TW: sexually frustrated male, abuse of power, racism (use of G-slur), all characters are 18+
This is an Ao3 fic. - Tragicomedy.
The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Frollo against Esmeralda and my OC Sara Esfahani, father-daughter-dynamics gone wrong).
Modern AU. 90s Catholic Highschool Edition.
[Description of Chapter 10]
Esmeralda and Sara are waiting for Clopin in Principal Frollo’s Philosophy class.
Esmeralda tries to expose him as a creep by using Sara as a tool.
He kinda gets that they're at war with him and it ...turns him on, I guess?
Trying not to loose his mind over a mere paper flower.
...He's failing, but he's still looking good while fa(i)(l)ling.
https://share.google/3l62ijmOXiZ5YKcVQ
It was an ordinary afternoon at Notre Dame High.
Unlike the other students who, with a bit of luck, were already done for the day on this Thursday, only two classes were required to stay behind and toe the line.
From 3 PM onward, Principal Frollo emerged from the famous West Tower (which in jest the younglings sometimes called the Dragon Tower) to fly across the bridge connection to the final-year class Terminale 3 on the same floor.
Through the entire school, you could hear every single step of the ambitious householder, so eerily empty was the building at that hour.
Claude Frollo looked like always: hair combed back, wearing a tack-sharp suit and having his "I am higher than thee" look on.
When he pushed open the classroom door, several books tucked under his arm, a broad, heavy figure scurried past him:
"H-Hello Father. S-See you later F-Father!"
The father briefly watched his son, who was limping slightly, as he shuffled down the long hallway.
With the philosophy book pressed to his chest, Monsieur Frollo slipped into his classroom.
It was as always: it smelled of teenage sweat, the students being so exhausted and so hungry that instead of bouncing around and shouting, they yawned and distracted themselves with all sorts of other small-minded activities.
All in all, exactly as he envisioned for his philosophy course: those who weren't fully present in mind were either so drained that they weren't thinking at all or only thinking for him. —Of course, both came in very handy for him.
That was the only thing most of them could think about, including Esmeralda now, as she stared out the classroom window, pen in hand.
Several heads turned to him, as he stepped behind his podium and wrote something on the board in large, straight letters with chalk.
But she was the only one who paid the teacher no attention at all.
He hadn't even put his things down yet. The old man was a traditionalist through and through: not the date, God came first.
Luke 11:35 in white on dark green.
When he turned around, his eagle eyes immediately fell on Sara, who sat with a straight back and a smile, devoting her full attention to her master.
A perfect example of a girl who still knew what RESPECT meant.
If she could, she would press her lips to his hand, as the custom of her ancestors dictated. He must know... she had done it once already — NOT NOW FROLLO.
A so-called freedom-lover, daydreaming uselessly.
He slapped the thick textbook onto the desk.
A startled gasp escaped a few students: Esmeralda's curly head snapped toward him abruptly.
She fixed him with a killer glare, opened her mouth to say something, but then let it go.
Her friend Sara just grinned. Her heart was beating just as loudly with shock as the others', yet his display of power seemed to amuse her more than the rest of the class.
When Frollo saw that, the corners of his mouth twitched upward.
Oh, if only it could always stay like this...
How much fun that would be: his little she-devil, his little angel, and him. Forever.
But a dream it would stay.
The melancholy from last night returned at that thought.
Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas...
It was always pure torture, this first day of teaching.
The principal, who showed nothing of his inner feelings to the outside world, straightened his back as much as possible.
The students rose, including the annoyed Esmeralda: "Bonjour, Monsieur Frollo."
At least they sounded disciplined in synch: something you would not hear in schools anymore in a few years, that he was sure of.
As the 25 students sat back down, Frollo felt a piercing pair of eyes watching him with unusual attentiveness.
Not Esmeralda, not Sara...
Fleur De Lys de Gondelaurier in the front row?
What was the meaning of this... interruption?
When she noticed that he finally looked at her, the model student raised her hand.
In the other hand, she held a Chinese fan, which she fluttered nervously in front of her face, causing Esmeralda to roll her eyes since the air conditioning was obviously working perfectly.
Said Claude Frollo, opening his briefcase and beginning to organize his teaching materials.
"My mother arranged for me to take lessons with you for the final year, Monsieur Frollo."
She twirled one of her golden curls around her finger. Her tone was as artificially high as a toddler's.
"I hope that's acceptable. I promise I will give my absolute best, Monsieur."
From behind came Esmeralda's voice:
"Tss, don't try to talk your way out of it, McFlurry! The truth is, Monsieur Petit was fed up with watching you and your little puppy make out. Etiquette applies to rich brats from Terminale 1 too! And they were all the same, says the Bible after all!"
The class burst out laughing, dissolving into hysterical giggles.
Even Sara couldn't help herself and elbowed Esmeralda in the rips for it.
Fleur simply kept fanning her slowly heating face, all while pouting offendedly.
For the first time she said nothing; she couldn't, not in front of Frollo!
"Silence." Growled the principal, strangling every human sound at its source.
He turned to the blonde girl.
"Your case is known to me, Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier. Unfortunately, your impertinent classmate is not entirely wrong. A moral transgression is addressed openly at this school, not concealed. Your... friend de Chateaupers—"
His lower lip trembled, as if the name he spat out was something repulsive, "has disqualified himself repeatedly through his immoral offenses. A disgrace to his family; his father is an honest Christian. But indeed: it seems to me that at least one de Gondelaurier is trying to establish a kind of soul hygiene to keep away from that boy. Because of this- and only because of this, I will let you stay. You had better keep your promise."
"And put away the fan. We are not in East Asia, but in France."
Laughter again. Fleur's face burned a rather pretty dark red. The fan disappeared under the desk as if she'd performed a magic trick.
"Pfffff—" Esmeralda held her fist to her lips.
Hallelujah. Old Frollo had done something right for the first time in his life!
"Our man means business!" Sara whispered to her, giggling.
For a tiny moment, Esmeralda's and Frollo's eyes met in an eerie way, like two predators celebrating a triumph over prey, a proud goat trapped in the mud.
The principal, however, did not enjoy the moment.
"Step forward. Homework on the desk. Alphabetically."
He didn't consult a list. Of course he didn't need one.
Esmeralda leaned over to Sara as she stood up:
"Don't celebrate too soon, princess. That man has something in mind. The Inquisition also came as a promise of healing, you know."
With that, Esmeralda stood and walked to the front.
Her gait was that of a victor. With a casual gesture, she slapped her lilac notebook onto his desk.
But the director with the jet-black eye circles continued to stare past her wild mane.
No staring, no hissing, no anger-vein on his forehead.
A proud, pious man through and through!
She didn't want to admit it, but his lack of reaction was more than... suspicious to her.
He was trying to mask his true thoughts, as sick as they were! It would soon backfire, she would make sure of that.
I see through you, Claude Frollo!
As she returned to Sara, she leaned forward and gave her an instruction.
He wouldn't get away so quickly.
The younger girl stood up and went to the front next for the letter E.
Her steps made that bouncing, hopping sound so familiar to the principal.
The skirt Esmeralda had specially chosen for her swirled around her legs.
She placed her immaculate folder on top of the pile. When she briefly looked at Frollo, the expression on his face softened for a fraction of a second to a shine.
HA! Esmeralda thought. Now drop the mask, Frollo!
"Salve, Domine Frollo. I hope you've had a blessed day."
Sara played the role perfectly—no, she WAS the role:
Unnoticed by the others, she slipped him a piece of paper.
It was a small, ornate handmade lotus flower.
"I thought it fit well with your Bible quote! Dirt and water just bead off of it."
Lord, don't leave me now.
Frollo clenching his fingers together, didn't even answer her in French:
"Salve discipulus Esfahani.
Salutatio lepida te dominum non facit."
His expression remained montone at best, even as Sara laughed softly at his words.
As she returned and Esmeralda looked at her questioningly, Sara translated:
"He said that a charming greeting doesn't make one a master."
He didn't react to Sara's charm tactics?
And he spoke pure LATIN with her?!
Both looked to the front.
He picked up the origami flower with two pincer-like fingers, holding it up to the light and studying it with furrowed brows, as if it were a riddle needed to be solved.
"Bul!" Esmeralda cursed under her breath.
"Something's not right here!"
Sara observed Frollo thoughtfully.
He didn't throw the white-pink paper away; instead, he held it captive between his long fingers. In her mind, the lotus flower screamed: Help, Sara! Help, Esmeralda!
His gaze seemed turned inward: and indeed, in his giant brain, he was currently running a machine-like list of the class:
Monsieur remembered. Every. Single. Student.
Once in his system, you never got out.
Former students who visited the school were amazed that he addressed them all by their full names.
Those were the manners of Frollo's generation, which he called "the last Generation".
When the last student had sat down, the stack was high...but incomplete!
Immediately, his eagle eyes swept to the back row.
"Someone is missing." His hiss was quiet, but something pulsed behind it: the stress of years.
The class collectively held its breath.
Fleur de Lys immediately turned around and stared across the room at Esmeralda and Sara.
The people beside her did the same.
They didn't spoke a word, but you could practically hear the accusation: You two are at fault for your friends antics!
Soon several heads turned toward the two only foreign girls.
Esmeralda covered her tormented face with her hands. She could almost scream.
Clopin, you damned idiot!
Sara, socially confused as ever, looked around.
"Hey. Do you guys need help?"
Frollo stepped out from behind his desk.
In this moment he could have been the savior for the two, but he was the judge still:
"Let us follow the motto 'I do what I please.' Since your esteemed classmate prefers to skip class, we will shape this afternoon somewhat... more to my liking. Open your books. Page 234.
A collective groan went through the rows.
"Individual work," Frollo dictated icily. "A three-page philosophical treatise on Augustine's concept of desire and sin. Due promptly at 5:00 PM. Anyone who whispers is out. Begin."
The relaxed Thursday hour, when one could normally sleep or secretly play Game Boy while the principal was lecturing, was ruined.
And everyone in the room knew exactly whom they had to thank for this hell: Clopin.
Was she the rescue in the last hour?
Frollo, who had long since sat down, looked up again.
He would have thrown any other student out immediately, but Sara made those little steps and had that sweet glow and—
Sara walked to the front with a second notebook...?
In front of his desk, she handed him the papers.
"This is from Clopin. He told me to give it to you in case he's late for submission. Complete homework."
She scratched her cheek sheepishly.
"I forgot about it when we were called up, m'sorry..."
He took the notebook, leaned back in his teacher's chair, and flipped through the pages.
Meanwhile Sara braced both hands on the desk and leaned toward him, perhaps to catch a glimpse of what he was reading. Arms pressing against her--
"The fault still lies entirely with your classmate, Mademoiselle Esfahani. Why do you vouch for this ne'er-do-well?"
The man was victorious: Not once did he commit to sin, even when she was still trying to catch a glimpse, standing on slightly shaky tip-toes. Like she wanted to be held before falling...
"He's my friend, I'm happy to do it."
At those words, his grip around the paper tightened.
This child would never learn it.
To put the notebook aside, he leaned forward, so that Sara's face was only inches from his.
The following words he breathed in a dangerous low tone into her face:
"I will accept it. But you will continue to vouch for him. If he doesn't show up, you will stay after class as well. Until he appears and finishes his cleaning detention. I will inform your mother that you will be late. Do you want that?"
Sara met his stern gaze, lips pursed in defiance.
Why was he so mean all of a sudden? She didn't do anything to deserve this strict behaviour! Do not let yourself down by a man, Sara! Not even Frollo! Unsure of what she should do, she simply crossed her arms.
Frollos eyelids formed into slids as he saw this, though his heart leaped into his throat. Again that arrogant, absolutely cheeky manner...
This girl would kill him one day anyway, so why not let himself be led around on a leash by her right now like a shaggy beloved dog, exactly as she wanted it?
She and her Gypsy friend wanted to play? Let them play.
Alas! That's what you get when you spoiled them. They were like trees growing in the wrong direction, he should know, he'd dealt with it before.
Worry not, he'd soon drive that out of her again.
"Of course you want that."
He massaged his nose bridge and growled:
"Go to your seat immediately, Sara, before I throw you out."
Her director sounded like a big bad wolf, but Little Red Riding Hood Sara knew he wasn't grumpy because of her. Not really.
This poor man was just tired and hungry: this was your typical seventh-hour fever.
His eyes followed her gait as she hopped back to her place.
Esmeralda, who had watched all this, nearly broke her pen in row five as she watched him loosen his tie and touch his 38-degree forehead.
He really had become too old for all of this.
Clopin's hands were black with motor oil.
Unlike his cousin Django, he had the great fortune—or misfortune—of being flat as a board. He fit anywhere, like a piece of paper slipped under a door.
In this case, the door was an old Renault 19 that Django and the guys had snagged for cheap from some terminally ill pensioner from the neighbourhood.
The engine block was in every sense "upgradeable," and Clopin with his nimble fingers was the perfect candidate to get the vehicle roadworthy by tomorrow to sell to a black market dealer for the best price possible.
The creaking noises and his strained breathing even drowned out the blare from the radio.
In the background stood his cousins, who had long since finished their parts and were enjoying a cigarette.
"Hey student, pull harder, or you won't even make it to the school for the disabled!"
Clopin laughed loudly, through gritted teeth:
"You should know, since you got your degree there, Lajos!"
Instead of another retort, there was an "OOF."
Probably Django the eldest had elbowed Lajos in the side:
"Shut up now, let the boy work."
Grinning, Clopin pulled at one of the bolts with a combination wrench.
A nightmare of every mechanic: the damn thing was completely rusted!
He'd been spraying it with WD-40 rust remover for 20 minutes till now.
It smelled of chemicals and decay; his lungs sure weren't thanking him.
The veins stood out on his arms as he twisted again.
Come on, come on— just a little more...
He applied more pressure.
Like a zombie, he dragged himself with what remaining strength he had from under the car into the garage light.
As he sat down on the dirty floor, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his oily hand.
A big, characteristic grin spread across his face.
On his smooth forehead there were oil smears now.
"Your knuckles are bleeding, Clop! Here, take this."
Django tossed him a disinfectant as he casually walked over.
"Good work." His cousin stroked his beard as he spoke. "Really. Not bad at all... If you pull like that in your posh school, you must be the only one there worth anything, little intellectual-workersman."
"Intellectual-workersman-court-jester, if you please."
Clopin swung himself to his feet and grasped his cousin's strong forearm.
A scratched Casio watch showed him the horror: 4:30 PM.
The grin on Clopin's face vanished instantly.
"Why didn't you tell me?!"
"You're getting 40 percent of the money!"
Like lightning, Clopin dashed through the entire space: he threw down the tools, washed his hands hastily with aggressive hand cleaner (which smelled like lemon), and sprinted to the station. For the light-hearted family, it was pure entertainment, but for the Romani student, it was deadly serious.
Damn. The RER took at least 40 minutes to get downtown. And his auditorium detention started at 5:15 PM!
A court jester he certainly was, but even the best court jesters couldn't afford to miss the opening act before their king and then dare to show up late for the after-show!
Especially not when the king was named Frollo king of a thousand cracked rosaries.
He'd break his neck, like he breaks the holy beads!
He heard Esmeralda's judgmental ghost-voice inside him.
'You are so screwed, Trouillefou.'
Esmeralda stared at the clock on the classroom wall:
The long hour hand pointed to 57.
He wouldn't even make it by the end of the hour... Great. Really.
And who would pay the price? Sara.
With Fleur leading, the first ones stood up to submit their work.
Beside her, Sara rose with her pages as well.
Reflexively, Esmeralda's arm shot out, grabbing the girl by the wrist.
"What's the matter, Esme?"
"Wait. We'll go together."
Quickly, Esmeralda wrote her name at the top right of her page, then pushed her chair back and peered forward.
Not a single word came from the director's lips.
A few strands of hair fell into his face; he seemed to already be correcting the summer-assignments.
The students disappeared one by one with their backpacks over their shoulders.
The mood was in the gutter.
And all because of a jester.
When only three or two students were left packing their things, Esmeralda linked arms with Sara and stepped up to the teacher's desk.
She shoved her and Sara's essays right under his nose.
The teacher squinted up at his students.
Suddenly, Esmeralda slapped both hands on his desk and leaned forward.
She must be stupid, because now he had a complete view of something he really shouldn't be seeing.
Let that pervert look, she thought.
Then Sara would see what a hypocrite he was!
"Im-mediate-ly. Back-off."
Hissed the director with the darkened eye circles.
His gaze was fixed rigidly on the girl's smaragd-stare, which sparkled like emeralds.
Esmeralda ignored his command.
"You can't make Sara vouch for something she didn't do!"
Frollo looked briefly from her to Sara, who smiled at him uncertainly.
He closed the notebook and simply stood up.
Sara looked up attentively at the sound of her name, but he had already turned around.
The two girls looked at his broad back, where quite a bit was happening beneath the fabric of his shirt as he took a sponge to wipe away the Bible quote.
Esmeralda looked away disgusted; Sara looked on. Woah...
The droplets slithered down the board, erasing all chalk marks that spoke of light.
"I understood what you wanted to tell me. How did you come up with the flower? Can you explain that to me in connection with today's lesson assignment?"
He spoke more to the board than to her, but Sara answered:
"It's quite simple, Monsieur Frollo. The lotus flower grows in the deepest, muddiest sludge of a pond, but when it rains, not a single drop remains on its petals. The dirt simply beads off. I thought... no matter how gray and ugly the world around you is, you can always choose to stay clean."
She tilted her head a little and gave him that honest, deep smile he would never forget until his dying day.
"... Castitas vincit. Purity and spirit triumph. Just as you taught us. If the soul is strong enough, the sin of the world cannot touch it. One must not let the mud in."
Frollo paused mid-motion. The wet sponge in his hand left a dark, damp streak on the board. It was clear as day that this child saw in him the untouchable philanthropist, the savior, while in the background he heard the ticking of his own sinful thoughts and could only counter them with two things, which essentially were almost but not quite one: his faith and his burden.
The two things that had brought him to this position of suffering on the cross like his own God in the first place.
He pressed the sponge back into the bucket, turned slowly, and fixed Esmeralda with a look that brooked no argument.
The Romani girl gritted her teeth. She trembled all over with suppressed rage.
A part of him knew that sending her away was a foolish move, that he was banishing the only person who stood against him, who could stop him.
But this he told himself: her beautiful angel face, behind which a devil hid, had to vanish from his sight.
Because two of the same kind he could not possibly endure.
Yes, oh he needed all the time in the world, to drive out the Zingara's filth from both his and Saras bodies, to do at least SOMETHING against this impossible insolence, which Sara was displaying shamelessly since the start of the school!
For that, he would risk everything. Everything.
Because once Esmeralda was gone, that thing in him, that violent unstoppable human force, would cease to breathe too.
Sara looked at her friend as if communicating something, whereupon the Romani girl took a deep breath through her nose and recited the school motto through clenched teeth:
"In every place are the eyes of the LORD, watching over the evil and the good."
To Sara, it sounded like: 'Alright Frollo. Please don't forget that Sara did nothing wrong. I'm taking my leave.'
In reality, it meant: 'If you touch her like you touched me, I'll strangle you and throw your corpse into the Seine, Frollo.'
And his face darkened, ready to strike.
But in the inscrutability of the Lord, something far more terryifying happened. Instead of punishing the girls, his deep voice formed a single word:
Esmeralda pressed her lips together so tightly her jaw ached.
He was doing that on purpose, wasn't he?!
Let him try to be a saint! Let him!
The death threat had been issued already.
This pathetic man had already signed the treaty of the Devil.
A promise to him: she would be there even when she wasn't.
Esmeralda hugged Sara quickly in farewell. All the while she continued to stare at him with looks like death arrows.
Try it Claude, you will die Claude.
And when she stormed out of the room, she took the last clear thinking adult with her.
When her attention was completely focused on her director, Sara had to realise that she had never seen him like this before.
The lines around his mouth were deeper, his hands were clenched into trembling fists.
Sara winked at him playfully, an attempt to lighten the mood.
"Now it's just the two of us until Clopin comes or... uhm well doesn't come, right Monsieur?"
The older man blinked a few times in response to this playfully-seductive manner.
Cite the Lord's Player, Claude.
Don't look at her, look at the ceiling. Yeees... that's good.
...She's 18. She is an 18-year-old woman.
A ...A little thing playing with him.
A -A little thing to be played...with.
While he was citing this strange prayer, he noticed how Sara bounced up and down on her heels, waiting for him to say something already.
Oh...Just what had he gotten himself into with this creature made of love and sin?
"Is the Lotus flower naked?"
"The flower. It doesn't have any clothes on."
"Technically...I- I think so, yes...Please get to the point of this conversation, Mademoiselle Esfahani."
"I just thought....if the Lotus Flower is a woman and if that flower is naked and still unblemished by dirt...what is the use of clothing, if one be it man or woman, stays pure in ones mind?"
The lustful demon held by the strings of the Romani girl transformed into a panicked-ridden Catholic man, who desperately reached for his rosary at the hands of the other.
Burned by flames, he stood up.
A large, dark shadow formed on Sara's small frame.
"Mademoiselle Esfahani...let's...let's go to another room, shall we?"
