A story in which Isabella Jenkins shows great potential from a young age. When Isabella's powers first appeared they were aggressive and violent. Her mother was a muggle and was scared and unsure of what to do with Isabella's unpredictable outbursts...
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Malfoy didn't reappear in classes until late on Thursday morning when the Slytherins and Gryffindor's were halfway through double Potions. He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in my opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle.
"How is it, Draco?" simpered Pansy Parkinson. "Does it hurt much?"
"Yeah," said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of grimace. But I saw him wink at Crabbe and Goyle when Pansy had looked away. I scowled at his actions. Not that I cared about Parkinson but Malfoy did treat her awfully.
"Settle down, settle down," said Professor Snape idly.
Harry and Ron now scowled too; Snape wouldn't have said 'settle down' if we'd walked in late, he'd have given us three detention. But Malfoy had always been able to get away with anything in Snape's classes.
We were making a new potion today, a Shrinking Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to Me, Harry, and Ron, so that we were preparing our ingredients on the same table.
"Sir," Malfoy called, "sir, I'll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm —"
"Weasley, cut up Malfoy's roots for him," said Snape without looking up. Ron went brick red.
"There's nothing wrong with your arm," he hissed at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked across the table.
"Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these roots."
Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy's roots toward him, and began to chop them roughly so that they were all different sizes.
"Professor," drawled Malfoy, "Weasley's mutilating my roots, sir." Snape approached our table, stared down his hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black hair.
"Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley."
"But, sir —!" Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces.
"Now," said Snape in his most dangerous voice. Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again.
"And, sir, I'll need this Shrivelfig skinned," said Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter.
"Jenkins, you can skin Malfoy's Shrivelfig," said Snape, giving me the look of loathing he always reserved just for me and Harry.
I took Malfoy's Shrivelfig as Ron began trying to repair the damage to the roots he now had to use. Malfoy smirked again and opened his mouth and went to say something. I snapped my head up and narrowed my eyes into an icy glare.
