Disclaimer: Why do I need to say this? You already know. I do not own any of these characters.

Chapter 7: Halloween Fiasco

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup potion worked instantly, though it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Leo pretended to have a cold, and drank some for fun, smacking his lips and asking for more, while Pomfrey watched suspiciously.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid's pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Oliver Wood's enthusiasm for regular training sessions, however, was not dampened, which was why Jason and Annabeth always returned to the common room soaking wet, but to be dried by Percy.

Even aside from the rain and wind it hadn't been a happy practice session.

Fred and George, who had been spying on the Slytherin team, had seen for themselves the speed of those new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. They reported that the Slytherin team was no more than seven greenish blurs, shooting through the air like missiles. At this, Jason had snorted, and had become a 'missile' himself, going twice the speed of the Slytherins. This didn't improve his team's mood, though, as the rain pelted down relentlessly.

"Seriously, Percy," Annabeth asked him one night, "is there anything that's been annoying your father lately?"

"Not really," Percy scratched his head, "I suppose he's just trying to fit in with the typical English weather."

oOoOooOOo

The wizards really know how to set up a feast, thought Percy, appreciatively munching a cupcake. Frank devoured a lactose-free cookie, while Leo ate ice-cream, taunting Frank. Suddenly, Frank twitched. He began to shake a bit, looking scared and worried.

"What is it Frank?" asked Hazel urgently.

"Can you hear it?" he asked, unfocused.

"Hear what?" said Hazel, confused.

"That voice..." her boyfriend replied uneasily.

"Guys, do any of you hear anything? A murderous voice?" asked Frank.

They all shook their heads. Then Frank heard it again.

". . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . ."

Frank ran out of the hall, his friend on his heels. His head whipped around, and he started running up a flight of stairs. He stumbled to a halt, clutching at the stone wall, listening with all his might, looking around, squinting up and down the dimly lit passageway.

"Frank, what're you -?"

"It's a voice, a dark one... maybe a monster- shut up a minute -"

". . . sooo hungry . . . for so long . . ."

"Listen!" said Frank urgently.

". . . kill . . . time to kill . . ."

The voice was growing fainter. Frank was sure it was moving away - moving upward. Fear gripped him as he stared at the dark ceiling; how could it be moving upward? Was it a phantom, to whom stone ceilings didn't matter? Some sort of evil spirit? Venti?

"This way," he shouted, and he began to run, up the stairs, back into the entrance hall. It was no good hoping to hear anything here, the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Piper wanted to ask what the matter was, but knew that it wasn't the time to ask.

Distantly, from the floor above, and growing fainter still, Frank heard the voice: ". . . I smell blood. . . . I SMELL BLOOD!"

His stomach lurched.

"It's smelling blood..." he warned, and ignoring his friends' bewildered faces, he ran up the next flight of steps three at a time, trying to listen over his own pounding footsteps – he hurtled around the whole of the second floor, demigods behind him (Frank was big, and could run really fast), not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"Frank, dude, what was that all about?" said Leo, wiping sweat off his face. "I couldn't hear anything. . . ."

But Piper gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

"Look!"

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

The chamber of secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.

"What's that thing - hanging underneath?" said Thalia, a slight quiver in her voice.

As they edged nearer, they almost slipped - there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Percy grinned and stepped in, relieving himself. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash...Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.

For a few seconds, they didn't move. Then they heard a voice behind them.

"Hey," said Harry, "did you guys hear anything?"

"Yeah!" Frank replied, relieved, "Something about... blood?"

"You heard it too?" asked Harry, happily.

"Guys, we should get out of here. We don't want to be found hanging round with..." Annabeth started.

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Harry, Ron, Hermione and the nine stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet.

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat. The demigods turned with a look of anger and disbelief in their faces. Percy remembered the puddle of water he was standing in. A few droplets flew up in reaction to his fury, but Percy quickly willed them down again. As much of a vlacas Malfoy was, it wouldn't do to lose his temper. Suddenly, there was a noise.

"What's going on here? What's going on?" Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shout, 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.

"You!" he screeched. "You! 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. In seconds, he had swept past 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. Could Mr. Zhang, Miss Levesque, Mr Jackson and Miss Chase come too."

The demigods eyed each other, and silently agreed to meet up afterwards.

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 them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart's darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Percy saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. This guy was too vain. Sure, he'd written a few books, accomplished a few things, but they were nothing in an average demigods' life. 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. Percy and Annabeth exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, holding each other tightly.

Up in Olympus, Aphrodite squealed.

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. And Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her - probably the Transmogrifian Torture - I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her..."

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as he felt for himself if Dumbledore believed Filch, he would be expelled for sure.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

"...I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," said Lockhart, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once..."

Annabeth rolled her eyes, exchanging a small smile with Hazel, who looked just as skeptical.

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

"She's not dead, Argus," he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

"Not dead?" choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. "But why's she all - all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore ("Ah! I thought so!" said Lockhart). "But how, I cannot say . . . ."

"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry.

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "it would take Dark Magic of the most advanced -"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw what he wrote on the wall! And they helped him! It had to be him! He found - in my office - he knows I'm a - I'm a -" Filch's face worked horribly. "He knows I'm a Squib!" he finished.

"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."

Percy shot a confused look at Annabeth. She facepalmed. They had been through this before!

"Rubbish!" snarled Filch. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, and Harry's sense of foreboding increased; he was sure nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good.

"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"

Harry, Ron and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the Deathday party.

"...there were hundreds of ghosts, they'll tell you we were there -"

"But why not join the feast afterward?" said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry while Percy, Hazel and Annabeth looked at Frank.

"Because - because -" Harry said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could hear, "because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," he said.

Annabeth thought this was an idiotic excuse. She would have said something more convincing. We were tired? Seriously?

"Without any supper?" said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."

"We weren't hungry," said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape's nasty smile widened. Percy felt instant loathing for this guy.

"I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful," he said. "It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."

"Really, Severus," said Professor McGonagall sharply, "I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."

"There wasn't anything to do with Quidditch, therefore the matter is irrelevant to this one," Annabeth agreed, glancing at Snape, daring him to argue with her logic.

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light- blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed.

"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieked, his eyes popping. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," said Dumbledore patiently. "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep -"

And so could I, Percy thought, as long as it contains water, so in your face Lockhart.

"Excuse me," said Snape icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.

"You may go," Dumbledore said to the children.

They went, as quickly as they could without actually running. When they were a floor up from Lockhart's office, they turned into an empty classroom and closed the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted at his friends' darkened faces, then at Frank.

"D'you think we should have told them about that voice we heard?"

"No," said Ron, without hesitation. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."

Something in Ron's voice made Harry ask, "You do believe me, don't you?"

"Course I do," said Ron quickly. "But you must admit it's weird..."

"Just that something's weird, it doesn't mean you should clarify it as a lie," Annabeth argued.

"I know it's weird," said Harry. "The whole thing's weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened... What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, it rings a sort of bell," said Ron slowly. "I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once ... might've been Bill . . . ."

"And what on earth's a Squib?" said Harry.

"Yeah, I was wondering the same thing," agreed Percy.

To their surprise, Ron stifled a snigger.

"Well - it's not funny really - but as its Filch," he said. "A Squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn't got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are quite unusual. If Filch's trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much." Ron gave a satisfied smile. "He's bitter."

Hermione frowned slightly.

"The voice is a matter that needs to be sorted out, though," she said, "Why could you two hear it, but no-one else?"

"Yes," Annabeth said, "I'm up for research. Hermione, you coming?"

A clock chimed somewhere.

"Midnight," said Harry. "We'd better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else."

After promising a research session in the library tomorrow, the demigods fell asleep, exhausted and perplexed.