Fanfic idea that's been bouncing around in my head the last few days.

Disclaimer: I don't own HoND

Rated T for violence, torture, language, and sensuality

CH. 1

Orange lantern light caused the rough parchment to appear as if on fire, the black lines of the crude map of Paris made all the darker. There were three bold x's on the map. Four figures hovered about the chipped wooden table the parchment was on, their shadows flickering against the stone walls of the small room. Three hung back while one hunched over it, his hands planted on either side. A wooden door to the room was closed, but the clamor of muted voices, dancing music, and footsteps still drifted in. The smell of dust, lantern oil, stone and wood permeated the area.

A large man shuffled closer to the table, a bandana covering his bald head. His dark skin and colorful, rugged clothes marked him as a gypsy, matching the other gypsies in the room. "There doesn't appear to be any pattern to it, sir," he stated, speaking to the slender figure that was leaning over the map. "The locations are too far apart for it to be a specific spot. There's no evidence left behind for us to make a guess from that. I'd say Frollo is just tightening his grip." When he received no reply, he added, "And those locations are just speculation. That was their intended destination, anyway."

The slender gypsy heaved a sigh and tapped the map with one finger. "No, there's a pattern, alright. All three disappeared at night. All three were alone. And there's not a single trace left behind. They could be dead for all we know."

"Or locked away in the Palace of Justice," said a woman bitterly.

"That's worse than death," agreed the large man.

A silence stretched out, the small group of gypsies contemplating the horrors that the Palace of Justice held for any gypsy and other poor soul brought there that opposed the iron rule of the Judge.

At last the woman said, "What do you think, Clopin? What should we do?"

Clopin stood up straight, turning to face them. A wide hat shadowed his eyes, but they still managed to catch the lantern light. He frowned, drumming his fingers against the table. "Three gypsies missing in one week isn't mere chance. Spread the word that we're to remain cautious when leaving the Court. Keep weapons on yourselves. And . . . and encourage them to not go out alone." He didn't want to set any rules in stone, especially if it meant limiting his people's ability to travel at night alone. If there was one thing a gypsy cherished, it was freedom.

"Yes, sir," they agreed.

Clopin watched them leave, leaning back against the table. A frown darkened his face as he turned the puzzle over in his head. There was always the chance that they could be arrested by the Judge. They took that risk anytime they left their covert haven, the Court of Miracles. But something didn't feel right, and he couldn't quite place it.

The door opened again, the brighter light from the outside showing the silhouette of a young girl. As she shut the door behind her, her chocolate skin, wavy black hair, loose purple dress, and blazing emerald eyes came into view.

A grin broke across Clopin's face. "Esmeralda! How are you, little lady?"

The fifteen-year-old crossed her arms, arching one eyebrow as she gazed up at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Clopin, I've know you my whole life. I can tell when something's wrong."

His smile wavered, but amusement still glittered in his dark eyes. "Very well. C'mon." He gracefully hopped up to sit on the table, crossing his legs. Esmeralda followed suit, sitting on the opposite side of the map. She studied it, resting her chin in one hand.

"Paris," she stated, recognizing the map. "What are those three marks for?" But just after she said it, she realized what they represented. "The three missing gypsies? Is there any sign of them?"

"None," he answered. "We have volunteers still looking, but if they don't find anything by the end of this week, then we can only assume what happened."

Esmeralda snarled, hopping off the table and pounding her fist into her palm. "It's not fair! Frollo can't arrest us just because he feels like it!"

Clopin raised one eyebrow, a smirk crossing his face. "Ready to take on the whole Palace of Justice now, are you?"

"I am," she stated seriously, but a smile was tugging at her full lips. "I could take them all! And especially Judge Claude Frollo!"

He spread his arms. "Of course, chérie."

"You don't believe me?" she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

"Oh no, no, I believe you," he grinned. "Even I am scared of you when you're angry."

"Oh, really? I can only imagine how my reputation will soar if word gets out that the King of the Gypsies is scared of me."

He regarded her with a smile, the missing people momentarily forgotten. She bounded forward and took his hand, pulling him off the table.

"C'mon, you can fret over the map later," she said, opening the door and tugging him after her. He gave one last glance back at the map. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't quite place it. His thoughts were interrupted as Esmeralda continued, "Let's have some fun! Quincy has started up a game, and I know how you love to gamble."

The entered the main area of the Court of Miracles. The ceiling stretched high above them, stone columns supporting it. It would have been quite majestic, if much of the stone hadn't been broken or cracked. Color adorned the area in the clothes of the people, and of rugs on the floor and sheets hanging up. Some gypsies passed through it, heading to other sections of the Court. Others were conversing in small groups. Children ran about, their high-pitched laughter echoing off the stone walls. It smelled of torches and spices, and a man was strumming a bouncy tune.

Clopin gave a nod. "I love to gamble because I'm good at it."

Esmeralda laughed, dancing in front of him as they made their way through the throngs of people. "You can't be 'good' at gambling. It's just luck. And besides, last time you lost to Quincy."

His dark face twisted into a frown. "You're right! I have to redeem my name and get my revenge."

They went to a large group that was gathered in a circle, all their attention turned to the center. A booming, jovial voice called, "Alright, then! Who's next? I'm in all or nothing."

As the crowd began to part to allow their King and Esmeralda through, smiles on their faces, Clopin shouted, "I challenge you, Quincy!"

The two got to the center of the circle, a cleared off area for the game, and saw the smirking face of the gypsy Quincy. He was a huge, bulky man, towering over the others around him. He was bald with dark eyes, his tucked shirt barely containing his large belly. He had a gold tooth and scars on his arms from many fights that he had been in.

"Clopin?" Quincy laughed. "I get the pleasure of defeating you a second time?"

Clopin cracked his fingers, favoring the large man with a smile. "Au contraire my good man, I let you win. But you have tarnished my reputation my prancing around and singing of your victory for the last three days." He took off his hat and bowed garishly. "So now it's time for me to teach you a lesson."

There was some excited cheering in the crowd. Esmeralda rolled her green eyes.

"You plan on beating me?" Quincy chuckled.

"I have ample skills," Clopin replied casually.

"It's just luck," Esmeralda repeated, shaking her head and drawing some laughs from the gathered gypsies.

"And my middle name is luck," Clopin countered.

Quincy seemed surprised. "It is? Really?"

Clopin scooped up the dice, rolling them in his hand experimentally. "One would wonder how I ever lost to you." He leaned conspiratorially toward Esmeralda, whispering, "If things appear to be going badly, I may have to turn this game into physical combat. I have to win somehow. Will you back me up?" He winked.

"Clopin, he's practically ten of you." She shoved him. "Just go and play the game."

The Gypsy King walked into the cleared circle, tossing the dice casually. "Are you ready to lose, Quincy?"

The large man chuckled, taking his own dice. "I think I shall win. But that's just speculation."

"That's a big word for you. I didn't think-" He stopped abruptly, something clicking his mind.

Speculation.

Speculation.

What was it his friend had said?

And those locations are just speculation. That was their intended destination, anyway.

Clopin paused, brow creasing as he thought, But how would he know their intended destination, unless . . .

"Are you ready?" Quincy pressed, seemingly ready to get the game started.

Clopin looked up. "Hold the game for a moment. You," he pointed to the gypsy man that had told him that while he'd shown him the map, "come with me. We need to talk." He dropped the dice and grabbed Esmeralda's wrist, pulling her after him as he began to delve back into the crowd. And, as if on second thought, he hesitated and looked back to Quincy and the gathered gypsies. He pointed a finger at them all. "And don't anyone dare take my turn!"

HoND

The carriage creaked lazily down the streets, its curtains drawn over the windows due to the light rain that was falling. The outside was polished and ornate, with swirling designs painted on the sides. The horses that drew it were proud and expensive, the coachman dressed affluently. The citizens of Paris on the streets pulled back to let it pass, watching with curiosity.

Inside the carriage was dimly lit with a soft white glow due to the outside rain, making it seem on the edge of dawn. Two adults sat straight on one seat. The man was dressed finely, with his brown hair smoothed back and his face clean-shaven. The woman had her blonde hair up in bun, a dress tight about her perfect figure. They were the image of sophistication. And both were staring down their noses at the girl in the opposite seat.

"Really, Avril," the woman sighed, as if the statement had become tedious, "can't you carry yourself in a more lady-like fashion? I can't have you looking miserable when we meet with the Archdeacon and the Judge."

Avril tore her gaze from the small slit between curtain and wood – just enough to get a glimpse outside – and favored her parents with an irritated glare. "But I am miserable."

"Stop whining," the man snapped. "You've made your opinion quite clear on us moving to Paris, but it's not your decision. And your mother is right; act like a lady."

Avril leaned back in the seat, looking out through the slit again. The pink dress felt uncomfortable on her, even though she knew it was very lovely. Her pale blonde hair was curled and hung just above her shoulders. She had eyes so light a shade they could barely be called blue, and pale skin with a splattering of freckles across her nose. Her mother, Silvine, would often compliment her on being a "pale beauty" and said it was "as if the sun never touched her". Avril wasn't sure how this was a compliment; especially since her more blunt classmates had told her she looked like a dead girl.

"You are a young woman now," her father, Bernard, continued. "And you are to present yourself as such to the Archdeacon and Judge. When we arrive, clasp your hands behind you and don't say a word. If they do ask you a question . . ."

Bernard continued, but Avril was no longer listening. Her attention was arrested by a bouncing, casual tune coming from the streets. A sound she'd never heard in the previous rural town she'd lived in. She leaned forward, pulling the curtain back fractionally. She glanced over the cramped buildings and thin crowds to a colorfully dressed older man and plump woman who stood under a stone arch. He played an instrument while she danced, and there was a pot at their feet that passing people were throwing money into. Avril cocked her head to the side, having never seen such a display.

Silvine made a sound of disgust. "Gypsies. Duval warned us about that, didn't he Bernard? He told us if we moved to Paris we'd find gypsies."

"Yes, indeed," he agreed.

Silvine shook her head. "It's terribly disgusting, the kind of foul peasantry you find in the city. You would have never seen that on our estate."

Avril turned from the gypsies, frowning. "If you hate it so much, then why did we move here?"

"For my business, my dear," Bernard answered coldly. "And you should appreciate the money I bring in more. Otherwise, you wouldn't have that lovely gown, this carriage, or even that pearl necklace."

Avril subconscious brought her hand up to the necklace, fingering it in irritation.

"I wouldn't worry too much, dear," Silvine said to her daughter. "We have gotten a very nice home in the more sophisticated part of the city. We won't have to mingle with the commoners for long."

Her mother pulled the curtain closed again, cutting off Avril's view. But the scene she'd seen still played through her head as she leaned back in her seat. She turned her mother's words over in her head. Mingle with the commoners. What did that mean, anyway? Avril had no experience with the "commoners" that her parents and other wealthy French always referred to. From the picture they painted, it had at first seemed that the "commoners" were heathen, dirty, uneducated, ill-mannered, and rather pathetic creatures that one had to tolerate.

But as Avril had grown older and she had begun to stray from and question her parents' point of view, she wondered how much faith she could place in such a statement. What was life like for "commoners", anyway? Was it so very different from her own?

The carriage rattled to a halt and the door opened. The rain had stopped, but gray clouds still hung low over the dark roofs of the city. Bernard stepped out first, smiling and saying, "We've arrived at the Palace of Justice."

He held out his hand for Silvine to step daintily out. Then Avril did the same, except with somewhat less grace. She tugged at her dress in an attempt to make it more comfortable, getting her first look at the Palace of Justice.

It rose up toward the sky higher than the surrounding buildings. Only the cathedral, Notre Dame, rivaled it some distance away. Pointed spires seemed to try to pierce the rain clouds like daggers. The stone was considerably darker than the other buildings, and it had a large staircase ascending to its entrance. Black windows stared out at Paris, and water still dripped from their awnings like tears.

"It's quite magnificent," Silvine breathed.

"I think it looks rather bleak," Avril stated.

"Hush," her father scolded. "We're going to meet Judge Claude Frollo."

They went up the steps, Avril having to lift her dress so she didn't trip. The noise and bustle of the streets faded behind them and once they reached the top, Avril felt like she was in an entirely different place. She paused for a moment, turning around to gaze down upon Paris. It was certainly a location of power. From up here it seemed that all of Paris could be monitored. And she remembered that, down at the base of the stairs, looking up at the Palace made her feel very small and inferior.

They were let in and entered into a grand foyer. It was surprisingly dark, the only light coming from the windows and torches on the walls. A double staircase branched off to the second floor, there was a small sitting area, and a large set of doors at the far end. It was through these that Judge Claude Frollo came.

Avril didn't like him the moment she saw him. She'd seen one too many powerful men that all carried themselves the same way: upright, stiff, tight lipped, and always gazing down their noses. Adding a dark robe, silver hair, and wrinkles on a gray skin pallor made Frollo seem menacing. Though, she supposed, as the minister of justice, he had to be.

Frollo spread his arms, smiling in a way that didn't reach his eyes. "Greetings. You must be the Desmarais from northern France. I am very pleased that you've come to take residence in our city. I'm especially happy that you're here, Bernard. I am quite interested in your business dealings."

Avril rolled her pale blue eyes. That was a line she'd heard all too often. Movement in her peripheral vision caught her eye, and she turned to see a young woman about her age clinging to the far wall and watching with interest.

Frollo seemed to notice her distraction, because he glanced in the direction of her gaze. "Ah, that's my niece, Brigette Leveque. My brother's family has stopped by for a visit. I was allowing them to see inside the Palace of Justice today. You can go talk to her . . ."

"Avril," she said quickly, registering his waiting look. "My name is Avril."

"Avril," Frollo repeated. "You may go meet her. I'm sure you two can keep each other entertained. All this talk of business must bore you."

His smirk took away any casualty his sentence might have conveyed. Without waiting for her parents to protest, Avril walked away and toward Brigette. Anything was better than standing still and being quiet for who knows how long while her father spoke. And perhaps this Brigette could be her first friend in Paris.

The girl was smaller, with auburn hair, green eyes, and a condescending smile. She wore a dark red dress and had her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow at Avril's approach.

"And who might you be?" Brigette asked.

"Avril Desmarais," she answered. "My family just moved here."

"Ah, good," Brigette said. "That will give me someone to talk to. Goodness knows with my ridiculous brother always moping in his room I have no intelligent conversation." Her smirk widened. "Not that he could provide any, anyway."

Avril wasn't really sure what to make of her statement, so she said instead, "Judge Frollo said you're his niece?"

"Yes. He's not exactly a fun uncle. He's always too busy with his crusade to stop sin to pay us much attention. Still, he's family."

Brigette's tone didn't seem to indicate that this bothered her much at all. She sounded somewhat bored with the whole situation.

Avril tilted her head to the side, some pale blonde strands of hair falling in front of her eyes. "His . . . crusade?"

Brigette favored her with an amused smirk. She held out her arm. "Come take a walk with me. If you're going to be living in Paris, you need to know a little about my uncle."

Avril tentatively looped her arm around the girl's and went with her outside of the Palace of Justice and onto the stone veranda. They went up to the side of it – which reached their waists – and looked out across Paris. The clouds seemed to be threatening rain again, hanging low and heavy. Gray puddles splattered the streets, and rooftops still dripped. The scent of rain hung about the city.

"My uncle . . ." Brigette sighed in a way that seemed to show how trivial she found the situation. "He feels it's his holy duty to hunt down all the gypsies in Paris and get rid of them. He feels they corrupt the minds of the people, especially the common folk. Which, unfortunately, make up a majority."

"Isn't 'holy duty to hunt down' a self-contradicting statement?" Avril asked. "I mean, God sees us all equal."

Brigette's green eyes widened and then narrowed as she glared at her. "Good gracious, Avril, what a naïve girl you are. The gypsies aren't people. I've had the misfortune of seeing gypsies a few times when passing through Paris. Their crude dancing, raunchy songs, and penniless ways are a disgrace to all that is good and righteous in this world." She gave her a sidelong, exasperated look, "They hate people like us because we have money; and they don't."

Avril felt somewhat offended by that. After all, she didn't come into such a fortune by choice. She was born into it. For someone to hate her because of circumstances outside of her control seemed unfair. But she decided against voicing this thought. She could tell she'd upset Brigette, and didn't want to already make an enemy. She leaned on the stone, looking across the rainy city.

"If you stay in Paris long enough," Brigette said, "and keep close to my uncle, then you'll get to witness his gypsy hunt first-hand."

HoND

Esmeralda hurried behind Clopin, holding up her skirt as her bare feet danced across the stone. They left the crowd of gypsies behind, the man Clopin had pointed out following, and made their way back to the room the map had been left in.

While not an actual blood relationship, Clopin was like a big brother to her. Esmeralda had known him her whole life, and cared for him very much. They had had many misadventures together, had gotten up before the sun to walk Paris, and had stayed up late into the night telling each other stories. Of course, he was a better story teller than her, but it seemed she never ceased to amuse him. He was a great singer, and she was a wonderful dancer. Together, she knew their act worked magic.

And it was because of their closeness that she felt an extra sting when times became rough. When they were pressed for supplies. When they were low on food. When Frollo's guards were chasing them. And even worse, when one of the gypsies were arrested. Esmeralda could read the look in Clopin's dark eyes quite clear in those circumstances. As their King, they were his people, and he hated to see them suffering. Because they suffered, he suffered. And because he suffered, Esmeralda suffered.

It was at these times that she felt a burning hatred for Frollo. Something needed to be done. Someone needed to stand up to him. And so, as she followed Clopin and another gypsy into the small, lantern-lit room, she hoped that whatever had caught Clopin's attention would aid in stopping Judge Claude Frollo.

The door shut softly behind them and Clopin hopped lightly up onto the wooden table. The lantern rattled and the wood creaked, but both kept straight. He scooped up the map and held it out for both of them to see.

"First off," the Gypsy King said, "can we all agree that three gypsies missing in one week with no sign of them and no escapee returning to the Court to tell us is an odd occurrence?"

"We can," Esmeralda responded, the other man nodding.

Clopin turned to him, thrusting the map out further. "When you were showing me this, what was it you said?"

"Uh . . ." the man paused, thinking. His neck cracked as he tilted it back to meet the Clopin's gaze; he wasn't use to looking up at their King.

"C'mon, focus," Clopin snapped. "What did you tell me?"

"Um . . ."

"Was it, by chance, 'And those locations are just speculation. That was their intended destination'?"

The man hesitantly nodded, palpably not sure if he should own up to that statement. "I . . . think so."

Clopin lowered the map, placing one fist on his hip and leaning toward the man. "How did you know where they were going? Did they tell you?"

"Uh . . . yes. Well, two of them did. The third told some others before she left and I heard it from them."

"That was Hilde, wasn't it?" Esmeralda said. "She never gets caught."

"She had nine lives, that one," Clopin acquiesced. "But listen. They told others where they were going before they left. Then they vanished. They're not in the stocks, they're not doing public service, they're not being announced as arrested or awaiting execution. And why would Frollo do that?"

Esmeralda's brow furrowed for a moment, and then she gasped. She raised her green eyes to Clopin, seeing the same dismal look mirrored in his own. "Oh, no."

"What?" the man asked. "Do you think . . ." He trailed off, realization dawning on him, too.

"That's right," Clopin sighed, rolling up the map. He hopped down and tied the map shut before meeting their gazes again. "I think we have a traitor among our people."

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