in prayer?'

'My child, you have not been baptised,' he repeated, desperate now.

'But I fear for my immortal soul,' she cried.

Frollo took deep breaths. How to explain to her that she was damned already? If she was not baptised then the original sin was still upon her.

'Where are your parents?' he asked quickly.

'I have none.'

'Your friends? You must have a friend, a confidante?'

'None that can advise me. Please, Father. I address you as Father, don't I? Yes, I have heard others say it.'

Frollo's mind raced. She had drawn close to him while he was unawares. Was she a strayed lamb that he could bring to the fold? Or a witch? He'd often called her so as he'd lain on his pallet, his body in sweats. Accursed witch. At night he permitted thoughts of her to dance through his mind, though they shamed him in the morning.

Frollo glanced at her, just visible in the twilight of the confessional. Perhaps in saving her he could save himself. A lamb could offer him no torment.

The words fell from his lips. 'Tell me your sins.'

'It – it is a man, Father.'

His hands gripped his thighs. Despicable witch. Who has she let touch her? He wanted to drag her from the confessional and out of his church.

'Has this man had knowledge of you?'

She frowned, puzzled.

'Has he lain with you?'

'How cold your voice is, Father. He has not, but I have thought about it, and he has asked me to join him in a low place this very night, I believe for that purpose.'

Frollo struggled to regain his composure. She was still yet pure. There was silence, as if she was waiting for him to say something. But he did not speak during confession except to administer penance.

'Do you wish to confess anything else?' he prompted.

She took a shuddering breath. 'I confess that I love him. Such feelings of lust I have for him, too. And I hate him because I love him.'

'You hate him?' Frollo asked, studying the panel before his eyes.

'Yes,' she said, her words heavy with passion. 'He is unworthy – he loves another, not me. But still I love him. I want to be rid of this love. I want to rip it from my body!'

Frollo felt his heart pounding in his breast. Was this sinful? He gave penance to his parishioners every day. Why not this girl? This sweet, young girl who'd come to him for help when all others had failed her. She needed him. She had been on the verge of giving herself to this other man, this doubtless undeserving nobody, and now she was imploring him for help.

If he turned her away, who knew what she would do tonight?

Frollo placed two fingers against his brow and his thumb against his jaw, as he was wont to do when receiving confessions, and bent his head.

'Tell me of the lust you have for this man, my child. Tell me all.'

...

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