Final chapter, guys! Thanks to everyone who followed the story. We love you.

Search THOND for illustrated crap. Seriously. There are a bunch of colour frames this time.

The High School of Notre Dame
Chapter Ten
These Days are Ours

The door, made of bulletproof glass and polished steel, flew open, and Quasimodo barreled into the front lobby of the police station with an expression of near panic, tape clutched tightly in one hand.

The officer at the desk, who had been trying to hear as much as possible of what was going on in the holding cells without leaving his post, looked up, and froze, his eyes so wide the whites were visible on all sides.

"Never mind," said Quasimodo. He could understand the policeman's shock, but there was no time for the explanation he would normally have given. "Look," he began, panting for breath and trying to speak as quickly as understandably possible, "a bunch of kids got arrested tonight for drug trafficking. You've arrested the wrong people. This- this tape-" He held up the security log, gasping for air- "-This proves it. It was taken from your security files."

The man at the desk, still utterly bewildered, nodded slowly. Then he got up, expression still shell-shocked, and opened a door behind him, gesturing weakly for Quasimodo to go through.

Quasimodo hurried through, wondering if it was legal to scare a cop like that.

A wave of noise enveloped him- a babble of rapid conversation, occasionally punctuated by a panicked yell, or a cry. He was in a long hallway, ill-lit, whitewashed, lined with small cells. Each cell was full of teenaged children, all with the distinctive olive skin and black hair of the Romany, and as they saw him, their faces flickered with surprise and recognition.

Somewhere in the row of packed cells, Phoebus cheered.

A number of police officers were patrolling the cells or talking to each other in low voices. As soon as they noticed his presence, they rounded on him, all certain that he was not supposed to be here. Frollo was nowhere to be seen; nor was Esmeralda.

Quasimodo knew that simply stunning them into silence wasn't going to work a second time. He held out the cassette. "Before you do anything I think you all need to see this tape."

The Captain who had been in charge of the group with Frollo cast him a look of condescending pity. We haven't got time for you, it said.

Quasimodo felt desperation clawing at his stomach. "It's from your security files," he said, holding it up so the stark black lettering of the label would be visible.

That seemed to stir their interest a bit. The Captain leaned forward to look; several others took a few tentative steps towards him.

"Hey," said one of them," it is."

"Where did you get that?" asked the commanding officer, her eyes narrowing. By this point, everyone in the cells was watching them.

"It was on Frollo's table," said Quasimodo. "He took it."

In the cells around him, he could hear whispers; could practically feel the spark of hope that flowed through them.

The Captain took the tape from him, examining it. "What's on it that we need to see?" she asked, looking still more suspicious.

Quasimodo took a deep breath, trying to stand tall and looked her in the eye. Throughout the block of cells, there was a hush. "Frollo framed them," said Quasimodo, "He planted the cocaine. This basically proves it."

She looked at the tape, her eyes dark and inscrutable. She might have been thinking anything. "This should be presented as evidence in court, after a full investigation. Not now."

Quasimodo realized with a horrible, sinking feeling that he knew nothing about how these things worked. There were rules; of course there were.

Had he really thought he could just rush in and save the day?

And what if it wasn't even enough to convict him? One video, in which he hadn't, as far as Quasimodo had seen, actually used the word cocaine, and the only live witness of the conversation owed Frollo his freedom...

He swallowed, and his gaze fell. He could say nothing.

"So that's it?" said the voice of Phoebus. Quasimodo turned, and saw him fight his way to the front of the crowded cell. "You've arrested more than forty people with one piece of evidence, and now that there's more evidence to counteract it you're not doing anything about it?" Phoebus looked angry, almost as angry as he had been in Quasimodo's yard, earlier that day. He could have stared down a charging bull. "You're just keeping us in holding cells until we get a trial- and who knows when that'll be? There's almost fifty of us! -Instead of looking at the evidence?"

The way he spoke did not beg for attention, but commanded it. The Captain hesitated, looking with sudden unease from Phoebus' face, to the tape in her hand. "There are procedures..." she said.

"You've broken them for Frollo," said Phoebus. "We all know you have."

There was a beat of total silence. Then she turned to her subordinates. "Somebody get a TV in here."

There was a collective sigh, as every Romany in the room released a held breath. "Rock on Forengies!" said someone in the back of one of the cells.

It took a moment for them to find a television, but eventually one was located and carried into the cell block, so everyone could see. Teenagers jostled and argued to get a view in the crowded cells, but when the tape went on, no-one had to tell them to be quiet.

On the screen, at about the point where Quasimodo has stopped it, Frollo and the man in orange fizzled and snowed into view.

"Rewind it a few seconds," said Quasimodo. One of the cops jabbed the rewind button, then hit play.

"-Can arrange for you to be out on parole in a week," Frollo was saying.

The convict's reply was unheard.

"Twenty ounces, or so," said Frollo, "As soon as possible and no questions asked."

Gasps travelled around the cell block.

On the screen, the convict began to make another silent reply, but no-one was paying attention. "I knew it," the teens were whispering, "He framed us."

The cops looked uncomfortable. The video had made an impact. They cast each other sidelong glances and fidgeted with their key rings.
And then, suddenly, the room went completely silent. Quasimodo felt the back of his neck prickle, and turned around.

Frollo stood at the far end of the room, and he looked more beast than human. His teeth were bared, dog-like, and he was shaking and panting with rage. His eyes were filled with hatred, with fiery black rage unlike anything Quasimodo had ever seen.

"You," Frollo spat, and everyone in the room drew back instinctively from him. "You disgusting unnatural little bastard! You betray me for the likes of these people- just like your Gypsy whore of a mother!"

And then Frollo, demented, monstrous in his anger, threw himself at Quasimodo, kicking and clawing and reigning down blows with a savage ferocity. His strength, for a man of almost sixty, was shocking. Quasimodo could still have thrown him aside easily if he had had the presence of mind to do so, but he barely registered pain; all he could think of was that Frollo had gone mad, and that he had said Gypsy...

In an instant four policemen had pulled Frollo away from the boy and pinned him down, and Quasimodo stared at his stepfather, panting and still rabid with fury, with a wide-eyed look of sudden realization.

Frollo hated the Gypsies because sixteen years ago, one of them had betrayed him. One who mattered.

Quasimodo was panting as well, now, from sheer shock. He was dimly aware that his lip was bleeding, and that fresh bruises were forming on his arms, chest and back. Nothing seemed in focus but the mad, twisted face of Claude Frollo, spitting curses as the police cuffed him and dragged him away.

Frollo disappeared around a corner. More police officers were gathering, now; coming from all over the station, drawn by the sounds of confrontation. The Romany in the cells stared at Quasimodo, shocked and pale and wordless.

"Quasi, you okay?" said Phoebus, after a pause.
Quasimodo took a deep breath, and swiped at the small trickle of blood from his lip with one hand. "...Yeah, f-fine..."
At that moment, a door opened at the far end of the room, almost unnaturally loud in the hushed silence, and Esmeralda came in. There was a policeman holding her arm, her hands were cuffed behind her back, and she was wide-eyed and pale. She looked around the room, and her eyes settled on Quasimodo's face, on his cut lip and the bruise that was forming on his cheek. "What happened?" She asked.

There was a pause as Quasimodo tried to make coherent sense of it all. "...Well," he said, at last, smiling shakily, "I'm half-Gypsy."

--

It was almost Halloween, and in the crisp Fall afternoon, four students walked into town from school. They wore blue-and white uniforms under their coats, and as they walked, their feet kicked up the colourful, dry leaves that had accumulated around the sidewalks. The first was broad-shouldered, tall, blond and athletic. Holding his hand was a dark, well-proportioned young woman with a head of thick, curly hair. Not far from them was a very tall, lanky youth, equally dark, with shoulder-length hair and a slightly elastic way of moving. Finally, there was a shorter, red-haired boy, who walked with an uneven, loping stride. He was distinctly hunch-backed, and a few people who passed by the group could not help staring at him, but it didn't seem to bother him.
"Good thing they gave you the house," Esmeralda was saying, "It's perfect for the party."

Quasimodo grinned. "All the ground floor needs is spiderwebs. Instant crypt."

The trial had ended days ago, and it was still fresh on everyone's minds. It hadn't take long, after they had handcuffed Frollo, for the police to drop the charges on the Romany. In the end, Frollo had been charged, and convicted, of Aggravated Assault, Sexual Assault, and Defraudation in the second degree.

In the end, he'd been jailed for six years, and guardianship of Quasimodo had been given over to Laverne. They'd been allowed to keep the house for the six years he was in prison, though it was technically still his legal property; but that was not going to stop them from doing what they liked with it.

The school had a new VP, who, while something of a robot, showed no criminal tendencies whatsoever. And, against their wished, the whole school seemed to think he, Phoebus and Esmeralda were all heroes.

It was strange, thought Quasimodo, how suddenly they all liked him. He'd stopped being 'that deformed kid', and now the whole school was almost... defensive about him. As if he were a mascot, or something like it. Anyone who said the wrong thing about him would suddenly find themselves being verbally abused by a mass of angry Notre Damers, often with Esmeralda at its head. Don't talk about him like that, they all seemed to be saying. He's one of Us. It was mildly embarrassing, but otherwise quite sweet.

Both he and Phoebus had joined the Miracle Workers, and as they became fast friends, their initial dislike turned into a spirit of healthy competition. Clopin was happy to have them in his little club, and frequently teamed up with Quasimodo to provide Phoebus with a little protective-older-brother style harassment on the subject of his relationship with Esmeralda.

"Oh, Quasi, I wanted to ask," said Esmeralda, after a moment of comfortable silence that was broken only by the shushing of leaves underfoot, "How'd visiting Frollo go?"

Quasimodo shrugged. "Like you'd expect. He's still completely furious." Claude Frollo was still one of the few topics that made him uneasy, because he knew he would never share his friends' feelings of simple hatred.

"And you're still gonna keep visiting him?" asked Phoebus.

"Yes," said Quasimodo, "I owe him that much."

Phoebus looked at him steadily, with a trace of a smile. "You're a better man than I, anyway."

Quasimodo knew it would have made sense to hate Frollo. But despite everything the man had done, he had willingly taken him in, had provided him with a comfortable home and good care for fifteen years. And he'd suffered; there was no doubt about that. He had, at one point, really loved his wife. Her betrayal had turned him against the Romany, and against Quasimodo himself, but he had never completely stopped loving her. It was the memory of her, that betrayal, that had driven him mad.
They bought party supplies along Rue Van Gogh, chattering about their plans for costumes and for the movie marathon. Then they took the quickest route back to Quasimodo's to decorate the place.

As they passed the turnoff onto Rue Danté, Clopin, who had been unusually jumpy that day for himself, waved them goodbye.

"What," asked Esmeralda, "you don't want to help us decorate?"

Clopin shook his head, smiling. "I would love to, Esme, but there is something I must do tonight. I'm sorry. I'll see you all tomorrow." And then, in his bouyant, dramatic way, he headed off down Danté, bound for his clubhouse.

"Weird," observed Phoebus. "Oh well."

The three of them went home, and, working together in the talkative and incredibly slow way of a group of close, teenaged friends, decorated Frollo's formal old house from top to bottom for Halloween.

Quasimodo knew that there were some things that would never happen. But what was happening instead was pretty great anyway.

--

Clopin tied off a thread, and surveyed his handiwork.

The Quasimodo puppet had been hard, but he'd got the shape about right in the end. Esme, Phoebus, and Claude Frollo had all gone much faster.

The script had been finished since the night of the trial. It was almost ready, and he was giddy with excitement. He'd hardly been able to keep himself calm in front of his friends.

He had known, from the first moment he had heard about that boy, that something big was coming. At the perfect moment, too, when his well of ideas seemed to be drying up. It had seemed like Providence was handing him the Story of a lifetime. It had taken him weeks to scrounge out the full story, by interviewing witnesses and by subtle quieries to Quasi, Esme and Phoebus, but he was fairly confident that now he had every detail.

The kids were going to love it.

And hey, he thought, stroking his goatee as a strange grin spread across his face, if it succeeded in his puppet theatre... He had always wanted to try his hand at writing for the stage.

Fin

And it's DONE! Wow. That three months of writing went by fast. I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed and read along the way.

I AM doing a sequal, in the form of a series of connected oneshots. if you have an idea for one, let me know and maybe I'll use it! Oh, and this is probably too ambitious of me, but if anyone wants to wrte something set in this verse, they're welcome to.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless