Climbing the stairwell Frollo dusted his robe off after another long day, but at least it was more eventful and enjoyable than usual with less writing and more hands-on work.

When he reached the bell tower he found the Archdeacon carefully rocking the gurgling Quasimodo before placing him back his cradle.

"Good day, Minister," he greeted kindly. Furrowing his brows, he then gestured to his own face before saying, "You seem to have…blood, on you cheek, Frollo."

Wiping at his face, the judge saw that there was indeed more blood than he thought as he assumed he had brushed all of it off. As a gift from a fellow magistrate in England, the rack had proven to make quite a messy, though effective, method of extracting information and execution. "Screamers tend to be the most viable source of leads for criminal activity."

Father Augustin nodded curtly. "Claude, there's a matter that I need to discuss with you."

Removing his leather gloves, Frollo asked, "And what would that be?"

"Follow me," he said, leading the judge out of the bell tower.

The two made their way to Augustin's study, which resembled Frollo's own with its large array of books, however less daunting. The Minister took a seat, the Archdeacon following afterwards.

Closing the door, Augustin gravely asked, "What ever became of Quasimodo's father?"

Frollo blinked at the question, caught off-guard by such an inquiry. Steepling his long fingers together before him, he thought hard for an answer. It had only been about seven months since the incident but the Minister had exterminated gypsies like any other pests, and to him the band of them which had brought Quasimodo to Paris were just more nameless faces.

Shaking his head, he responded, "I am not entirely sure. I might have had the man executed…or there might be a chance that he still lies in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. Who knows? Perhaps I had put him on trial, or maybe not."

"And that's that?" The Archdeacon crossed his arms.

"What's done is done, and he is no longer a part of Quasimodo's life," Frollo sharply retorted. "Why does it matter?"

"I have scarcely seen you try to make an attempt to really embrace him as your own and show some sort of affection towards him. And since you've taken his father from him, it just makes one wonder what became of the man."

Frollo's face twisted into a sneer. "What do you hope to accomplish with this admonishment?"

Augustin sighed. "Quasimodo is growing, Claude. I'm sure you would enjoy fatherhood if you put your heart into it."

The Minister rolled his eyes, easily resembling Jehan when he lectured him. "As you may recall, Father: I promised to care for him, not…love the boy." The word left a bitter taste in his mouth as the man was not accustomed to exercising it in his normal vocabulary.

"Honestly, Claude," Augustin chided as the Minister rose from his seat. "Since you are now Quasimodo's father, then you-"

"I am not his father!" Frollo snarled angrily. "We have established that I am simply his guardian and he is my ward, not my son. This discussion is over." Quickly, he straightened up to his signature imposing stature.

Augustin narrowed his eyes pitifully at the judge. "Very well. But food for thought: if he were your son by blood, wouldn't you care for him more?"

Frollo frowned at the man's argument. "If that were the case, then yes, perhaps I would be more willing to embrace parenthood. But it is not and I am grateful not to have any children of my own." The Minister turned around and reached for the iron door handle about to open it until Augustin spoke up.

"Are you quite sure about that?"

Frollo stopped immediately, his eyes widening upon hearing this question.

"You think about her, don't you, Claude?"

His grip on the handle tightening, he replied, "I…don't know to whom you are referring."

The Archdeacon looked doubtfully at him. "Yes you do, Claude. I have known you your whole life, and I know that you were friends with her for almost ten years."

Frollo remained facing the wooden door, hiding the fact that his expression softened into a crestfallen one.

"I remember that she was your "best friend" by your own words," Augustin continued. "Don't you ever wonder about her?"

Frollo did not respond. Inside, however, he knew that there were many times where he questioned the eventual fate of his old friend, occasionally scolding himself for letting his greatest companion go. But he also remembered that the future that he once saw with her had not been in practicality.

Looking down at the red ring on his finger, he lied, "No, I do not." Suddenly the air was tight and he felt the need to exit the room.

Before he could, "She had come back, Claude," the Archdeacon said suddenly.

Frollo squeezed his eyes shut and stiffened for a moment. "When?" he asked quietly, still refusing to turn around.

Augustin sighed. "About fourteen years ago…"

The Archdeacon walked through the nave with the candle lighter in hand. Evening mass would not start for quite a long time and Notre Dame was dead silent.

Until there was the sound of a small cry, followed by a voice quietly shushing it.

Father Augustin turned around and saw a figure walking through the pew: a young woman by the look of it, carrying a small bundle in hand. He decided to approach said figure, who looked on awestruck at the stained glass pictures high above.

"My dear," he greeted calmly. "Mass does not start for another half hour."

The young woman turned around…dark bronze skin, light brown eyes, colorful gypsy attire complemented by an orange scarf around her head. In her arms, a small child, who looked about a year old, squirmed restlessly and looked around the colossal church interior surrounding him.

"Forgive me, Father," she said sincerely. "I haven't been here in a long time, and I just wanted to see this place again."

"You seem familiar," Augustin said carefully, studying her face.

"You may recall me never leaving Claude Frollo's side as a child?" She said with a smirk.

Augustin smiled. "Celeste. I remember now; you were his closest friend."

The girl's smile disappeared. "Yes, I was.But I haven't seen him in over two years since he can't stand me anymore."

Augustin vaguely remembered a time when Claude transitioned into a hateful bigot, seemingly in a day (never elaborating why). Around that same time, the young scholar had begun spinning anti-gypsy sentiment to his fellow students and noblemen.

"Celeste?" the Archdeacon asked. "What made you leave Paris?"

She looked down at the child in her arms. "Well…got married and decided that we should try living somewhere else. So, we went to Spain for a while, had a child almost a year ago, and now our caravan's traveling all over Europe. We're just stopping in Paris for the night."

"You were married? Congratulations, my child!" he beamed sincerely.

"Thank you," Celeste gave a small smile. "To one of the boys in my caravan: Marcel." She chuckled. "Claude hated him, and he hated Claude. You can see why it was better to leave Paris."

Augustin could then recall times when the young Frollo had cast scowls and looks of scorn at a certain curly-haired gypsy boy. It made sense considering he was a notorious grudge-holder.

The man took another look at the child who wiggled in her arms and noticed how much lighter he was in comparison to his much darker mother, and how he possessed dark gray eyes that looked very eerily familiar.

Remaining subtle, Augustin said, "And of course congratulations on becoming a mother. You and your husband must be very proud."

"We are, but sometimes it isn't easy when your son looks nothing like your husband."

Augustin did not know how to respond to such a statement, analyzing how much the boy resembled someone else…

Celeste sighed and held the child closer. Looking up to the Archdeacon, she then said, "He's Claude's son."

It took a moment for the man to wrap his head around the idea that such a pious, God-fearing person like Claude Frollo would break his vow of celibacy, especially outside the nobility. At first it didn't seem to make any sense, until he remembered how close Claude had been with the gypsy girl as children, and that his prejudice against her kind seemed to only manifest after she had left Paris.

"Claude is the father? Claude Frollo?" he asked, still stunned. "Celeste, are you sure?"

"Believe me, Father, I'm certain it's him. He's the only other man I've been with besides my husband, and my son looks absolutely nothing like him; he can only be Claude's."

"Did you ever tell him about the boy?"

"Never," was her reply. "Could you imagine what he'd do if he found out that he had a gypsy child? He'd go ballistic!"

The baby boy gurgled impatiently and continued to fuss, Celeste rocking him to calm him down. "No, it's better for the both of them if they don't know."

Frollo kept his eyes clamped shut and his breathing shallowed as the words sunk in painfully. His knuckles were a deadly white as he never released his grip on the door handle.

Damn her! He fumed and rejected the notion that he of all people would ever have a child out of wedlock—and a gypsy at that. But another part of him wanted to break down and weep for his old friend.

Unsure of any other way to respond to such a tale, Frollo could not even control his next words from escaping. "It's not mine."

"Claude" Augustin said slowly. "If you had seen the boy, then you-"

"It's not mine," Frollo repeated fiercely, trying to keep from releasing the anger inside that made his blood boil. "It could belong to any unsuspecting man. Whatever half-breed bastard that that witch expelled from her womb is of no concern of mine."

The Archdeacon crossed his arms at the Minister and his expression was one of doubt. "Were you two ever together?"

Despite his track record, even Frollo could not find it in his heart to lie any further. "Never more than once. And now you are aware that I have not always honored my vow of celibacy."

"I told you, Minister, that your vow is one of personal choice, not the ministry. And since you were with her, then you cannot rule yourself out as a possibility."

Frollo turned around slightly to face the Archdeacon. "I firmly believe that I did not sire such a child." Once more he reached for the door handle prepared to leave.

"He had your eyes, Claude," Augustin stated sentimentally.

The muscles in the judge's back tensed up as he imagined a gypsy child with his cold gray eyes.

"Would you like to know what she named him?" he asked the Minister.

His heart wrenching in his chest, Frollo wanted to hear no more on the subject. With a sharp inhale, he quietly replied, "No. I never want to hear about her again."

Without waiting for the Archdeacon's response, Frollo stormed out of the man's study, slamming the door behind him, and marched down the lengthy halls leading the bell tower.

Half-way up the steps to the tower, the Minister stopped and leaned heavily against the stone wall. Tears welled in his eyes even as he stifled a sob of resentment.

X

Frollo brushed past the guard as he opened the door and made his way down the stairwell into the dungeons. There was something that needed to be checked…

He approached the warden and darkly said, "I want you to show me to every gypsy in custody."

"Yes, Minister." He swiftly led the grim judge to the first, then the second, and a third cell with a gypsy inside. None of them contained the person he sought out, to which he would simply order, "Next," then heading to the next cell.

So many of them looked at him like skittish animals about to be attacked, confused by the judge's brief visit to study each of their faces before storming out of each cell and down the corridor. Such a search was beginning to look fruitless, to which he took mental note of how many gypsies he should dispose of to prevent overcrowding in his dungeons.

None of these seemed to be the one he was looking for, but the Minister knew who he was after.

"This is the last of them, Your Honor," the guard stated as he placed the key into the cell door.

With annoyed anticipation, Frollo eyed the inside of the dark cell as the door swung open. The figure inside flinched and quickly shielded himself from the incoming torch light.

"Show yourself," Frollo ordered harshly.

Reluctantly and weakly the gypsy man raised his head and looked upon the imposing Minister of Justice. Frollo recognized the man by his long face, crooked nose, and dirty facial hair (once only a mustache). The man had been there the night of the incident…Quasimodo's father.

Glancing back at his guard, Frollo sent the guard away, leaving only him and this prisoner.

The gypsy coughed loudly, blood staining his hand. "It's…it's you," he choked out. "Judge Frollo."

"Indeed," Frollo responded. "You were caught trying to enter the city illegally with three others including a child in late winter, correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Please," he shakily crawled closer to the rigid Minister. "What became of them? My wife and son?"

Frollo pursed his lips. Nonchalantly, he answered, "Your wife perished in an unfortunate accident; your son survived and is in good hands."

The gypsy looked bewildered before furrowing his brows at the judge. He raspily breathed, "What did you do to them?"

Taken aback, Frollo dryly answered "Nothing that wasn't required of me."

He coughed again. "You are so full of it," the dirty man commented hatefully while attempting to raise himself up. "Your reputation is well-known all over the country; everyone knows that you are a cold, self-righteous son of a bitch! Especially towards my people. I know whatever misfortune that followed my family was because of you! Now tell me: what became of my son?"

Frollo refused to give into the demands of someone below him, tightening his jaw in annoyance.

Deciding to keep the upper hand, he posed his own question. "Have you ever given any consideration to the notion that your wife might have been…unfaithful in your union?"

The man glared at Frollo resentfully at his implication, fury growing with such taunting.

"Come now, your son resembled neither of you, therefore the culprit could only be your wife's infidelity," the judge drawled. "Such a woman who violates the sanctity of marriage will not be missed, wouldn't you agree?"

"That's not the point, Frollo!" the man angrily retorted, feebly standing up a bit, his ankle chains rattling. "He is my son nonetheless. Now what happened to him?"

"Gone," Frollo deadpanned. "Simply given to another's care, but not dead, mind you. Besides, what do you care if you were most likely not even the boy's true father?"

The man's expression resembled the Archdeacon's of sympathy which Frollo easily detested. "You don't understand, do you, Your Honor? It isn't about whether I sired him or not; my wife and I loved him because he was ours. As a parent, you are supposed to love your children unconditionally. I know that he might have not have resembled me, but I called him my son and viewed him as such."

Frollo chewed on the statement for a moment, baffled by such impassioned devotion from a gypsy of all people.

"So you would care for the child as your own even though he might not have been yours in the first place?" he asked cynically.

The man's expression was one of dead seriousness as he nodded in response.

Frollo couldn't help but let out a condescending chuckle at such a thought. "Such idiotic logic piled upon blind emotional conviction. I almost feel sorry for you, good sir, for not being able to see through a harlot's deception and trickery. Obviously she had seduced some other weak-willed lowlife before perverting your mind into believing that you should actually harbor affection for the result of her heedlessness. Truly a pity when a man falls for the enchantment of a treacherous, silver-tongued wench. That would explain why your son resembled a hell-spawn demon."

"You bastard!" Suddenly the man had lunged forward, calloused hands going for the judge's throat and tackling him to the stone ground.

The gypsy gritted his teeth tightly as his hands coiled around Frollo's neck. The judge tried in vain to push him away while fighting to keep breathing. The man's eyes and expression looked almost animalistic with the ferocious intent to kill.

"If they kill me, I can die knowing that the world is rid of another selfish tyrant!" he breathed, increasing the pressure on his grip.

Frollo could feel the air around him becoming tighter and tighter, vision becoming black and distant. His strength seemed to be sapped away as he continued to try and pry off the murderous gypsy, obviously strengthened by adrenaline and hatred.

Was this truly how it was going to end? Being strangled to death in his own home by some gypsy? It just couldn't be.

The instinct to stay alive kept him fighting, even though he could barely register what was going on. Unknowingly, one hand began searching his belt for anything that could be of help, especially when it felt that his last breaths were escaping.

In a dire light-headed state, Frollo felt himself grab something from his belt, instantly piercing it into the side of the gypsy man.

The judge felt the lock on his throat lessen then disappear, followed by a voice heard screaming far away. Though his vision was still hazy and head still spinning from the lack of oxygen, Frollo choked on the air trying desperately to get into his lungs and looked down at his attacker who lay on the ground clutching his side with a blood-soaked hand. Without thinking, Frollo thrust another puncture into the man's shoulder not once, but twice, and eliciting another painful cry from the man.

The gypsy looked down at the blood that trickled down his arm and limply fell over on his side. Frollo looked at the once clean blade of the dagger and then at the man's figure. Shakily, he rose to his feet and stumbled a bit of out of the cell before closing it shut and making his way back down the corridor.

Shock at his own impulsive actions consumed him—not remorse over what he had just done, just utter shock. He hadn't expected such a confrontation to end in bloodshed, but if that was the way it had to, then so be it.

Heart racing and head pounding furiously, Frollo noticed that his robe and hands were stained with gypsy blood as well. Usually a kill did not involve the other gaining the upper hand before him, which was something that truly surprised the judge.

"Minister!" the guard called, metal clanking as he rushed towards him.

Frollo's head snapped up upon hearing the guard address him, breaking him slightly from his disoriented state.

"Minister, what happened?" he asked, astounded by the amount of blood adorned by Frollo.

Wearing the same collected façade, Frollo responded, "There was a slight altercation with the prisoner I needed to speak to: he had attempted to kill me by means of strangulation, but I have taken care of it. See to it that such a mess is taken care of."

"O-of course, sir!" the guard obediently answered.

Climbing the stairs to his chambers above, Frollo's mind raced with numerous different thoughts. One was processing was had just happened; another, of what the man had told him…

Could it be possible to actually feel an emotional bond for the child, despite not even being flesh and blood?

Frollo had thrown Augustin's story to the back of his mind, refusing to revisit the conversation about her or any other absurd notions that the Archdeacon might have informed him of. He frequently denied to himself that he could not be held accountable for anything that might have been a result of his own youthful carelessness.

Did he learn anything from these past few days?

The boy's own gypsy father had tried to end him…to teach him of their dark ways would further increase his status as a mindless subordinate to the judge.

Quasimodo shall always know of their malignity and wickedness.