By the age of twelve, I hadn’t gone out into the Muggle world very often, but that’s where I found myself one day in the middle of summer vacation. Even for a witch, London is such a wonderful city to be in. Big Ben, the Parliament, Westminster Abbey; all of those landmarks fascinated me. Our parents, however, didn’t feel that way. They took me and my sisters there to see what trouble the Muggles got themselves into.

My mother pointed at a cherry red telephone booth on the street. “Apparently, this is one way for them to communicate. They just speak into this device, and you can hear another’s voice through it. Not exactly my cup of tea.” We walked farther on to the Underground, where lines of cars transported the Muggles from place to place. The cars moved so fast, I could barely see them. In the right light, though, it reminded me of the Hogwarts Express, only without the beautiful scenery.

“Since they can’t Apparate or fly or use the Floo network,” my father explained, “they have to come up with contraptions like this to help them get around.”

“How curious,” I said. He gave me a nasty glare. Once again, I’d said the wrong thing. “I just mean… how much harder it must be for the Muggles.”

Narcissa came to my side. “Bella, do you actually feel sorry for them?”

I swallowed hard. “No, of course I don’t mean that, Cissy. After all,” I added for effect, “they deserved all their hardships.”

“Too right they did!” my father agreed. All the while, Andromeda kept quiet.

Sometime during our London outing, I was given permission to wander about on my own. Outside one of the shops, a Muggle woman was on the ground, trying to pick up pieces of a broken plate. What I did next was perhaps the kindest act of my entire life. I came over to her and asked, “Can I help?”

“Oh, thank you, dearie!” she chimed. I pulled out my wand and whispered, “Reparo."

The woman looked at me strangely as the plate came back together. “How did you do that?”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’ve known how to do that for a while now.” There was my mistake, because the Ministry forbids us from performing magic around Muggles, much less telling them that you’re a witch. And when you’re twelve years old, you hardly think it matters. How naïve of me.

“Well,” the woman cried with an upturned nose, “In the future, you need to keep that freakish behavior to yourself.” She left me standing there, paralyzed by her words.

I waited until we arrived back home and I was safe in my room. Then, I let tears fall softly onto my pillow, trying not to sob too loudly. After brooding for a while, I straightened up. From that moment on, it was personal. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that before, and it cut me deeply. I had been so proud of being a witch. Nothing about it was out of the ordinary for me. I was trying to be nice, the only way I knew how, and here this Muggle woman was, calling me a freak! No wonder Mum and Dad had tried to warn me. If you want to know why I hate Muggles and Muggle-borns, look no further than that terrible lady. I promised myself that I was never going to be as terrible as her.