July 24, 1942
Tom was still slightly wavering from the sound of his name on her lips, yet he held his breath.
He stiffly waited by the door's edge as a scantily clad- practically in unmentionables- woman with Hermione's face came into the room. His eyes narrowed in assessment.
Her face appeared tired but kind- an obviously older version of Hermione, and despite her small stature he was careful not to brush against her as he slipped out the door.
The woman bent down to rub the invisible dirt off of Hermione's cheek, her assets on display.
"Mum," she whined, clearly embarrassed- clearly aware of his presence.
Tom reveled. Revenge was sweet in all forms, even the smallest.
"You're in here earlier than I expected," she said, placing a hand on her naked hip. Even so, the woman sounded amused. Upper class and amused.
He cocked his head.
She was attractive, he supposed, however, it was beneath Tom to feel such primitive desires for something as simple as correct speech and the 'female form'.
The woman's arm stretched behind her, "What have you been doing, my dear-"
Tom then stepped into the middle of the hall as the door closed behind him.
He let out a sigh.
He had to go. His face fell into a frown, but first, I'll have to check on father.
Tom crept carefully down the stairs and once at the bottom, walked down the hallway Hermione had ignored.
It was damp, unkept, and dimly lit but the loud music and cacophony of cheers coming from the other end was surely promising.
He stopped at the door- the music, now, at its loudest. He guessed the door would lead backstage due to its attachment to the dancer's quarters and he debated on whether he should risk it and open the door himself or wait for someone to open the door for him.
Finally, he'd decided on cracking the door open, peaking through the other side. The chatter of women could be heard and he could make out multiple vainty mirrors lined against a wall.
It was almost as dim as the hall, but brighter still due to the mirror's lights. It was the backstage then, or, at least, the dressing room, backstage.
He opened it just enough for his body to slip through, carefully closing the door behind him. He confidently strut through the room to the hall leading to the left wing of the theater.
He was invisible after all, the fear of being seen didn't register. Standing on the stairs of the stage, staring into the audience, looking for his father- none of it gave him pause.
What did, though, was the sight of his father walking directly towards him.
His teeth clenched in alarm- in anger.
He calmed.
He can't see me, that's not what he's coming for. And he's still here. I can still make my escape safely to the car.
He paused.
But what was he coming for then?
Was he having an affair with a dancer? Was he attempting to? Was he making shady business dealings with criminals and the like? Or… was it- worse of all- that he had business with one of these… glorified dancers.
Tom sneered at the thought and thus, Tom decided to wait a while and find out. Besides, a little confoundus charm, if he somehow did catch him outside the car, would surely do the trick.
He waited for his father to pass him up the stairs, his steps purposeful and sure. He followed his father down the stage wing and to a particularly dark and hidden area backstage.
What in the world was he doing?
His father waited, in an almost bored fashion, as if this was routine.
But this was the first Tom was ever hearing about any burlesque 'business' trips.
Tom's nostrils flared at the thought of something as important as this being kept from him.
He wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to end the very existence of his father.
And yet he still needed answers.
Why would he need to come here regularly? To wait in the dark at some lowly dump like some common thug- some common criminal?
What was he hiding?
He spotted movement from the corner of his eye.
No.
Why did her mother need to meet his father.
His eyes darted between, feeling a tension that came only from years of development.
No.
"Tom," she began, addressing him in hushed, though, formal tones.
She was in a rather modest dress now, hem well below the knees, cleavage covered, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders- she even wore gloves to cover her hands.
"Jean," he nodded in acknowledgment, "I trust your night went per usual?"
"Yes, the crowd was a little more enthusiastic, but yes. More of the same."
Tom Sr. nodded again. "And Hermione?"
Tom's heart practically stuttered, missing a beat causing his breath to stagger.
Hermione?
How did he know Hermione?
His breathing grew heavy and frequent. The subtle confirmation, sending his mind into a minor spiral.
How the fuck did he know Hermione?!
"She's doing fine. Good marks in school, sociable, and she doesn't worry about a thing thanks to you." She crossed her arms, yet softened, "Your Tom?"
His hands twitched in an attempt to release at least an ounce of pent up fury.
She- knows- about- me?
…
Does Hermione know about me too? About my father? About-
Tom fumed. If she knew- if she knew- Then they way she spoke to him…
It would be an insult, an affront, it would be unacceptable.
Tom's eyes darkened. He was going to murder her.
Tom Sr. crossed his arms, "Good, he's good." His lips formed a thin line, "Here," his father pulled an envelope from out of his coat pocket. "This should cover the next month," he handed the envelope to Hermione's mother.
"Thank you, Tom," she received the envelope gingerly. Her smile, small and painful. "Get home safe," she turned and walked away.
Tom Sr. watched her leave till the very end. He wore longing eyes, a sadder and more genuine set than any look he had ever worn at home.
A look like that narrowed their relationship down to only one of a few options.
It was an option he both despised yet delighted in.
A reality that, both, made his skin crawl and made his skin heat.
A reality where that insufferable, insolent little girl, Hermione, was his sister.
A reality in which punishing her had just become a bit more fun.