To Catch A Witch - SCP Foundation

OMG! So, liek, darkblade posted this REALLY REALLY good story last year n I jst wanted 2 write in his world, ya know? Many thanks to my beta readers: MannW/Plan, AteredCliffs, and Cappuccino! U all r teh best!

To Catch A Witch: The War-Lich Cycle: Episode One: So Be It

A white streak of lightening cut through the night sky, illuminating an ever changing face for the briefest of moments. In that second, the man had appeared as a vulpine demon, snarling in the falling rain. It was an appropriate image for Sir Clef, the last on the Light Knights that opposed the appointment of Jack Bright, Lord of Spite, the previous High War-Lich of the Schips Foundation, a group of American wizards whose original purpose had been twisted by his evil.

Sir Clef, originally stationed in the British quadrant, was now investigating the fall of the Schips due to one particularly meddlesome little wizard: Harry Potter.

Since Harry had perfected the Life Spell, a magic capable of returning those dead to life, so long as they weren’t gay, he had brought back many of those slain by Voldemort, including Albus Dumbledore. The two of them had raided Schips, the group responsible for the protection of the United States’ most valuable magical artifacts. Before Bright’s dark, venomous hands closed on the neck of the wizarding group, it had been mostly passive, and after his death, it was pretty much unevil again. Though, there were still loose ends to tie up. It was a dirty, difficult job—and only the dirtiest and most difficult were asked to do it. And no one was more difficult and dirty than Sir Clef.

But there was a problem. The young wizard had stolen back the American Chosen One, his sister, and taken her back with him to Britain. Sir Clef had no choice. He had to get her back; his Lord and Master demanded it.

“So be it,” he thought.

Clef entered the bleak chamber of the Schips greatest prisoner: Threfor Threed, the Demon Warlock. He drew his black broadsword—Ookoolayla, the Song Ender—and stood before the beast, prepared to strike him down.

“Yes, Sir Clef,” the gnarled old man spoke. “You’ve come to me for the secrets of demonic power at last? I have such wonderful things to show you.”

“Silence yourself, warlock,” said Clef, glaring at his old, grizzled foe. “You will submit yourself to my authority, lest I smite thee.”

The demon consorter laughed, then looked at his ancient nemesis, glaring. “So be it, Clef,” he muttered. “Return my wand, and I will help you recapture the chosen child. But mark me—if I am betrayed, our bloods will mingle on the ground and water the thorns.”

Clef spat. “Temp me not, rapist of the pure souls,” he said. “Do as I command, and you shall have your freedom.”

“So be it,” cackled the ancient man, his voice echoing through the cell like a death knee on the eve of a Winter’s morn.

Sir Clef entered the man’s cell; he had once been a trusted companion…before his burning. Now, he was one of the few imprisoned by Schips willingly, for his ability for harm was far too great. He sat in his cell, the walls flaking with ashes.

“Sir Gerald,” said Clef, looking at his old companion. “I needest thee, for by your power alone may I check the Giant Hagrid.”

Gerald looked at him. “I am no longer a Sir,” he said, mournfully and sadly. “I am only Gerald. But I will help thee, Clef.”

Clef looked at him. “You’ll always be a sir to me,” he said, bowing his head slightly to his cursed companion.

“We go to recapture the chosen one?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Clef. “My master commands it.”

“Then so be it,” said Gerald, his words sounding very familiar to the ending of the last section.

Clef stood on the beach at the Cliffs of Dover, staring through a magic portal. Suddenly, Harry, Dumbledore, and Hagrid strode through it, resplendent in their magical force and power. Harry looked at Clef imperiously, as everyone squared off against each other. It was so totally awesome looking.

Then, they started fighting, each of them shouting “SO BE IT!”

Threfor Threed stood across from Albus Dumbledore, both of the ancient powers hurling magics at each other.

“STUPIFY!” shouted Threfor Threed, directing his demonic forces through his wand—made of demon horn and nightmare hair—at Dumbledore.

“NEGATORY!” responded Dumbledore, deflecting the magic. “Why, Threfor Threed? You were among the best of us? Why did you turn evil?”

“Because!” he shouted. “I loved you Albus! I loved you, and you only gave me spite in return!”

“For the last time!” Dumbledore said. “I’m totally not gay!”

“LIAR!” shouted Threfor Threed, hurling deadly power.

“So be it,” said Dumbledore.

Gerald looked up at the giant, a grim smile frowning across his face. “Please, Giant. I do not wish to do this!”

Hagrid looked at him. “I canna let ya take the girl,” shouted Hagrid. “She’s ‘appy ‘ere wit’ us!”

“Then you leave me no choice,” said Gerald, activating his hidden power. He suddenly burst into flames, for when Gerald had been burned years ago, he was infected with lycanthropy, turning him into a Werepyre.

His arms extended, his body ablaze as he screamed.

“So be it,” said Hagrid.

Clef drew his black blade, pacing around Harry. The other two were checked by his companions, and he had to defeat Harry quickly. Clef charged the young man, swinging wildly.

“No!” shouted Harry. “You cannot have her!”

“But without her,” said Clef, “the apocalypse will happen!”

“No!” said Harry, his wand reshaping into a blade of crimson and gold, the colors of his house. “I will not allow you to take her.

“So be it,” said Clef.

Harry and Clef fought for a while, their blades bouncing off each other, sparks of power flying between them. Suddenly, Harry saw an opening, diving in to cut Clef’s leg.

“Ow!” said Clef, dropping his blade and falling. “Master! I’ve failed!”

Harry raised his sword to strike the killing blow, but it was stopped—by a long, silver blade.

Harry looked over, his jaw quivering slightly. “D..d…Darkblade!” he shouted, jumping back.

Darkblade stepped over Clef to guard him. “You tried, my servant,” he said, protecting Clef. “I will stop him now!”

Then, Harry and Darkblade started fighting, their blades clashing. Darkblade was holding back, for he knew Harry only had his sister’s best intentions at heart, but he still defended himself. He blocked and parried, then, somehow, Harry’s blade sneaked by Darkblade’s, cutting his shoulder deeply.

Darkblade merely looked at Harry, a single drop of blood falling to the earth from his arm cut, then glared, swinging his sword sharply and slicing the sword of Harry into two pieces. Harry looked at his sword, then to Darkblade.

“I won’t stop!” said Harry. “She’s my sister, and I must protect her!”

“No,” said Darkblade. “She has a greater purpose, one Jack Bright kept her from. We must take her to America to protect her. You can come if you want.”

Harry looked at Darkblade, knowing he was right. “So be it,” he said.

The twisted, malformed creature appeared with a snap, echong through the heavily exploded landscape. With glee, he slunk over the shrapnel and holes, inhaling the scent of death and blood. The clinging flavor of rotting viscera clung to him, and a single string of saliva slipped from the crack of his mouth.

He made his way to the middle of the battlefield, grinning wickedly, looking for his prize. He saw it there, glistening on the ground: the single drop of Darkblade’s blood.

He opened up a pouch and poured a small pile of ashes on the blood, cackling as they smoked, then burned, then suddenly reformed into a tall, imperious man—a silver and ruby necklace around his neck.

“Ahh,” said War-Lich Bright. “After all these years, I’m free! It’s time to conquer earth!”

He looked down at his minion, who was supposed to be Yoric, if you didn’t guess that yet. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” he said, smirking as power ran through his body, his own forces amplified by the blood of the most powerful servant of good.

And across the world, Darkblade suddenly turned, looking to the east, knowing that the apocalypse he was meant to stop had begun.

“So be it,” he said, a single tear sliding down his impassive cheek.