Author's Note: Part of the reason the last chapter was so difficult for me was my interest in this part, Harry's time with Sauron. So finally, here it is! Also, since it's a hella long chapter, I'll re-post it later with proper editing.

Warnings: Angst, barely-there slash

The Stations of the Cross:

Third Station, Part One

If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before you. If you were of the world, the world would love what is its own. Because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I have spoken to you: No servant is greater than his Master. If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you also. (J 15:18-20)

Harry entered Mordor riding with Sauron after his conquest of Minas Ithil.

No one dared question his presence, not when Sauron shed his cloak for Harry to wear, and the boy was allowed to cling to him as they walked to the tower. Rather, all bowed as Sauron and Harry passed them by, Sauron giving them no acknowledgment, and Harry glancing at them with trepidation. He had never seen such creatures before, with constant sneers on their faces, evil gleams in their eyes. He had no time to wonder about them, yet he was unsure his questions would be entirely welcome. He didn't believe he would be kept prisoner, but what did this fearsome man want from him?

You think too much for one so young. Trust in me, Harry.

Harry reddened and kept his gaze respectfully lowered.

Sauron stopped when they entered the awe-inspiring tower. He turned Harry to face him, and lifted the boy's head with his gloved hand again.

"You are no prisoner in this place," he said aloud, allowing those around to hear in his low, resounding voice. "I will take care of you, child. Those fools in Gondor will rue the day they turned you out of their homes, I will make sure of it."

There was no appropriate response Harry could think of. He opened and closed his mouth, but his heart seemed lodged in his throat. Was this some dream of his, something created by his bitter imagination?

He was still in such a daze when Sauron led him up a set of stairs, winding along the wall which blocked Harry from the sight and sound of things he would not learn of until much later in his life. Together, they entered a large set of chambers, which was soon revealed to be Harry's own. At Sauron's command, Harry undressed himself; he dared not complain when this was what his saviour wished of him. He was directed to the already-drawn bath, which was as large as the ponds he washed in when he was in the forest. He washed himself slowly, savoring the feel of the warm water and the scent of soaps which were even better than the smell of the forest flowers. He tried not to think much on the fact that he had been under this powerful man's scrutiny since they left Gondor. Why did he choose to save Harry?

Because you and I are alike in many ways, child. Am I not hated and feared as you are? You will no longer suffer because of those foolish Men; you and I will conquer them. You will be my pupil, and when you are of age, my equal in ruling all of Middle Earth.

Despite those words, Harry never did take part in any of Sauron's victories, or defeats. Though he was never treated as such, he was indeed kept as a prized prisoner in the tower, always accessible to Sauron, never out of his sight. The reason for this was for the same reason Sauron had killed his parents all those years ago, though he would not learn this until later in his life.

Harry realized it was Sauron who visited his home those years ago when he felt the connection of the scar throughout his days in the Dark Lord's proximity. Sauron wasted no time in filling Harry's rooms with texts in a variety of languages spanning centuries of history. When he learned could already read some Common Tongue, he graced Harry with a small smile before swiftly moving on to a higher level of text. The true sense of satisfaction was not a physical expression in that sense - instead, it was the invisible sensation of the warmth of a finger on his scar, stroking him lightly once before disappearing. This gave him only an inkling of their true connection.

It was the unforgettable, searing pain which led him to that ultimate realization.

During the first few weeks of his confinement, Harry went out of his way to please Sauron in any way possible, to study the more difficult texts with particular fervor, to throw in a small quip in their daily lessons. As time progressed, their connection, which Harry still did not tell his Lord of, grew so Harry felt him even beyond his rooms. He didn't mind that at all, until the day there came news of a failed attack on a city north of Gondor.

He was just sitting in his rooms (as always) with a tome on his lap, awaiting his Lord, when suddenly it was as if his scar was made of the lava from the Mount beyond the tower. There was blood welling from the scar, and he covered it with one hand before it fell onto the old pages of the tome, which he carefully removed with his free hand, placing it on the desk beside him. He felt blood and the heat of the scar on his hand, so he quickly pressed his sleeve to it. His Lord was drawing nearer; he began to rummage around for a long-sleeved tunic to change into, intending to hide this stained one from sight. He only just had time to put on the tunic when Sauron entered the room, his power almost palpable in his now quite fury - but the blood-stained one was still in his hands.

Harry clutched it to his chest, desperately panicking even as his Lord walked towards him with his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

What is that in your hand?

His long fingers extended to tear the piece of clothing from Harry -

- and suddenly all Harry felt was a fiery heat. The pain, which emanated from the very same scar which the Dark Lord had inflicted, was even worse than when he was angry. Harry felt blood trickling from the wound, and he had not yet noticed the reddened flesh on his Lord where their skin met. He didn't have time to, before Sauron backhanded him.

"You dare to try to harm me, you fool?" he sneered. "You forget yourself. I am your Master."

"It wasn't me!" Harry tried to plead with his Lord. "I don't know how it happened -"

"Then how do you explain this?"

He couldn't at first. He racked his mind for some explanation for this. He had rarely used his power in Sauron's presence, and he certainly had no conscious wish to do such a thing. Then he remembered a phrase uttered long ago to his Lord -"You will not harm my son."

At that very same moment, Sauron's blazing eyes, boring into his, widened is surprise before narrowing in suspicion.

How long have you known?

Unwillingly, Harry revealed all that he had tried to conceal - of the things he felt through his scar, of the moments of pain and pleasure he had received, of what he had done to take advantage of that connection.

"Does it matter, my Lord?" he asked quietly by the end of the probe. "They mean nothing to me. I only wish to please you."

And, oh yes, there it was, that wave of contentment. Harry closed his eyes, basking in that short moment of knowing he was right to say such a thing. It eclipsed his guilt over the fact that he had been quite honest in his words, and the parents he once loved were but memories of a family he would never choose over his Lord.

He opened his eyes at the low chuckle he heard just before him.

Sauron lifted the garment closer to his face to note the stain was indeed his charges' blood. His thumb passed over it lightly, without effect. Slowly, he brought up the blood-covered digit to his mouth, flicking out his tongue for a quick taste.

Harry stared up at him with questions in his eyes but not a word of them on his lips. Whatever came of this curious examination would be revealed to him when his Master pleased.

Bring me the glass from your night table.

Harry did so without hesitation, not looking back to see that Sauron had slipped a blade into his hand.

Hold the cup beneath your hand.

When he turned to Sauron again, he repressed the tremor of fear a the sight of the blade. It was not his place to question his Master's intent or to deny him anything. He extended his arm, held the cup beneath his hand as he was directed. Sauron came closer to him, gripping his hand with the tunic and slicing open his palm with a quick, precise motion. At that, Harry let out a gasp - but did not draw away. Never had his Lord used any sort of weapon on him. But Harry stared at his wound, transfixed at the blood dripping into the clear glass. When Sauron deemed that there was an appropriate amount in the cup, he covered the wound with the tunic. Harry obediently pressed against it, staving off further bleeding, even as he healed himself unconsciously, but he continued to stare at the glass now in his Lord's long-fingered hand.

Sauron lifted it to his lips and slowly imbibed the warm, precious fluid. Harry couldn't look away from the reddened lip, the pink tongue which darted out to take those last drops.

His fiery red eyes locked on Harry's once more. He held his hand out to the boy.

Come to me, child.

He wanted to argue, wanted to pull away from that hand which was still red from the last time they touched, but he took that step towards his Master, not willing to disobey.

And Sauron grabbed his hand, and there was no terrible burning where they touched, only warmth.

From that day on, every seven days, Harry bled for his Lord, watched his Lord feast on the small cup of blood. Never again did his Lord strike him, and never again did Harry's power, meager in comparison do the Dark One, bring harm to him.

For ten years, Harry stayed willingly locked within the tower. He grew into the young man his Lord expected him to be, physically as well as mentally. He read what his Lord wished him to, kept his appearance as his Lord desired. One year, on the anniversary of Sauron's victory in Minas Ithil, the day he and Harry came together, the Dark Lord tried to mark the boy again. It wasn't like the scar, the inadvertent mark he left, no, but a clear message to those few who saw Harry - a message of his status, below his Lord but above all else. Harry wanted it more than anything, a proper brand especially for him, because if that accidental scar caused him so much pleasure, who knew what the brand could do for him? Yet, for once, he cursed him magic which, against his will, healed the skin his Lord had marked.

During the tenth year, Harry learned of the Ring.

He had long watched his Lord's comings and goings. He saw the fearsome creature those fools outside of Mordor fought against and feared so, and he saw that creature change into the beautiful, powerful man who took him from the forest. Harry's powers grew over the years, under his Lord's approving eye, but he never learned to shape shift with such ease.

"Why have I never learned this skill, my Lord?" Harry asked one evening after watching Sauron change for the hundredth time. "I have mastered almost every other skill you thought would challenge me."

Sauron smirked and caught Harry's chin between his fingers. "You impudent boy," he chuckled. "It is beyond your magic." At Harry's disappointed expression, he laughed again and held his hand up. "You have never questioned why I always wear this ring."

"It is not my place to do so," he said simply, but stared at the band which glowed in the firelight almost hypnotically, knowing his Lord would satisfy his curiosity.

"I owe many of my victories to this. My powers are bound to it, and in turn, it has increased my strength a hundred-fold."

It was a testament not to Sauron's trust in Harry, but his certainty of his power over the boy that he revealed so much. Harry didn't understand the magnitude of the divulgence, not until that very night, after his Lord had left his quarters.

He dreamt of the Ring. He dreamt of his Lord - of his Lord's demise. In the dream, he saw that without the Ring, his Lord would not survive.

And when he woke, Harry knew implicitly, undoubtedly what he was born to do, what his fate was, having been marked by Sauron, spurned by Men, found by his Lord. The Valar showed him through the dream what his purpose was, had always been.

And he would have none of it. He would never try to harm his Lord, who had given him so much, who showed him compassion where Men showed him their backs. Harry knew the Ring held his Lord's power, his life. But he was still young, still foolish and selfish. Why should he destroy the one being who accepted him?

But when they began their weekly ritual a few days later, Harry didn't heal from the usual cut. Nothing changed, not the knife they used, not the depth of the cut… the only thing which changed was Harry.

"Why is the cut not healing?" Sauron demanded after drinking the blood. They no longer used anything to stave the bleeding because after a few years, Harry healed quickly enough. Now blood was dripping down his arm, onto the floor, into his clothing. Harry's heart beat quickly in his chest, not used to seeing so much blood on his person. Sauron grabbed Harry's hand and pressed his thumb over the wound, sealing it with what felt like fire.

He dared not cry out. He dared not pull his hand away as his Lord scrutinized him. He dared not look into his Lord's eyes, not when he suddenly remembered the dream he had night after night since he learned of the ring.

And Sauron, unwilling to sacrifice the pleasure of his young ward, fed his blood to the boy from that day on. Knowing that the boy could no longer heal himself, he tried to mark him again - and succeeded. And though the scar would hurt like a heated rod, the mark was never warmer than the grasp of a hand on him when his Master-

But Harry could only go as far as telling Frodo of the mark, that Harry was branded. He couldn't admit how he would purr to Harry sometimes, "Let me see it," and how he would roll back his sleeve and do his best not to shudder in pleasure when his Lord pressed his tongue to it.

He pressed his hand to the ghost of the mark, trying to repress the memory.

"Is it still there?" Frodo asked, noting the gesture. "Does it hurt?"

Harry pushed his sleeve up carefully and extended his arm to Frodo. "You can see it there, though faintly. You can still feel his dark power."

Unconsciously, Frodo reached out his hand and pressed his fingers to the place where the shadow of the mark still rested. It was the same fiery heat of the ring, the same terrifying power.

"Where were you when he fell?"

"Still in the tower. I was only a threat to him without that sense of loyalty I had for him. And I amused him enough that he had no desire to dispose of me in the fight.

"It was possibly the most important moment of my life. I was freed from him, and freed from the fate assigned to me by the Valar - or so I believed. I was in my quarters, resting, awaiting his return, when suddenly I felt a cold unlike any I had ever known. No winter I had spent in the forest in my youth could compare with that bitter chill which seemed to start from within myself.

"Yet in that cold, I sensed the warmth of my Lord, and he beckoned to him. I tried to stand, to go to him, from wherever he called for me, but all strength left me, as it left him when Isildur did what I could not. His last bit of power made the tower crumble, and I barely made it out alive. Sometimes, I wished I hadn't. I wished I perished with him. I searched everywhere for a sign of the Ring… I… wanted to restore him," he confessed quietly.

"And now I… it's just… there are some things I don't understand. Sauron and I, as much as either of us may want to deny it, our souls are intertwined. I felt it so clearly when he Fell. I felt it through the scar, through his mark, within my very core.

"So I can't help but wonder… will my life be sacrificed to save Middle Earth?"

"Is that why you've told me all this?" Frodo asked carefully. "Because you believe you will die?"

"Yes… I suppose that is it after all. Someone must know. Their shame of rejecting a child of Man in such a way has kept my existence a secret. In a way, I don't really exist - as far as anyone knows, I died before Sauron attacked Gondor all those years ago.

"I can't help but be bitter at the fact that I am so hated by them, and it is in my hands that their fates rest."

"At least if you never had the love of all those you must save, know that you have mine," Frodo promised, his words racing away from his lips.

Harry's eyes lit up for the first time since he began his tale. He reached his hand out to the Hobbit, and Frodo could feel just the barest hint of Harry's magic touching him again.

"Let's get something to eat, shall we? We'll be quite busy tomorrow."