Disclaimer: I do not own Disney, and I don't own Danny Phantom.

This tale fits Danny Phantom like a glove, and I've always come back to the idea for the past several, several years. I think I finally decided to take this seriously when I revisited my old FF account, and was astounded and inspired by the lovely reviews left by all of you. I felt as though I owed it to you to put some actual effort into this old story.

I had started this back in high school during my study hall period. This was roughly 10 years ago. Yikes.

So, constructive criticism is welcomed. I wasn't sure of the best way to handle the songs, though I did take that review to heart to add more songs to the story.

And no, Danny is still Danny, he won't be Quasimodo for much. Baha

Without further ado.. Enjoy!

The Phantom of Notre Dame

Morning in Paris, the city awakes,

To the bells of Notre Dame,

The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes,

To the bells of Notre Dame,

To the big bells as loud as the thunder,

To the little bells soft as a psalm,

And some say the soul of the city's

The toll of the bells,

The bells of Notre Dame..

The sun had begun its ascent into the sky, casting a soft, sunset glow across the many quaint buildings and huts of Paris. Of course, the mighty Notre Dame loomed in the distance, the rays of sunshine reaching its glorious bell towers before anything else in all of France. Pigeons flew by, startled by the bustling of early-morning risers of the plaza. However, it wasn't just any day. It was a day of festivities. And here is found our humble narrator, Clopin. Or as some of the locals called him, The Ghost Writer.

He stood amongst a sea of children, who eagerly awaited the next story to be retold by the gifted gypsy. In his hand was held a colorful puppet, silly looking and perfect for his 'show'. His colorful attire fit him as well, though the feathered hat and worn, leather vest gave homage to his Romani background. His mouth was split into a large grin, and he stared at the children before him as he spoke charismatically. The bells began their ringing, a deep brass tone followed by softer, more melancholy chimes in the distance. The man took a deep breath, as if breathing in the fresh, morning air of Paris.

"Listen, they're beautiful, no?" The children giggled at his exaggerated French accent. "So many colors of sound, so many changing moods.. Because you know, they do not ring all by themselves."

"They don't?" His puppet moved with sudden life, a shrill voice speaking instead of his smooth, thick baritone.

The man frowned at his puppet, "No, silly boy! You see, up there, high HIGH in the dark bell tower, lives a mysterious bell ringer." A collective gasp fell over his adolescent crowd. The man's green eyes flashed with amusement, leaning forward and staring somberly into their little eyes. "Who is this creature?"

"Who?" Squeaked the puppet.

"What is he?"

"What?"

"How did he come to be there?"

"How?"

The man flicked the puppet's little feathered hat off his head, "Hush! And Clopin will tell you, it is a tale, a tale of a man.." He drifted off, lowering his voice and staring darkly at the children who cowered before him, "And a monster.."

Dark was the night, when our tale was begun,

On the docks near Notre Dame..

And dark it was, indeed. A dense fog had settled near the River Seine, which allowed the small group of gypsies to navigate the tight corridors of Paris with ease and freedom. The small group came to a halt when the large man infront raised a quick hand. A pair of soldiers walked past, carrying oil lanterns. Yet the light did nothing but blind them further amidst the thickened blanket of dew and haze. As they passed and walked out of sight, the man waved a hand and the five of them slunk around the corner. The only woman of the group was positioned towards the back, with one man behind her and the rest ahead. In her arms she carried a precious cargo, bundled up tightly so he wouldn't be chilled by the August air. However, she could do nothing as the bundle began to cry out something pitiful.

"Shut it up will you!" The man infront glowered at her. The woman brought the child closer to her bosom, fear slicing through her heart.

"We'll be spotted!" The man behind her whispered in her ear, though his voice was kinder than the first. Still, she felt all eyes on her and her crying bundle.

"Hush, little one." She whispered tenderly, her fingers lightly touching her child's cold cheek. Panicked, she brought the fabric around and tucked it more so around his face.

Luckily, the little one had quieted down. No sooner had he calmed, the gypsies arrived at the docks.

Four frightened gypsies, slid silently under the docks of Notre Dame.

The group slid beneath one of the docks, and the woman stared at the water with fear, for she couldn't swim. The man behind her pushed her along, though not unkindly. "Come on, now, we're almost there."

The group had slid to a halt, the large man infront speaking to another man who had appeared out of nowhere. Reaching into his vest, he pulled out a small coin purse, placing it in the stranger's hand. "Four guilders for safe passage into Paris."

But a trap had been laid for the gypsies

Suddenly they were surrounded, the sound of metal swords unsheathing from golden holsters was certainly disorientating for the mother. She took a step backwards, stepping into the man who had been behind her. His hands were up, a sword pointed right at his chest. The woman's eyes were rounded with fear, and she could see all three men had no choice but to surrender to the cold steel before them. Hoofbeats echoed loudly in the empty corridor, followed by exacerbated huffing from the large, black steed that stood at their exit.

And they gazed up in fear and alarm

At a figure who's clutches

Were iron as much as the bells

"Judge Vladimir Masters!" The Romani men murmured nervously amongst each other.

The bells of Notre Dame..

"Quiet, you!" A soldier exclaimed, pressing the tip of his blade into the large man ahead of them.

The woman lifted her fearful gaze to the man who they were speaking of, the man she only heard whispers of in the catacombs of Paris. He wore a long, black cloak, and he sat atop his mighty, black steed as if the entire world belonged to him. He sneered at her when she met his eyes, and she couldn't help but quickly duck her head beneath her cowl.

Judge Vladimir longed

To purge the world

Of vice and sin

And he saw corruption

Everywhere, except

Within..

"Bring these gypsy vermin to the palace of justice." Vladimir's tone portrayed a sense of boredom and a sneer of disgust. He could hardly stand to look at them for long, as he was beginning to turn his horse away to leave.

"You there! What are you hiding?" One of the soldiers yelled, and the woman was terrified to see he was speaking to her. Fear paralyzed her and immobilized her ability to speak, so her mouth was agape but no words surfaced.

"Stolen goods, no doubt." The Judge had turned back around, glowering at the woman who so pitifully huddled amongst the men. His eyes looked down at the bundle in her arms, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Take them from her."

A soldier lunged for her, but the large man had grabbed the soldier by his helmet, tossing him with terrifying ease into the river below. The man behind her ducked from the blade that held him captive a few moments prior, grabbing the soldier into a headlock. His blue eyes stared at her, and he all but growled with the effort of restraining the armored man. "Go!"

She ran.

The mother did not hesitate, and ran past the man who was attempting to save her life. Clutching the bundle in her arms, she climbed the steps back to the surface of the docks, nearly slipping on the moisture of the wood. Her heart beat sporadically in her chest, her eyes crazed with fear and desperation as loud hoofbeats echoed dangerously close, coming upon her with tremendous speed. Her lilac eyes quickly spotted a narrow alleyway, blocked by a short, iron fence. Making a mad dash across the cobblestone, she leapt over the gate and dropped an extra six feet down. Stumbling and catching her shoulder on the wall of a building, she looked behind her.

Like a demon hellbent on stealing her soul, the man glared down at her with hellfire in his eyes. His black steed reared up, neighing and sharing in his master's rage. Like a sign from heaven, she looked back ahead, and down the thin corridor she could barely see the steps of her only hope. Gathering her breath in her lungs, she plunged forward, running as fast as she could. She knew it wouldn't take long for the man and his horse to catch her, and his unadulterated rage terrified her. She was nearly halfway there when the Judge and his horse slid to a halt infront of her, the man's hand outstretched to grasp her cowl.

Thinking quickly, she tightened her hold on her child and slid down to her side, using the wetness of the cobble to easily slide beneath the large stallion. Recovering as quickly as possible, she struggled to regain her footing and once again made the mad dash towards the steps of Notre Dame. Thunder rumbled in the distance, though no rain fell. The lightning illuminated her way up the steps, hearing and feeling the sheer force of her pursuer on her heels.

She all but crashed into the large oak doors of the cathedral, her fist banging on the doors. "Sanctuary!" She screamed, desperation clear in her voice. When there was no answer, she moved to the other door, slamming her hand against it painfully. "Please give us sanctuary!"

Yet there was no answer, and her heart plummeted. Surely God would not abandon them on the steps of his own house? Not waiting for an answer, she curled both of her arms around her bundle and fled along the marble and stone walls, having a chance to look behind her before the man and horse were at her side.

Vladimir had reached down with lightning speed, grasping the material that kept her child safe. "No!" She screamed, having a firm hold onto the body of her child. His cries and screams gave her that extra boost of maternal strength, and she nearly had him freed. She felt a sharp boot plant itself deeply into her abdomen, launching her away. The woman couldn't help but stare up at the man with tearful eyes, horror etched on her face, as she seemed to fall in slow motion.

A sharp pain raced up along her spine, the breath knocked from her, and an odd, tingling sensation encompassed her before she was lost to the void.

Meanwhile, the Judge stared at the body of the fallen woman with disgust. Yet, curiosity plagued him to stare at his prize, annoyed to be hearing shrill crying. Before he raised a hand to push the material aside, he knew it was- "A baby?" He all but growled. Though upon closer inspection, he couldn't help but recoil back in shock from the new discovery of.. whatever this child was. "A monster!" He loudly proclaimed, walking his mighty horse over to a nearby well. He held the bundle over the well, allowing the body to roll itself out of it's blanket. Or at least.. almost.

"Stop!" Cried the archdeacon.

"This is an unholy demon, and I'm sending it back to hell where it belongs." Vladimir snarled at the sudden appearance of the holy man. He was masked in a dark purple cowl and cloak, only allowing hints of his handsome, older face to be revealed whenever lightning lit up the dense fog.

"See there the innocent blood you have spilled on the steps of Notre Dame." The man spoke calmly, his tone conveying quiet anger. His aged eyes somberly stared at the still form of the woman, who was still lying upon the steps.

Vladimir scoffed, as did his horse with a shake of his mane. "I am guiltless. She ran, I pursued." He turned his steed around and away from the well, bringing the bundle closer to his saddle. Judge he may be, but he was not about to anger the holy man.

"Now you would add this child's blood to your guilt, on the steps of Notre Dame?" The hooded archdeacon came to kneel beside the woman, carefully lifting her head to rest on his knee. He shot the Judge a quiet glare.

Vladimir sneered, jerking his horse to a rough stop. "My conscience is clear."

The archdeacon glowered at the judge, speaking in a low, warning tone. "You can lie to yourself and your minions. You can claim you haven't a qualm. But you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes." The archdeacon pointed up towards the towering statues of various saints and angels, staring down upon them like sentient beings. "The very eyes of Notre Dame."

And for one time in his life

Of power and control

Vladimir felt a twinge of fear

For his immortal soul.

The judge hid well his sudden fear, clearing his throat and staring coolly at the archdeacon, who continued to have that penetrating gaze. Indeed, the stone figures bore their empty eyes into his very soul, a soul that the Judge prided himself on taking very good care of. He wasn't about to damn himself to hell, now. "What must I do?"

The archdeacon had, at one point, scooped the woman's limp form up into his steadfast arms, carrying her the few steps up towards the doors of the cathedral. He turned around, deep maroon eyes holding a sea of wisdom and depth meeting the cold, apprehensive blues of the Judge. "Care for the child, and raise it as your own."

Vladimir all but recoiled away from the blasphemous thought, sneering at the child in his arms. "What? I'm be to be settled with this misshapen-" The man stopped himself short, his eyes raising to stare at the accusatory pointing hand of Mary, whom was also holding a child in her arms. He chomped down on his words, swallowing the distaste of his predicament. Immediately, his brain began to work with how he was to deal with his.. new family. An idea came to mind. "Very well.. Let him live with you and your church."

"Live here? Where?" Of all the responses, this was one the archdeacon hadn't quite foreseen.

"Anywhere." The Judge pulled aside the child's blanket, revealing a crop of snow-white hair. "Just so he's kept locked away where no one else can see." He paused, looking to the archdeacon. "The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows, our Lord works in mysterious ways." Without another word towards the religious man, Judge Vladimir Masters steered his horse back towards the well, as if revisiting his idea of simply tossing away the awful child. However.. a thought came to him, for Vladimir was no fool. "Even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be.." He paused, allowing a wicked smile to form upon his lips, ".. of use to me."

And Vladimir gave the child a cruel name,

A name that means half-formed,

Quasimodo.

"Now here is the riddle to guess, if you can!" Sing the bells of Notre Dame.. The Ghost Writer spoke in a sing-song voice, enticing his captivated child audience to perk up with newfound excitement. "Who is the monster? And who is the man?" In his free hand he held up two very simple, poorly drawn figures of Vladimir and the white-haired child. "Sing the bells.."

Bells,

The children smiled and clapped at the story, unbeknownst to the true horror that had begun such an adventure.

Bells,

For they knew not the true tale of the white-haired boy.

Bells,

They knew not of his true name.

Bells,

For in their minds, the monster was the white-haired child.

Bells,

Orphaned and damned to a pitiful life by Fate itself.

Bells,

Soon, however, everyone would know of the story of the boy. The monster, and the man. The bells of Notre Dame would sing his story, for they had seen, and they never forget.

Bells of Notre Dame!

End of Chapter 1

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