Rob Atkinson came from a respectable enough family, it seemed. The Atkinsons were always donating money, though to what was unknown, and were friendly to just about everyone in town. They were well liked, certainly, and strangers passing through the pub would always hear nothing but wonderful things about them. The Atkinsons, it seemed, were almost perfect. The last people anyone would suspect of having anything to do with the Dark Arts.

George Atkinson threw down An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe. "He's not going to this Hogwarts place, no matter how good you say it is, Erica. Our son will go to Doomhallow. Nowhere else is acceptable. Is this understood?"

"No," Erica snapped back. "I keep telling you that place isn't safe anymore, what with Master's downfall and all—"

"It's been ten bloody years!" shouted George. "If they were going to—to storm it, or anything drastic, they would have done it already!"

"That's what they want you to think! You know what I've told you over and over, those Aurors are just waiting to catch us off guard—"

"And you know what I've been telling you. You're just being paranoid!"

Rob Atkinson signed resignedly and watched his parents bicker. The house had been a war zone for as long as he could remember, but this past year the fighting had escalated to a fever pitch. Mother would suggest yet another random magic school for Rob, and his father would firmly stick by Doomhallow Academy of the Dark Arts. Tomorrow was September first, the beginning of term, and Rob's parents were still arguing about the school he would attend. It was rather silly, in his opinion. Either way his whole future was already planned out for him. He would go to school for seven years, and upon graduation be accepted into Voldemort's Inner Circle. Rob never pointed out to his parents how absurd the idea was, as Voldemort had been gone for ten whole years. They would practically disown him for even a word against their precious "Master."

Not that Rob wasn't excited about the prospect, it sounded wonderful to him to be able to purge the wizarding world of those filthy mudbloods. Though, Rob thought, it would be even more wonderful if he were the leader of it all, instead of just a mere underling. He toyed with the idea of overthrowing Voldemort and becoming the new Dark Lord. It was one of his favourite fantasies, and always brought a smile to his face.

"HE'S GOING TO DOOMHALLOW AND THAT'S FINAL!" Rob's father bellowed. Mother let out a sharp cry as he smacked her across the face. He stormed across the floor towards her, and she shrunk back in fear, knowing what was coming.

Rob calmly got up and went up the stairs to his room. He guessed Father had had a few drinks too many at the pub before coming home from work. That wasn't unusual, of course, but combined with today's anger, it would probably prove harmful to Rob if he stayed in his father's sight much longer.

Rob shut the door behind him. He walked over to his mirror, and examined his reflection closely. He wasn't very handsome by any standards, but not completely ugly either. He was tall, and a bit scrawny for his age, but he had smooth, dark brown hair that fell over his face, hiding his hazel eyes. His eyes were his best feature, and he knew it, but he couldn't make his hair behave for the life of him. He sighed and tried in vain to push it out of his face, knowing better than to expect it to stay there. It was just a habit he had, brushing it away whenever his hands weren't occupied.

"It's no use there, sonny," cackled the old antique mirror. "You'd be better off bald!"

"Oh, shut up," he sneered, and let his hair fall back over his eyes.

The mirror chuckled. "Always were a vain one, eh? Can't stand for anyone to point out your faults."

Rob was about to respond with a biting remark, but he heard quiet sobbing and the sound of tiny feet coming up the stairs. The feet turned right at the top, into the bathroom. He heard the tap coming on, and then the rustle of clothes that meant someone was leaning over the sink. He wasn't unused to these noises; they usually followed his parents' arguments. His mother was just nursing her wounds, like she always did after a fight with Father.

Rob turned his back to the critical mirror and blew out the candle. "Goodnight, you," he muttered under his breath. The mirror did not reply.

Rob ignored this and slid into bed, letting visions of power and wealth ease him to sleep. After all, even future evil overlords need their rest.