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...
"Don't compare yourself to others, because no one can play your role better than you,"
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"What's going on here? What's going on?"
My heart sunk. I knew that voice.
Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shouting, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.
"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs Norris?" he shrieked. And his popping eyes fell on Harry and me.
"You Two!" he screeched. "You Two! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll —"
"Argus!" Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers.
I sighed, no doubt we would be getting the blame for this.
In seconds, he had swept past Me, Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch.
"You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Miss Jenkins,"
Just as I thought.
To make things worse, Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.
"My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.
The silent crowd parted to let us pass.
"Not you, Mr Zabinni," Dumbledore said. Blaise had made a move towards me, most likely intending to come with us. Blaise looked to the headmaster up and down with narrowed eyes. I sent him a smile before the four of us headed after Dumbledore.
Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape. As we passed a now smirking Draco Malfoy I rammed my shoulder into his with great force making him stumble back. A smirk made its way to my face as I heard his groan of pain as we were lead away.
As we entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; I saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back.
Dumbledore lay Mrs Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks but I remained impassive and sank into chairs, watching the Headmaster. The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile.
