Disclaimer: This is a companion and prequel to "Death's Hand" I would recommend reading that fanfiction before this one, however you don't really need to as the main character in that story will not appear until the end, but I would persuade you to do so for you to understand many things. This is also merely a fanfiction, I only own certain members of the, Clara Moore, the Moore Clan, and the idea of a Vampiric System in the Wizarding World, everything else belongs to J K Rowling.

Prologue

The Friend

5th of August, 1915

Death watched the caravan behind painted eyes, the paint scraping off the doors as he sat by the graves in the rain, listening to the drop, drop, drop of the water as it hit his skull. Inside the caravan, a candle flickered in the darkness, the light catching a book as the child read to her sister, while outside a thunder rained about them.

Blood smeared across the sheets, the eldest's hands shaking as she struggled to hold the book, the helpless longing for her parents disappearing with each word that was read, as the realisation that Roberta and Jacob Moore were not going to come home. It sunk deep into their tear-stained cheeks, running into their cold, aching bones, to the point where the children couldn't help but shutter. It seemed, that after years of hiding, after years of travelling, the Moore Clan had finally been defeated by Lord Grindelwald, just as he had intended to do, all those years ago when he had first met their mother.

Clara and Rose had buried their parents next to a river, never once contacting local authorities about the murder that had taken place. Even if they had, what point would they have accomplished? There was no one to look after them, for their aunts and uncles in the north of Ireland were fighting their own battles with money and drink. Muggles wouldn't help them, for like many, the children would be seen as nuances, a few Roma bastards who life wasn't worth thinking about. Even to their own kind, to Wizards across Ireland and Great Britain, to be Roma born with the gift of magic was almost considered a sin, a declaration of their great denial to stay put and practice magic in a safe environment — like a school.

As the storm thrashed the caravan, sending pots and pans spinning in all directions, Clara clutched her sister tight against her, their red and blonde hair mixing together. From a far, their hair looked like a raging fire, as if the candle sitting on the bookshelf, had fallen onto the bed below, igniting the two children, and burning then alive. But they were not on fire, nor where they burning, but rather, as Clara turned the torn page of her mother's diary, the two began to wail.

It wasn't fair how their parents had been taken! It wasn't right! However, the bloodstains on the floor proved their point, and the two mounds of freshly ground dirt outside, held the reminder. Clara shuddered, pressing a fierce kiss to her sister's head, thick tears rolling down Rose's cheeks as she tried to comfort her.

Clara closed her eyes, letting the book close against her stomach as Rose's silent cries turned to loud, bellowing wails. Suddenly wishing that she could use her magic, Clara sat up, brining the candle over to the tiny stove, and after making sure that a chair was in the right place, climbed on top of it, and checked on the hot chocolate. Hot chocolate, was only ever made in their home, when one absolutely needed it, and while it would never be as good as their mothers, Clara suspected it would be the only thing to shut her sister up.

Ignoring he sister's wails, Clara tucked as strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. She had inherited her hair from her father, and her eyes from her mother, the green orbs a distant reflection on Roberta Moore's Scottish past. Rose looked like their mother, with her fair hair and soft, pale skin, she was going to grow up into a looker, or at least that was what Clara hoped. Maybe, if Rose was lucky, she could escape this life, a life of a Romani. While Clara had no shame of her heritage, she was hopeful that her sister might have a better life, and now with their parents gone, she would have to be the breadwinner, a seven year old child choosing to protect her sister.

Tears rolled down her face, dropping into the ho chocolate, breaking Clara out of her thoughts. She smelt the milk curdling, and quickly, after yelping rather loudly, (although not as loudly as Rose's screams) quickly poured the liquid into a cup.

Hurrying over, she grabbed her sister's hand, pulling her tiny body back into her, and after a while, began to coax the four year old to drink. There was a long silence as Rosa choked through her tears, drinking the warm drink and sobbing, until she sounded like a warbling duck. Eventually she finished, eyes drooping and it wasn't until she fell asleep, leaning on Clara's shoulder that the seven year old closed her eyes.

Perhaps she should head to her aunt in England, see if they'd take her in? But even with that knowledge, Clara had no idea how to get there, let alone if her aunt would except her. Then again, there was a war going on, so maybe it was safer to stay put, for her uncle was fighting on the front lines. Turning, Clara stared at he letter that had her father had written that that morning, the reply to her uncle's letter about breaking Minister Archer Evermonde's decree about fighting.

Reaching forward, Clara picked up the letter, reading her father's spindly letter, and after a brief second, cracked the seal, and opened up the reply.

4th of August 1914

To my dear brother,

I will meet you in good faith, that the things you have told me are not true. Dragons? Seriously? Well, if anything helps. From your last few letters, it seems the Kaiser has instructed wizards to fight. What I would like to know, are they fighting against their will or by choice? Or is it Grindelwald's doing?

I have talked it over with Robbie, and I have decided to join you in the Eastern Front. I can be there by September, I hope this is not too much of an inconvenience for you, as we have to move the Porlock to safer grounds if we wish to keep them alive. I hope you can understand this; for you of all people must remember the times we had to do this with our father when we were boys.

I best go, for Rosie's awake and demanding I feed her. Enclosed is a photograph of our growing family.

I will meet you soon,

your brother,

Jacob.

Pursing her lips, Clara folded the letter up and stuffed it in her pocket. So her father was headed for war, and then the morning of the letter being written, he was dead, buried in a shallow grave by his only children, wand in hand, wife by his side.

He didn't even have to walk to war to find Grindelwald, or war, for they had found him, slashing their way through his home, murdering his wife, and himself, and leaving his children to pick ip the pieces. Clara shuddered, drawing her cardigan around herself as Rose rolled over.

After wiping away the chocolate line that clung to her sister's upper life, and pressing a deep kiss to Rosa's forehead, Clara poured her own mug, and after blowing out her candle, stepped out the caravan and into the rain. She sat on the porch step, hidden under the roof, her hand trailing the patterns on the door.

It was as she was drinking her cup, that the man appeared by her side, long cloak wrapped around his body. Blinking, Clara saw a sharp scythe, the curves blade lying on the grass, and as she placed her cup down, she sat the red hair that curled around his chin, the pale skin that glowed in the night.

'Hello,' Clara breathed, as the man removed his hood, revealing golden eyes and a stare so dark it he might have been a statue. 'What can I do for you?'

'My name is Thanatos,' the man breathed. 'And I have come to collect your parents souls.'

Death stared solemnly at the girl, his somewhat cruel soul weakening as the girl stepped back, and with a pale expression on her red stained cheeks, picked up a shovel, and stepped out into the rain, readying him to reap her parents souls.

Death's Friend, was a long way off from being the person he had seen her become; a very long way.

Dear All,

So, here is the companion piece/prequel to "Death's Hand", and the rewrite of "The Moore Vampire". I hope this story is a whole lot better then it previous one, and also something which you can all understand. I apologise for this being short, but it is almost three in the morning in the UK and I'm dead tired.

Review, favourite and follow if you wish to follow Clara Moore's story, and enjoy.

from,

Lily