The Heist
He is six years old.
He is bony knees and knobby ankles and messy, dirty black hair that falls into his face and he is starving, which is awful.
Perhaps, though, what is more awful is the fact that he is used to it.
He knows better than to ask his mother for food. The last time he did, she cried, her pinched face full of grief and bitterness.
It terrified him.
But it doesn't terrify him as much as his father does.
His mother mentioned something about house elves, once, and he became obsessed. He still looks for them under his bed and in his closet when the house is finally still at night, but he's beginning to believe that she is lying.
She did not lie about the magic. The magic is real.
He is six years old. Almost seven, though. He keeps repeating it to himself like a mantra.
One year closer to freedom.
It's almost Christmastime and he wants to give his mother a present, though he doesn't know how he'll accomplish it.
He's freezing and pulling his threadbare scarf around his neck as tightly as he can when the Big Kids stop him.
"'Ey kid," the biggest one says, "Wot 're you up to?"
He freezes. He doesn't know what to say. They've never seen him before. He's never had anything they needed.
"Ya think 'e's small enough?" a red-haired boy said doubtfully.
"Oi! You!" the biggest one growls, and he goes rigid and still, just like when his dad says the same thing.
"Ya reckon 'e can't talk?" The tall, thin one with acne scratches his head.
"Nah, I seen him talk before," the red-haired boy whispers conspiratorially, "Bobby jus' scared him is all."
"Hey, kid," Bobby says, his voice slightly gentler. "You wanna make some pocket money? We gotta job for yeh."
"How's he s'posed to have pocket money without pockets?" Someone laughs from the back of the group.
"Shut it! We need 'is help!" Bobby shouts, grinning wide. He is already missing teeth.
"What would you need?" He is six, but his voice is soft and he is well-spoken. He regards them with serious, dark eyes, flat and empty like tunnels.
The others boggle at him.
"See that winder over there?" Bobby points to a surprisingly nice car that is parked on the side of the street. The window in the back is down a crack, which would have been a bad idea in a good neighborhood due to the cold, but in a bad neighborhood, the sort near Spinner's End, it is simply asking to be broken into.
"What would you like me to do?" He says it in such a manner that it's more of a demand than a question, and the others take a step back as though they feel that standing too near to this small, obviously underfed boy is a bad idea.
"Jus' climb in there and unlock it, and yeh get ten percent when we get paid."
He regarded them cooly. "And how do you expect to start it without the key?"
Bobby holds up some wire clippers.
"You jus' leave that to me!"
"Very well." He blows some warmth into his hands, rubbing them together as he walks over to the vehicle. Climbing up the bumper isn't difficult, not with his tiny feet and light, wiry frame. The scarf gets caught when he tries to get in, so he unravels it and slips it through the window first.
The cold is terrible, but he ignores it.
Within seconds, he is inside of the car as well, sliding up to the front seat and unlocking each of the doors as the Big Kids flank the vehicle, their dark coats giving them the appearance of a murder of ravens standing around an animal carcass.
"Jus' stay right there in the middle, kid. Yeh don' take up too much space," Bobby says eagerly, grinning as he pulls some wires out from under the steering column and clips them, pressing them together as the other boys file in around him, closing the doors as quietly as they can.
The car makes some half-hearted chugging noises, and goes still again.
"It's the fekkin' cold!" Bobby swears. He swears more when the lights come on in the house and someone shouts out the window.
He is six. He knows that he can't do magic, not until he gets his wand. But, as he sees someone angrily pull open the door, his mind is full of terror. He can't be caught, no…not like this…
He pushes Bobby against the door though the older boy is much bigger than he will likely ever be and grabs the steering wheel, his hair flying wildly away from his face as though filled with static electricity as he stares at the wheel and thinks TURN OVER. ENGINE. TURN OVER TURN OVER TURNOVERTURNOVERTURNOVER. Bobby is still pulling wires and everyone is shouting and swearing and it's chaos until the engine roars to life and someone presses the pedals and shifts the gears and the vehicle lurches forward just as a fist lands on the driver's side and a faceless man outside shouts in surprise as he jumps free of the speeding vehicle.
They are moving! They are free! His heart pounds and soars as they leave Spinner's End behind for whereabouts unknown at terrible, dangerous speeds in the cold and the dark. He is turning the steering wheel as Bobby works the pedals and shouts out directions.
He is six years old.
And he is driving a car for the first time in his life.
He only hopes that it won't be his last.