Summary: When the road you're on is already in the verge of crumbling, you could either choose to foolishly continue onward, or turn back and change paths. Harry decided on the latter. MoD!Harry

Main Pairing: HP/LV (Marcaunon/Voldemort)

Side Pairing(s): Pending

Warning: AU, Time-Travel, Universe Hopping, New Identity, Slash (this means Boy/Boy), MasterOfDeath!Harry, Killings/Torture

Disclaimer: If I were the author of Harry Potter, Dumbies would have chocked on a Lemon Drop and drop dead, not AK-ed. So no, I do not own Harry Potter.

"Speaking"

"Parseltongue"

'Mental telepathy'

Chapter 12: Confrontation(?), and a well-deserved Vacation

April 1967
Location: Hogwarts, Marcaunon's study

Marcaunon was unmoving as he stared into his son's ruby orbs, absorbed by his wondering thoughts and whirlwinds of emotions just shimming underneath all of his occlumency shields. The two were both seated at the opposite of one another, with Marcaunon unable to break the silence that came with Marchosias's (expected) entrance.

Death, that traitor, had fled the scene, stating with much solemnity that he didn't want to be in the middle of two people whose temper are on par with a pregnant woman's during a difficult labor. Both of the two humans had developed a tic on their temple at being compared to a hormonal soon to be mother, but kept their lips sealed –knowing but not admitting that their tempers were actually worse.

He knew that he was acting like a petulant child that was caught red handedly stealing a cookie from the forbidden jar, but he inwardly shrugged it off. Silence is great and makes the world go round –it wasn't as if he was afraid of Marchosias's reaction. Pfft, of course not. Really.

"Will you explain?" Marchosias's voice was like hot knife cutting through butter –sharp and melting. "Or will you continue with your unwanted silence?"

Seeing no way out of it, Marcaunon sighed and leaned back, whilst still maintaining eye contact. He wasn't worried about Chaos reading his thoughts, seeing that he had mastered the art of occlumency back when he was in his forties –his shields were utterly destroyed by Snape and he had to rebuild them from scratch, which took half a decade just to have basic protection.

"She looked similar to the child version of one of my childhood antagonists." He wasn't outright lying, mini-Petunia did look like Aunt Petunia, with lesser wrinkles.

"A childhood bully is enough for you to lose control over your Magic?" He raised a brow. "Or have I overestimated you?"

"A mere childhood bully would not be my undoing, Marchosias." He scowled at the insult he received.

"Was she not a mere bully to you then?"

"… She was somebody who constantly… loses her grip over her frying pan when I am near."

"She physically abused you?" Marchosias gritted out as he narrowed his already crimson eyes –a sign that he was royally pissed.

"I wouldn't call it abuse, just disciplining."

He looked at me with disbelief and Marcaunon grimaced inwardly at the wording. Harry Potter used to think that every child gets their head whacked by a frying pan when making breakfast incorrectly, and it was engraved in his mind that it was called discipline by his guardians, not abuse.

"That's called abuse, mother."

"I would only call it abuse if that resulted in a concussion."

"Muggles…" Marchosias's eyes narrowed dangerously and he held in a shudder –he looked similar to Tom Riddle when the teen ordered the Basilisk to kill Harry Potter. "You lived at an orphanage throughout your childhood, is that right?"

Marcaunon was tempted to reply with "What, no 'mother'?" but pushed that out of his mind. It wouldn't be smart to tickle a sleeping dragon –a Hogwarts' Professor should follow the school's motto after all.

"Yes." Keep the answers short and simple Gaunt.

"Was this look-alike a worker there?"

"No."

"… I understand that you would prefer to keep your childhood to yourself," His expression was understanding, but his tone stated otherwise. "however, don't I have the right to know as your child?"

And there it was –emotional manipulation via guilt. Luckily he was immune to such things thanks to Dumblefuck.

"Of course you do, love."

"Your silence and answers state otherwise…" Marchosias's expression was suddenly schooled into one of hurt. Marcaunon didn't buy it at all. "You call me love, but do you really love me?"

… He almost shuddered. The word love coming out of Marchosias's lips was disturbing at best. Even though he understood that his son does indeed care for him, having Tom Bloody Riddle ask such a question was giving him goosebumps.

Marchosias seemed to have picked up his discomfort and Marcaunon could practically see the eyeroll he was mentally receiving. Mentally, because everyone knows that it was below Marchosias to roll his eyes when having a serious discussion.

"It's just that…" Marcaunon school his features into one of woefulness and slumped his shoulders forward as if the weight of the world was on them. "I would prefer to let the past be just that, the past. There's no need to complicate it with retelling."

Truthfully, he would rather burn the orphanage to the ground, but hey, Voldemort beat him to it. Wool's Orphanage was destroyed by the younger version of his son just as Marcaunon graduated from Hogwarts and moved into Dormus Mortem.

He could still recall the sheer devastation he felt when he saw the burnt down orphanage. He had already planned how to get rid of said orphanage, but thanks to Voldy, it was all ruined. His late night planning was all for naught.

"A lie like that would not fool me." Marchosias sneered. "You are the type to take revenge on those who have wronged you, not sit back and forgive those insects."

… His son knew him well. Too well actually.

"You make it sound like I'm a killer."

"Are you not?"

… Again he could not rebuke that.

"What if I told you that I don't wish to talk about it because it's too painful of a memory?"

"Then I would call that person –which clearly isn't you– pathetic." Marchosias spat out with disdain, which Marcaunon couldn't help but agree with. It was rather pathetic in his opinion –like father (mother) like son then. "Very well, then so be it. We will be returning to this topic eventually, your secrets are yours to keep for now."

He almost sighed in relief when Marchosias ended the interrogation. This was one of the many times when he wished that Marchosias Gaunt was born without Tom Riddle and Voldemort's memories. It would've been so much easier, but alas, he would've felt lonely with being the only human to remember his war against Voldemort. How contradictive of him –but weren't all humans like that?

"You shall be telling me about your Dementor-like abilities however."

… And here he thought it was over. Anyway, he could use this as a chance.

"I'm afraid that that is the result of being an inborn Necromancer." Which was somewhat true. Necromancy is one of the many subgroups of Death Magic, and because of their close ties to Death, they have abilities similar to Dementors. Though not as extreme as the creatures –or him actually, since Marcaunon's affect is stronger than those creatures.

"You're an inborn Necromancer?" His tone was indifferent, however Marcaunon could clearly see the surprise inside his son's eyes.

Here it is. He could kill two hornbills with one spear. He could make Marchosias think that Necromancy was the only secret he was keeping (apart from his childhood), whilst also informing him about his heritage –Death Magic could be passed down to his descendants.

"Yes, and once you're old enough, I alongside with Mort will be teaching you the arts."

"I'm a Necromancer as well?" Marchosias's cold mask shattered to be replaced by a look of eagerness and greed.

"You are, but not, as well."

"What do you mean?" He all but demanded in his 'Voldemort voice', though a lot higher in pitch.

"I'm planning on performing a ritual on you actually." Marcaunon admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. Chaos would find out soon anyway, better now than later –having a genius for a son was tough at times.

"And pray tell what were you planning on doing with me?" He ignored the wide eye and suspicious glare he was receiving.

"Upgrading you into a Leiche."

"… Turning someone into an animated corpse is not something one would consider an upgrade!"

"I'm not turning you into an… animated corpse!" He paused. "Well, kind of."

"What!?"

"Calm down."

"I am calm!"

"… I can see that."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated at this moment of time, mother!"

"Let me explain." He waved for his boy to return to his seat (he had stood up right after Marcaunon's admittance about wanting to perform a ritual on him). "You are to discard all the things you have read in books regarding Liches. My version of a Lich does not consist of undead, decaying, or skeletal bodies. You could say that the person I perform my ritual on will stop aging and have their hearts removed from them.

"The still beating heart will then be placed inside a ruby that I made and hidden someplace where nobody should know –it is a Lich's one true weakness so of course it'll be hidden. The body of a Lich may be killed or destroyed, but their souls will just detached from the corpse and enter any other human's body, thus making it their own –like clothing."

"I'll be immortal…?" It was a whisper that Marcaunon shouldn't have heard, but he did nonetheless. "Are there any other Liches alive at this point of time?" He could see it in Chaos's eyes that if there were, he would hunt them down and be the only one.

"Yes and no. Normal Liches that were made by Necromancers are in existence, but the one I had explained to you are not. The ritual I invented will turn the Necromancer into a living Lich, not create one using a corpse or human."

"How can you be so sure?" Marcaunon caught on the hidden question of 'are you one as well?' and decided to take insurance of his wellbeing –just in case, one can never be too careful even with kin.

"It has already been tested yes." He ignored the real question. The many screams of despair those Parasites made was music to his ears.

Marchosias scowled (pouted) at him and just as his boy's lips parted, the door to his study creaked opened, revealing his assistant. Marchosias's lips formed a sneer for a split second before it was gone. His son's hatred for all Malfoys was something quite amusing for Marcaunon, and he idly wondered if that hate came from the betrayal of Narcissa and Draco when he was Voldemort.

"Ah! There you are, Professor." Vevila sauntered towards him with her hips swaying from side to side. Marcaunon raised a brow, wondering if her panties were causing her any problems –women are always harming themselves over beauty products (heels, G-strings, and breast implants, nuff said).

"Vevila." He greeted with a slight nod of his head. "Is anything the matter?"

"I was hoping that we could walk to dinner together?" Her eyelids were twitching irregularly whilst Marcaunon just continued to blink normally. He was not one to make fun of anybody with a medical condition (muscle fasciculation), so he ignored it of course.

"We'll be done soon." He waited for her to get the hint that her presence wasn't required any longer, but it seemed to have gone over her head as she stared at him with half-lidded eyes. Never before has he seen a Malfoy so… dumb… Excuse his lack of better wording for there was none other to be used.

Marcaunon sighed under his breath and stood up. He rounded his desk and gently picked Chaos before swinging his boy to his hip. Like on instinct (and perhaps muscle memory), Chaos wrapped his slender legs around Marcaunon and buried his face in the crook of his mother's neck.

"Are we alright now?" He whispered.

"Yes… mother. We are." Was whispered in return. Good to know that their relationship had not gone sour.

Marcaunon's arms tightened slightly before he turned towards the Malfoy matriarch with a pleasant (in her eyes anyway) smile on his face.

"Let us be off then."

Whilst they made their way to the Great Hall, all thoughts about Marcaunon's childhood was pushed back to the furthest part of Marchosias's mind as his sole focus was about his newly acquired Necromancer status. Marcaunon would have patted himself on the back for a job well done if he were to know his son's train of thoughts.

May 1967
Location: Hogwarts, Marcaunon's study, secret room behind the bookshelves

Marcaunon was, as usual, reclining on his elegant yet pointy sword throne as he signed yet another document pertaining someone's very detailed cause of death. As his crimson (yes his rage meter was off the charts) eyes darted from one parchment to another, he threw his hands up in frustration.

Each and every one of them died the very same way –eaten to death by another human, though some endured longer than others (poor them, being chewed alive was unpleasant and Marcaunon would know).

"Are you bloody serious!?" He yelled, outraged. The endless stacks of Deathfiles towering over him didn't help his mood either.

Without a thought of his poor servant that would likely have to clean up after him, he swept every of his items off his mahogany desk with vengeance. This resulted in all of his neatly stacked folders to scatter all over his tiled floors. Frustrated beyond belief, Marcaunon didn't hesitate to will them into the magical induced fireplace with a hard thrust of his hand.

Though more than half of the folders were sent flying into the fireplace, they remained unburnt, much to his displeasure. Death must've made sure that they were immune to fire by now, seeing that Marcaunon's tantrums were worthy of any three year olds when in the face of paperwork.

A dagger was suddenly materialized in his hand, and with an almighty battle cry that would make any war veteran look like little girls, he stabbed the scattered folders repeatedly with much satisfaction… only to howl in frenzy when they came out unscathed.

"How dare you tinker with these abominations and give them immortality, Death!? Paperwork are never supposed to be indestructible!" He yelled out as he continued to ruthlessly stab the parchments without the desired effect.

Seeing that his mind was in the state of hysteria, he didn't notice when the room's entrance parted or his son's frozen form at the sight of his flailing arms –daggers still present– in the air, screaming bloody murder to nothing whilst the floor was littered with folders, parchments, quills, and broken inkpots.

"… Mother." A childish high pitched voice broke him from his state of derangement, and his mouth closed with an audible click of teeth.

A few deep calming breaths were taken (he was kind of mortified for his lack of self-control) before he turned to his cute little six year old baby boy, a twitchy smile on his face. Sadly, it didn't reach his eyes that were boiling from demented determination –making them glow an eerie crimson.

His adorable boy was dressed cutely in a black cat onesie (that he was forced into by Marcaunon earlier), with little pink triangular ears atop its hood, and holding the long tail in his chubby hands close to his chest –as a child would hold their favorite blanket.

"Is there something you need, love? Mummy's a little busy right now."

His boy eyed him warily, cautious as if with a wild and untamed animal. Marcaunon was oblivious to the thoughts running within Marchosias head, which was something along the lines of listing mental illnesses –paperwork induced mental illnesses that is.

"I heard screaming… and wondered if there was anything wrong." He talked slowly whilst those ruby eyes roamed the secret room, which only the two Gaunts know, taking in all the mess and finally stopped on the unmoving form of Marcaunon.

Marchosias was scrutinizing the young man –whom looked like he just got shagged rather brutally– with his mused up hair, flushed cheek, disheveled clothing, and heavy panting.

"Fine. Everything's fine. Why don't you head down to the library until dinner? I'll even write you a permission slip into the Restricted Section."

Marcaunon gave a carefree grin and stood up from his knees smoothly without waiting for his son's answer. He sauntered to his desk and blinked owlish at seeing only wood. As if he just noticed that his parchments and writing tools are on the floor, he accio-ed them and was quick to scribble his signature and permission on it.

Not minding the wreckage he had caused (as if a tornado had swept by), he stepped rather forcefully on the folders as he practically glided towards his son. He handed the note and turned the stock-still boy before gently pushing Chaos out the entrance.

He hissed out the command for the entrance to close and reinforced it with Magic so that it would remain shut and soundproofed. After another once over, he strode towards his desk, circled it to his throne and slumped on it ungracefully with a tired sigh.

"Death."

"You called, Master?" The voice of Death spoke from behind him –and he would've jumped if he wasn't so used to it.

Marcaunon gestured towards the folders, which were still scattered throughout the floor.

"What the bloody hell happened?" He asked tiredly as his eyes narrowed on the (undamaged) Deathfiles. Death stood at the middle of the wreckage and raised a brow.

"I believe this is the result of…" Marcaunon cocked his head to the side as he listened with attention at the omnipotent being. "Another one of Master's endless tantrums."

He deadpanned at Death's smirk and groaned. Even after two decades of being with the immortal deity, he was still exasperated by Death's constant need to annoy him to death.

"… I am in awe of your spectacular conclusion, Death. Bravo!" He sneered out, although not unkindly –more like resigned.

Death chuckled fondly (not a friendly sound if one were to not know It well) and gingerly picked the nearest folder up. It skimmed through the documents at an inhumane rate, Its eyes moving left to right and up to down. Marcaunon could clearly see his servant's face, seeing that Its hood was for once down without prompt –It was probably relaxing somewhere (a battlefield perhaps) before being called.

Its features were ethereal, with waist length hair as dark as the night sky and was parted to one side neatly, a few strands tucked behind Its pierced elongated pointed ears –the Deathly Hallows symbol glinted when lights hit at a perfect angle.

It looked similar to what Harry Potter once appeared to be before his soul was contaminated by Tom Riddle's, although taller and with neater hair. The aura the omnipotent being emitted was awe-inspiring and spine-chilling at the same time, making many animals (and mortals with higher intuition and instinct) fear being in Its very presence for more than a few seconds. The reason why his beloved familiar wasn't in the room as well –Suki had all but fled (through a snake hole) at the mention of Death's name.

Its eyes were the color of death itself, the same shade of green as the Killing Curse (or Harry Potter's previous eye color), stood contrast to Its naturally ashen skin tone. Marcaunon knew that only blackened blood flow through the immortal's veins, seeing that those were the main ingredients for the creation of Dementors.

Its long elegant fingers twitched as It closed the folder gently. With an uncharacteristic scowl on Its features, Marcaunon knew that those bloody Deathfiles were trouble. Just his luck.

"It appears that another universe is going through a zombie apocalypse at this very moment."

"Inferi?"

"Zombies."

"Animated corpses from Necromancers?"

"Zombies."

"Experimented Wizards that had their brains tinkered into loving flesh from their own kind?"

"Zombies."

"Rituals of human eating mud golems –"

"Zombies."

"… The kind that came out from Parasite TV programs?"

Death nodded wisely with a hint of amusement in those Avada colored orbs. Marcaunon blinked once, twice, and thrice as his brain tried to process the information that yes, zombies are indeed real –not inferi, but real brain eating zombies. So the programs that Duddikins love to watch on TV were actually real…?

"I'm sensing that there's more, and that I won't like it one bit."

"Master won't."

"… I'm ready, so hit me." Death raised Its arm as if to really hit him and Marcaunon gave a (manly) squeak. "Not literally!" Being hit by Death wasn't in his to do list, and it hurt like hell (that's saying something since his pain tolerance was as high as the sky).

Death looked at him with innocent eyes and his brow twitched at the expression. Death and innocent don't belong in the same sentence.

"I was hoping that this would not happen until Master is used to paperwork," Like hell he'll ever be used to those abominations! "since I have yet to encounter another zombie apocalypse in nearly millennia."

"Just tell me about the bad news already!" The suspense was killing him.

"The folders would continue to grow until…" Marcaunon became pale at the mere mentioning of more paperwork. "All the zombies are dead."

"How long does that usually take?" Marcaunon dreaded the question just as it left his lips.

Death sighed and rubbed Its temples with those slender fingers of Its. He suddenly had the urge to issue Death an order –to run those digits through his untamed hair just to sooth his growing headache. As much as it pained him to do so, he resisted the temptation.

"Either until the dimension itself explodes –no dimension is able to sustain at not having any living creatures in it– or a mortal creates a cure to counter the mutation. It could take up to decades."

"Decades!?" He cried out, horrified. "I'll have this amount for decades!?"

"… Yes Master."

This can't be happening. He would not take this lying down. Just the usual stacks of paperwork were more than enough for him to have sleepless nights–

An idea suddenly came to him and it made Marcaunon grin broadly. Death's body became tensed as It saw Its Master's grin –It had already learnt the hard way that that kind of grin would normally meant that Its Master was planning something, and that something It would probably not like (or wish to know).

"You are able to travel to different dimensions, are you not?"

"… Yes…"

"And I am able to as well, am I right?"

"… Correct."

"Will there be any complications, seeing as I am not de-aging myself?"

"I don't see a problem with it." There was a suspicious glint in Death's eyes and he smiled reassuringly, which actually brought out the opposite effect –not that he noticed of course.

"Is the time corresponding with the time here?"

"Time matters not to me, Master."

"That settles it then." He stood up with an excited shine in his scarlet orbs. "We're going on a vacation tonight, Death!" He was never one to stand idly whilst slowly being killed by paperwork. If a cure is needed to cut his workload down, a cure he will assist them in making.

"… Pardon? Master?"

Marcaunon ignored Death's flabbergasted expression and skipped towards the entrance, intending to pack. With him being excited as he skipped along, he missed two owls that had entered through his door (which had an owl flap on it) and dropped their respective letters on his desk.

One was address to Ignatius Rose, whilst the other was address to Marcaunon Gaunt –both from the same sender.

A/N:

Hahaha… I'm actually guilty of not posting this sooner because I thought I already did … for the whole week actually LOL. I was wondering why nobody was reviewing and saw that this chapter was actually missing from FF. Insert blush here.

Warning and Disclaimer number TWO: There will be minor cross-overs in this fic, and I do not own any of them! Bet nobody saw that coming yeah!

So yeaaaah… This is the reason why I intentionally wrote "Universe Hopping" at Disclaimer number one since the prologue. This has been preplanned and was not taken out of my arse at a moment's notice, so suck it up if you hate crossovers! Silk Roads is from my imagination and I have the right to put in anything I want. I decided to post this on FF because I wanted to share my story with anyone willing to read it, not because I am oblige to post it.

Forgive me for being an arse, but really, if you don't like reading HP/LV, why in the sevens hell would you even read this!? The plots are my own, and I don't have to bend it because a few of you don't like where this is going (or the relationships my Marc will be having). Really… I don't have a twisted mind because I like Harry pairing with Voldemort. Insert sneer here.

Well, enough of my rants… You can of course request where Marcaunon will be going in the future chapters if you so wish it. I will do my very best to add the universe in without the plot being too disturbed –ranging from Animes to Games to Movies to Books (Avengers, LOTR, Inheritance Cycle, KHR, Bleach, Naruto… etc etc).

Death is everywhere so being the Master of Death, Marcaunon has the privilege to hop around from one universe to another. Isn't that exciting!?

Moving on from the Universe Hopping thing~

… I. Just. Can't. Do. Dialogs! ArghHH! It's hard to have a conversation with yourself! Tsk, how do other writers do it!? Do they talk to themselves on a daily basis? Insert muttering here.

Many apologies for sometimes changing third person POV to first person POV! I am kind of experimenting on this idea of a reincarnation into KHR fic and I'm learning to write in first person POV… The first few days were a bitch since I kept on changing to 3rd, and now I keep on changing to 1st! The horror! Insert pulling of hair here. I'll be sure to double, no triple check everything SLOWLY once I finished editing for all my future works. So if you spot some errors, my bad.

Story recommendation for today: 60 Years in a Summer by Isys Luna Skeeter. This is a splendid Harry raises Tom fic… but with a slight twist in it unlike other clichés –only once every year for Tom, and every night for Harry. Time Magic is a complex thing. Harry struggles to see Tom within Voldemort, and also his feelings for the boy who he thought as a brother. Voldemort on the other hand is straight forward in his feelings. HP/TMR pairing, Time Travel.

P.S. The pairing for Marchosias that you reviewers gave will be noted, no worries!

Rainbows and Footie Pajamas,
GenderlessPerson