Le Plafond de Verre - Chapter 1 – Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – January 27th, 1947

A loud chime echoed through the grand castle, as classes for the day let out, Leo packed his bag slowly, carefully sliding parchment and quills, so as to not snap or crumple them, and in his periphery, he witnessed someone slide up to his side. He glanced towards them, avoiding eye contact, and saw that it was Maria Munari, another Ravenclaw muggleborn, one that was, in fact, originally apart of the Beauxbatons transfers of 1943.

He assumed she'd decided to stay at Hogwarts because she'd only have been at her previous school for a year and a half. He knew this because he'd researched each of his classmates, especially the muggleborns, as they were the only students he didn't blatantly ignore.

"Yes?" he asked, looking down at his bag, confused as to why she was suddenly speaking to him. He was positive she had her own group of friends, and a boyfriend, not to mention that he was impatient to get to the library, un-enthused at having his free time commandeered.

"We were wondering if you'd like to join our study group since you're always on your own," she asked politely, Italian accent quite noticeable, and he mentally winced. OWLs were fast approaching, and he sort of wrote them off, because he didn't really care to stay in Britain or the magical world once he'd graduated. He thought about it for a moment, he would need to pass the bloody things in order to graduate in the first place, however, he did not like the idea of giving up or changing his plans for the day.

"That's kind of you to ask, but I do have a personal project to work on today, would it be alright if I joined your group another day?" he asked, and she seemed pensive for a moment, before nodding and leaving.

Leo sighed in relief, it wasn't that he was inherently unsociable, he just had trouble becoming comfortable with new people, it had taken a whole lot of will and effort to even just bring himself to Riddle manor that fateful day when his father had beat him and left him for dead. He winced again, that was not a good memory, and he did not like recalling it, especially since he was essentially the reason Helen was dead.

With that, he was reminded of what he wanted to do, no, what he needed to do, so swinging his bag over onto his shoulder, he left the classroom and head for the library. Once there, he headed over to the archives, for the project he'd started back in October after Hermione had gotten her bill passed because he'd witnessed the commotion caused by it.

"A muggleborn did what?"

"Wait, she's muggleborn?"

"The audacity of this muggleborn,"

These were variations of the phrases he'd heard in response to her success, which struck him curiously, rather than reactions of the subject of said bill, why was her blood status more important than the freedom of a whole species of being? He wanted (needed?) some kind of answer to a question he wasn't even sure of its exact wording, and felt the only way he was going to get that was through research, specifically of muggleborns.

So, he started with bound records of attendance, dating back to the 990s, to when the school had opened initially, and in his charmed, never-ending notebook (that Hermione had gifted to him) he picked a researched every single muggleborn that had attended Hogwarts, into a neat list.

He recorded their grades, how many classes they took, what careers they went into, as well as when (and how) they died. So far, his research has been inconclusive, he was on the year 1024, and the majority of muggleborns either died before finishing school, disappeared after graduating, presumably to retreat back into the non-magical world, or stayed in generally low-level positions before dying of completely preventable diseases. He also tried to factor in religious practices, if they were mentioned, and discrimination hitherto. Though a part of him considered that it was only inconclusive due to the era and that perhaps a pattern would eventually reveal itself, he did think he was on the right track though.

At six in the evening, he put his research away to head for dinner, with the intention of eating quickly and then returning to start his homework for the day. He'd only stopped thanks to the watch Hermione had charmed for him, that chimed to remind him to eat, or stretch his legs, because sometimes he became too focused on his task at hand, and would forget.

When he first started this project, it had taken a lot of effort not to dive into perceived conspiracy theories, instead, a part of him simply wanted to know why muggleborns even existed, so far, there wasn't any conclusive theory, and it worried him, because how could nobody know after thousands of years?

He took a turn and slammed into someone, and he instinctively hugged his bag as he fell onto his backside, because he really didn't want his quills to break, or parchment to crumple.

"Well, if it isn't the forgotten mudblood," a snide voice sneered, that cracked with pubescence, and Leo looked up to find Hector Burke Jr, a Slytherin year-mate, and all-around racist piece of rubbish, at least, in Leo's humble opinion. If he was even honest, Leo was under the impression the other boy was simply jealous, but that was because he constantly brought up "Lord Slytherin's" (aka Tom's) sponsorship of him.

Burke was one of the first people in the school to "introduce" Leo to the word "mudblood," which he still didn't understand the need for the word, as in his self-study, he'd come to find the term "muggle" to have originally been a derogatory term for a non-magical person, so though it was the proper term for people like him, and it was expected that he use it, wasn't "muggleborn" technically already derogatory enough?

"Are you listening to me?!" Burke snapped, kicking his foot and Leo cocked his head at it, still sitting on the floor with his bag in his arms, he made to stand again, dusting off his robes.

"No, I forgot you were even here," he answered honestly, he did that a lot, and he'd been told that it was rude, but he couldn't help it, he just got stuck on a train of thought and tended to ignore his surroundings. Not that he "forgot-forgot", in actuality, but more that his mind didn't think the other boy's presence as important anymore, or at least, not compared to whatever current train of thought he was thinking.

"You're so weird, no wonder nobody likes you," Burke sneered, and Leo adjusted his bag back onto his shoulder, shrugging nonchalantly.

"That's alright, I don't like 'nobody' either, you're all really loud and annoying," he replied, nonplussed, before walking away. He snapped up a protego up at his back, just in case, like Hermione had taught him, and continued his way to dinner.

He kept telling himself that it was only two and a half years more, and then he could get them both out of Britain, he could get her away from Tom. He worried his lip, and fidgeted his fingers, he hoped it wouldn't be too late, during the Winter Hols, she'd been awfully attached to him (enough for Leo, who didn't normally catch other's people behaviours easily, to notice). It's like she couldn't see how she'd changed, or see how Tom treated her as if she wasn't a person, but a pet and Leo knew all about being treated as a sub-human.

He didn't like recalling his childhood, as he was ignored often, mostly because he didn't answer on time, or at all, and he had never played well with other children his age. More often than not, he'd been left alone in his room, most tutors or caretakers giving up because he simply wasn't retaining anything they taught him. Even now, he didn't keep much of what his professors taught, and he learned better by reading through his textbooks and compiling his notes into neat lists.

His father had always been distant, who'd never bothered to talk to him, and he'd never known his mother, so he'd had to learn to be okay on his own. That was until he'd met Helen and Hermione, who'd had taught him that it hadn't been alright, and though it had certainly been a new experience to be patiently listened to, he found that now that he had it, to be treated like a person, he wasn't willing to let it go, and he wouldn't let Hermione let it go, either.

He hoped he'd find something in his research, something to hold onto, something to bring attention to stop the mistreatment, and if he couldn't, then he would find somewhere safe for them to go.

Diagon Alley – February 1st, 1947

The alley was bustling with people, now that children were back at school, or, well, they'd been back for about a month now, and though Hermione had been glad to have Leo back in the castle for the winter hols, she'd had to put her investigating on hold for the duration. Once he'd gone back, she'd scoured the Slytherin library from top to bottom (at least all that she could read and translate) for mention of 'le plafond de verre', and she hadn't found anything. She knew it had been a long shot, of course, as everything in the library was dated to pre-1400s, it was simply possible that whatever 'the glass ceiling' was, it just hadn't existed then.

That just meant she had to become a little bit more creative on her information extractions, and lucky for her, she had just the beetle to squeeze.

So, here she was, disillusioned and sneaking her way through Diagon Alley like a common criminal. After the warning that Minister Leach had given her, she was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, because clearly, whoever was behind...whatever it was, really didn't want to be discovered, and was willing to keep it that way.

She was in a clearly precarious situation, she'd presumably stumbled upon some grand injustice, that nobody was doing anything about, due to danger, exposure to crime, what have you, that she was absolutely in the right position to uncover, but it was undeniably a dangerous undertaking. Not to mention that she had no way (besides her current plan) to go about finding information, without putting herself in the spotlight, therefore putting herself in danger, because she didn't exactly know what she was looking for.

She was not a ministry employee, so it wasn't like she could waltz her way into the Ministry Archives without request or appointment, and she was hesitant to involve anyone in this conspiracy, especially considering how dangerous it was. As well, a small, tiny part of her questioned who she could trust, and though she was a bit ashamed of the thought, she couldn't help but think it.

In her mind, she didn't understand how discrimination could continue unchecked for years, centuries even unless it's been specifically allowed through the inaction of others. She was still relatively new in the UK, and she still questioned the methods and traditions of those born here, she couldn't help it, perhaps if the plot hadn't been so nefarious, she could have ignored it, but now that she saw the subtle micro-aggressive proof, it was all she could think about.

'Le Plafond de Verre' suggested French origins, which disappointed her, as she'd thought so highly of the magical governance of her previous school's country; but it gave no suggestion as to what it actually was, and really it could be anything, like a secret underground crime ring, or a physical place, as suggested by its name. Then again, it could also be a figurative theory or idea, like maybe it was a glass ceiling that held muggleborns down, allowing them to see beyond, but to never advance, and the more she thought about it, the more it worried her if she kept digging, what would she find?

Would she find evidence of a connection to witches and wizards she respected? Like her friends, or their families? Would she find evidence of Tom's association? She'd already considered it, of course, but she didn't think he would be, as he was very transparent with his actions, deliberately to keep his name clean of any critiques against his person, he was very aware of people's constant perception of him. She twisted her step to avoid a mother with a small child in her arms, and leaned against the wall outside of Madam Malkin's, beside the window, and looked up at the office of the Daily Prophet across the alley from her.

Did she feel she was being a touch too cautious? Perhaps a bit, but if it kept her alive and unnoticed, could she really consider her actions to be too much? Seeing a gap in the crowd, she left her spot against the wall and swerved her way through it, and made her way into the building, taking the stairs to the right to the third floor, where the gossip columnists usually had desks and offices. She knew this because she looked into it prior to making this venture.

She took her time, and when she finally arrived at Skeeter's office, she entered, closed the door, and set a sound ward around the parameter of the office, relieved that the witch was alone. Rita jumped but relaxed into a barely held sneer when Hermione undid her disillusionment.

"You know, I do have appropriate appointment hours," she drawled, inspecting her nails, and Hermione sat down, crossing her legs and refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Yes, I'm aware, but it probably isn't a good idea being seen breaking my own restraining order on you," she retorted, to which she heard the other witch vaguely scoff 'if only' under her breath. She quirked an eyebrow at her, daring her to say it louder, but Skeeter only pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in response.

"What can I help you with, Miss Granger-Riddle?" she finally gave in, asking in an exasperated tone, and if Hermione didn't know any better, she could almost swear Skeeter had a begrudging bit of respect for her, she could be very wrong though.

"I've come across the term that I haven't been able to find any information on, and researching it has been difficult," she began, and Rita cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed, "what do you know of 'le plafond de verre'?" she asked, and before the other witch could correct her expression to remain neutral, her eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply, leading Hermione to believe that she did, in fact, know something.

Skeeter shook her head, faking sympathies, and Hermione felt fury coil in her stomach. It was people like this that allowed for injustices to fly freely, cowards like this that encouraged mass discrimination against what was generally an ethnic group in the magical world.

"You know something, and need I remind you what secrets I have over your head," Hermione spoke lowly, tone frigid, and Rita had the audacity to scoff at her.

"Let me tell you something, Miss Granger-Riddle, you may have a death wish, but I certainly do not, and you can threaten me with Azkaban all you want, but even that is preferable to dying," she doubled down, but two could play at that game.

"What makes you think your life is infinitely more valuable than any of the many muggleborns affected by this?" she began coolly, "do you think your freedom or life has any value to me, with all of your cowardice, in the face of hundreds of others?" she asked, tilting her head at the other witch.

"It would be a shame if I lead whoever it is right to you, regardless of whether you tell me anything," she spoke with a fake bit of politeness, "I have nothing to lose in any of this, though the question begs, what is more, important to you? Your guaranteed un-involvement, provided I remain uncaught, or me dragging you into it because I have been?" she asked, only for Rita to sputter at her.

"Are you threatening me?" she asked, horrified, and Hermione only gave a genial smile.

"Yes, I am, now, the decision is yours," she spoke plainly, and Rita sat there flabbergasted, looking like she swallowed a lemon.

"I don't know much," she started, and Hermione cocked an eyebrow, "I'm telling the truth, I don't know who exactly is behind it, or what it signifies, only that it's a deep, deep, deep underground auction," she spoke carefully, and Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"An auction for what?" she asked, feeling like she wasn't going to like the answer, and Rita looked almost apologetic.

"People."

Alcazar Deslizan – Later that day

Hermione sat at her desk, tumbler filled with firewhiskey, her head in one hand, with her elbows supported upon the surface, and the other cradling her glass. She'd just gotten back from the Daily Prophet office, and speaking with Rita Skeeter, though she hadn't gone to the Aurors, too shocked at the information she'd been told. When she'd considered that 'the glass ceiling' had been some type of underground crime syndicate, she hadn't considered prostitution, or worse, trafficking, and she was still reeling from it.

This was utter insanity, how was she supposed to take this down? Who were the victims? Who started this and who benefited from it? There were so many questions and she felt she had nowhere to seek answers from, she felt, officially, like she'd opened the lid to Pandora's Box, but there was no hope at the bottom.

Was it just in the UK? Did it encompass more countries? Did the ICW know about this, and was there anyone doing anything about it? She downed her drink, wincing at the burning sensation, and took a couple of breaths to steady and calm herself. She was getting ahead of herself, she needed to shrink her sphere of influence, she needed to brainstorm an idea that she was personally capable of, as a barrister.

She shuffled things around until she had a blank scrap of parchment and a quill in her hand, and began scribbling down a few bubbles of information that she currently knew, and connected them to each other. Victims were likely muggles and muggleborns, offenders were likely purebloods, but who? Sacred 28? Was it a combination of these families, or a single family responsible?

Her original plan had been to create a registry of magical births that included muggleborns, inspired as she was by Leo's case, but put that information in the hands of the schools, rather than the government. She'd hit a snag when she realized that Hogwarts was government-run, but now with this new information, if she went through with her bill, would this just be helping that 'organization' find victims? She felt truly stumped and disgusted, and she felt she needed help, but who could she trust? Who didn't have stakes in this awful practice? Furthermore, should she tell her friends?

The majority of them were purebloods, so surely they'd be safe? Géraldine had a right to know about this, as it could potentially affect her and Jean Pierre, but would it also put her in as much danger? Who was she to make that decision for them? She briefly thought of Harry's mother, Lily Evans-Potter, she was generally a well known and successful muggleborn, perhaps she could speak to her, so jotted her name down, as well as the pros and cons of speaking to the rest of her friends.

If she wrote an anti-discrimination bill, would it be voted in? It seemed inconspicuous, but as a muggleborn herself, it may come across as self-serving and transparent, not to mention it may just shine the spotlight that she was onto them, whoever they were.

She felt her eyes burn with frustration and unshed tears, and a headache began to make itself known. It was clear that the whole system was set up so that it couldn't be stopped by anyone who actually cared for others, she felt self-righteous in her anger, but also so very isolated in the helplessness of the situation.

She abandoned her paper and went to shower, tying her hair up into a high puff to avoid it getting wet, and was minutely glad she didn't have to climb precariously in and out of claw-foot tubs anymore. The washrooms were a new installment that Tom had implemented upon claiming the castle and name, as the last time the castle was in use back in the 1300s, back when the hygiene of Europeans and Anglo-Saxons were in serious question, and chamber pots were all the rage.

Hermione shuddered, growing up in the Caribbean, the general consensus of Europeans was not the greatest, especially colonial Europeans, considering they'd decimated entire civilizations with diseases they'd brought over. So, she could only imagine the hygiene of the last occupants of the castle had been, cringing at the outlandish rumour she'd heard that they used to defecate in their robes and vanish the evidence, hoping that that wasn't the case.

She washed quickly and wrapped a towel around herself as she got ready to wrap her hair, it was day two on her twist-out, so she had a couple of more days until she needed to wash it, so she grabbed her Sleakeazy's hair oil, and brought it back to her desk.

She sat down in her towel, and brought her knees to her chest, running a delicate layer of the oil in her hands, before gently patting her curls and massaging her scalp. She studied her scribbles absentmindedly as she began separating her hair into large random sections, and began twisting.

If she told Jaismine, perhaps she could look into the archives in the ministry for her? She felt if she asked Harry or Ron, they would be too obvious about it, not that they couldn't be inconspicuous, but more that they were both from notoriously 'blood-traitor-ish' families. Géraldine was out of the question, the more she thought about it, the more she didn't want to shine this dangerous situation on her and her brother, but Jas was a Slytherin, and that might provide her with enough benefit of the doubt by onlookers.

She needed to talk to her friend, there would be no manipulating her into doing something she didn't want to, Hermione bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed.

She heard the door to Tom's room open and close, and quickly moved to stuff her papers and notes into her desk drawer, pulling out, instead, her small box of pins as he opened her door. She glanced at him briefly, heart in her throat, and hope she didn't come across as suspicious, before turning to pull her mirror closer to pin the ends of her twists against her scalp.

She watched him in the mirror as he came up behind her and cupped the back of her neck, and began kneading the pressure points in her shoulders, his hands were cool and she felt herself relax for the first time all day. He said nothing as he waved her hands away and reached for her box of pins, continuing her work until all the strands were secured, and she wasn't surprised that he was rather apt at it, as he'd watched her do it probably a hundred times before.

When he finished, she checked it in the mirror before nodding, satisfied, before grabbing her scarf that had been hanging off the back of her chair and began wrapping her head. When she finished, she stood up and looked to him, and it was almost unnerving to recognize the satisfied gleam in his eye, the indulgent twitch to his lip.

She couldn't help but think of what she'd discovered today, as she reached for him and he took her hand, pulling her into him. Did Tom know about 'The Glass Ceiling'? She felt something curdle in her stomach at the idea that he'd ever take part in anything so horrifying, and she ignored the snide whisper in her head that told her he was absolutely capable of it, that he had been honest with her in his lack of consideration for muggleborns.

She laid her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist, was she foolish for hoping he'd changed? Or that he could possibly just not know about it? Was optimism a weakness? The logical corner of her brain told her that in this situation, yes, and that she was being willfully blind to the reality of who she'd consented to be with. A large part of her wanted to ask him about it, wanted to rely and depend on him, as she'd done when her mother had been killed, but the idea of how many lives were at stake, how many people were affected, stopped her.

This was not about her comfort, this was about the freedom to live comfortable lives of potentially every single person like herself, and she knew, oh, but did she know, the crowd that Tom surrounded himself with.

No, it wasn't safe to speak to him about it.

She closed her eyes and relaxed as he ran a hand down her spine, loosening the towel that had been her only source of modesty, until it dropped to the ground and she stood in his arms, bare. She lifted her head for a kiss and began picking at the buttons of his robes, sliding them off his shoulders when she was done.

She would play her part, the part that was expected of her, to Tom, to her place in this world, and all the while, she had every intention of ripping it apart from the inside, and so help her God, she was going to shatter that glass ceiling, even if it killed her.


Authors Note: I finally finished my semester and have time for personal projects, neat! Like, finally catching up on The Mandalorian (iloveitsomuch)

P.S I will always take shots at JKR, especially for that washroom "info" she dropped a couple of years ago...like, ma'am, wat de heck? (bad enough that she's a TERF, but imma not get into that rn)