My readers deserve better, and I want to give them that. Disclaimer: Don't own anything, property of Disney and Victor Hugo, and so on and so forth and what have you...And I implore you: if you don't like it, please no flaming.

It was late in the day in Paris as its citizens were waiting for it to draw to a close, packing up their belongings and wares, ready to call it a day. Post-workday lethargy was falling over the dense city, creating a relaxing calm over the city. A rustic half-timbered building stood gazing across the square towards the menacing Palace of Justice as its doors flew open and a dozen or so boys—all of noble birth—piled out as the school day had concluded. They all walked away, chatting and laughing as they made their way home, glad to be done with the monotony of hours of listening to their professor drone on and on about one poet or another. These boys might go off to play off the day's work—maybe wrestle, throw stones, or board games with each other.

However, one boy did not have this leisure: he stopped outside the doors, looked over his shoulder quickly and then took off in a sprint. Not long afterwards, a trio of bigger and taller boys headed in the same direction after him.

The boy being chased was about ten years old, very skinny and short compared to the boys chasing him. His short black hair flew as he ran; he possessed very thin, distinctive lips; dark, gray eyes; and a small bend in his nose, making it aquiline.

He twisted through the throngs of peasants crowding the square eager to get home, dodging every cart and peddler nimbly, breathing intensely as his heart pounded furiously. Finally shaking the three off his trail, the boy headed down an alley and crouched behind some discarded crates.

Trying to catch his breath and clinging to the dozen or so pieces of parchment and a thick book at hand, he lay in hiding for a few moments before deciding that the coast was clear. Heading back down to exit the alleyway, all seemed well until he found himself pinned to the ground the next moment, the wind knocked out of him and his face planted against the cobblestone street.

"Martin, I got him!" called the lean brown-haired boy, holding the smaller one's arms behind his back and pressing his neck down. The other two appeared and ran towards them, both smiling wickedly as they examined their victim.

"Get off of me!" the small boy yelled, fruitlessly trying to squirm free.

"Nice work, Dominique!" called a shorter boy, he and another jogging towards the strife.

"Don't worry, Dom, he likes eating dirt!" said a pudgy blond-haired boy. He picked the fallen parchment pieces and handed a few to the tall third boy. "Don't you, Claude?" With that, the tall boy pressed the small child's face further against the ground, coughing from the pressure on his neck.

"Don't!" cried the small boy, still locked to the ground, the stones burying into his face. "I need those for class! Unlike you, I did my work!" The boys' professor had assigned them to copy down his reciting of the numerous works by Ovid and Virgil in Latin, something Claude excelled in.

"Oh, don't worry, Claude. You'll get them back…as soon as we're done with them!" Martin remarked, giving a satisfied chuckle. "Come on, Jacques. Leave him there, Dominique." With this, the boy released Claude and joined his friends as they turned to walk way, leaving the small boy dirtied and without his assignments.

Claude picked himself off the ground and dusting the dirt from his black doublet, impulsively commenting under his breath, "You'll get yours."

Martin stopped and turned to face him. "What was that?" he asked, raising his brows at him, stepping towards him.

Claude himself was shocked at this act of defiance and stood there, unable to respond and frozen in place. Before he could move or say anything, he found his arms locked and his body pushed up against a wall. Martin landed a hard punch to the boy's stomach, followed by another, then another.

Claude could not find the strength to scream out in pain, feeling the wind being knocked out of him with every blow, causing his face to turn a feverish red as he wheezed. His scrawny arms were being crushed by the immense grip by Dominique and Jacques. He just wanted the pain to stop—wanted to run away and find a hole to hide away in.

Martin eventually tired himself out and ordered the two to release Claude, throwing him hard against the stone pavement. They walked away laughing triumphantly and exchanging remarks:

"He doesn't put up much of a fight, does he?"

"What a girl!"

"Maybe we should just call him Claudine!"

Claude was on his bruising knees, hunched over and holding his stomach while he coughed and gasped for air. He pushed himself up and rested against the wall to see the damage done today, hoping it would not be as bad as other days.

He examined the numerous cuts and marks on his arms and could feel one over his cheek. Looking at his shirt, Claude realized that it had been torn during the scuffle. Oh, no, he thought worriedly, knowing full well that his father would be less than pleased at this.

He turned his attention to his schoolbook dotted with notes from months of lectures—books were not exactly inexpensive—which had been carelessly thrown into a nearby puddle of water. Claude walked over to fish it out, his expression grimacing as examined it. He studied it and saw that the parchment was soaked, making much of the ink run and much of the text illegible. Great, he thought pitifully. Now another thing to worry about.

He slunk down against a nearby wall and buried his face in his hands, thinking about the impending doom that lay ahead once he arrived home. If it was not enough that he would be punished for tearing another shirt, his father would be livid when he saw Claude's schoolbook ruined. His father was already a man with a quick temper, and if he saw what happened to his son's clothes and book…Claude shuddered as he thought about what lay ahead. Silently, he began to weep, tears rolling down his cheeks thinking about the pain to come.

Not long after, a young girl walked down the street before stopping to see what a young boy was doing sitting in an alley by himself. She looked about the same age, dark tanned skin, gold bracelets dangling on her wrists, and carrying a satchel…a gypsy girl.

She approached Claude. "Excuse me," she softly greeted. "Are you alright?"

Claude looked up startled and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. "Yes," he said dryly then clearing his throat, trying to retain what little dignity was left. "I'm just fine."

She noticed the cuts on his face and arms. "You need help," she concluded. "Come with me."

He looked up into her bright brown eyes, some apprehension stopping him.

They are nothing but a band of disloyal, thieving dogs! His father's words rang in his ears. Studying the gypsy girl's face, Claude was struck how sweetly she looked at him as she held out her hand to him. Taking her hand in his, she helped him to his feet. He grabbed his damaged book and followed her as she led him out of the alley and down the street.

The girl led Claude all the way the Seine where she ordered him to sit down, the cold dirt bank a kinder change from the rocky street. From her satchel she pulled out a white rag. Dipping it in the water then wringing it out, she brought it to his face and began to clean his wounds.

Claude was dumbstruck by the young girl's actions, considering it was not often that he was shown a random act of kindness. Being the son of the much-feared Minister of Justice undoubtedly led other children to keep their distance from the boy. Usually he left his wounds to heal on their own, preferring to keep to himself under normal circumstances.

Pulling out a fresh linen strip, the girl bandaged a deep cut on his arm and finished. "There," she said. "All done."

"Thank you," Claude said lowly, still looking very down. Studying her work, he then asked, "How did you know how to do this?"

She simply shrugged. "My family wants us to be able to take care of ourselves. When someone gets hurt, we take care of each other."

Claude averted his gaze from her, staring at the ground as a response.

"What's wrong?" she asked, somewhat intrigued by this quiet boy.

"Thank you very much for what you've done, but my father is still going to kill me over this," he showed her the long rip in his shirt.

She looked at it and said, "I'll fix that." She pulled out a needle and some thread from her bag and effortlessly began stitching, much to the boy's surprise, raising his eyebrows in response.

"By the way," Claude began amicably. "What's your name?"

Her bright brown eyes gleamed at him for a moment and responded, "Celeste."

He smiled at her and said, "I'm Claude. Claude Frollo." Her smile and kindness allowed the boy to relax a little, as he was used to constantly being on edge in wondering who was on his tail, ready for confrontation.

"Nice to meet you, Claude. How old are you?"

"Ten, almost eleven though," he answered. "What about you?'

"I'm ten too!" she said, beaming at him. "Now, why is your father going to "kill you" over a tear in your shirt?"

Claude took a deep breath and explained, "Because he says he hates buying me more clothes every time I ruin them in a fight. And my book," he picked up the wet leather-bound volume to show her. "Is useless now. And he'll be even angrier when he sees that I ruined a book he bought me."

"What were you fighting about?" she asked, still sewing. "My mother say boys are always fighting about something."

Claude looked away briefly, ashamed in his answer. "These boys from my school…they like to pick on me because they're bigger than me and I am the top of my class, so they take my work and copy it. And also, because my father really doesn't care what anyone does if I'm the one getting beaten."

"That's awful," she said, giving him a sympathetic look.

"My father says that I wouldn't be in so many fights if I just fought like a man. I know that's one of the reasons he hates me." Confessing this long-standing notion made Claude ball his hand in a tight fist, wanting to keep himself strong and collected.

"I'm sorry, Claude," sadness etched in her words. "How could someone hate their son?"

Claude sighed. "Well...I don't win fights, I don't have any friends, he says I'm an embarrassment, and he says I'm a cursed child—he says I'm the reason he and my mother don't have any other children." Claude looked off to the Seine flowing before them, almost refusing to look at the girl. Inside, he was fighting the tears that were building up in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath to collect himself, he looked back at Celeste, asking, "Would you tell me why you decided to stop and help me?"

Her hazel eyes met his, softly answering, "Because it looked like you needed it."

He looked at her with slight suspicion. "You don't want anything in return? My father says that gypsies are always looking for money." He instantly regretted his remark, cursing his father's words for escaping his lips.

Celeste answered, "Not at all. Your father's wrong: we need money to live too, so we go out and earn it." She sewed up the last few stitches and examining it. "There, now that one's done too."

Claude looked at his shirt and how the tear was barely noticeable. "Wow…thank you so much Celeste," he said, giving her a grateful smile. He looked up to see that dusk was approaching.

"I think I need to get home now. I would really like to see you again though," the boy said hopefully, standing up and helping her up as well.

She smiled at him and replied, "Well then, see this bridge right here?" she pointed to the one just left to them.

"Pont Notre Dame," Claude confirmed, glancing at the bustling bridge.

"I'm usually here during the day," Celeste continued. "You can come and see me after class if you want."

Claude's face lit up at her invitation, instantly and eagerly replying, "I will. Tomorrow, I promise."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," extending her hand, he shook it happily. "Goodbye Claude."

The two parted ways, Claude grinning from ear to ear the whole journey home.

X

Pushing past other Parisians, Claude entered the family manor situated on Rue Tirechappe, west of the Seine. A more affluent neighborhood large enough to contain the family home, the manor had been standing here for almost one hundred years. It was large enough to hold even a stable for the Minister's horses. Inside the large house, its servants bowed courteously at the master's son as he passed through the door.

"Claude, is that you?" A high, melodious voice called, Claude following it.

"Yes, Mother," he said, entering the parlor room and seeing the young woman sitting and sewing a tapestry, her blonde curls strewn around her shoulders.

The thin pale woman looked up at her son, bright blue eyes studying him. "Come here," she instructed, motioning to him. The young woman inspected the boy's cheek, noticing the scratch. "Did you get into another scuffle today?"

Claude darted his eyes away from her. "Just a small one," he reassured.

His mother shook her head at him. "At least your father isn't returning tonight. Now go wash up, supper is to be served soon."

Making his way upstairs to his room, Claude breathed a sigh a relief that he would not have to see the Minister today, and hopefully tomorrow. But his mind went straight back to the girl he met today.

Celeste…he had never heard a name so exotic, so captivating. Washing his face in the basin in his room, he thought about how much he could not wait to see her tomorrow.

*A/n: Yeah so this baby REALLY needed a facelift—I could not in good conscience continue to let this crap litter FF. Besides, I think my writing's gotten better since this was written, and the original is just filled with plot-holes and not enough descriptive writing and historical accuracies. Anyway, it's gonna get deleted soon anyway. It needs to be reworked so I can move forward with the other stories. Don't you judge me!