A/N: This story will be updated periodically. If you have ideas or things you would like to see in this story please let me know. If you like it, encouragement is welcome at any time. This is inspired after reading Stigmata by InferiorBeing with elements inspired by other stories I enjoy. If you like this, please try InferiorBeing's stories, as they are why this story is here at all.

Please note- this is going to be HPDM. This will be dark, evil Harry. This will have events that could be found disturbing or make folk uneasy. You have been warned.

Disclaimer for entire story: Elements of this story are from InferiorBeing's story, Stigmata. The characters and setting are from JK Rowling's mind. I own nothing and write this for pure enjoyment.

Prologue: The Savior

The courtroom was overbearingly hot. It was the height of summer, but nobody would miss this trial for anything. In fact, the crowd spilled out into the corridor, pushing in on one another, doing their best to crane their necks to see the single chair bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. Benches lined the walls like muddle bleachers.

In the front of the room was the Wizengamot bench. It was almost entirely empty- the lack of both Albus Dumbledore, greatest wizard of the century, and of Cornelius Fudge, minister of magic- not a great man by a long shot, but a victim of the times, a puppet of the dark lords that swept through the wizarding world. Mrs. Abbott was absent as well as Mr. Grissom and Mr. Stephens, and the rest of the Wizengamot had scars both physical and mental. Dolores Umbridge was, miraculously, still alive, though much cowed from her tenure at Hogwarts and from the war that followed. By miracle or curse, she wasn't presiding over the trial itself. That belonged to Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, who would be asking questions of the accused.

A scuff and the creaking of a door announced the accused being brought in. He was heavily sedated. Runes glittered and shone over the shackles attached to his wrists and ankles, cuffs wrought in silver and iron. His hair was lanky and reached to his waist, dark locks swinging and covering his face. Even with the potion and runes to keep his power at bay, he walked with his head held high, a smirk gracing his features as if he knew something incredibly funny about each and every one of them. Cold green eyes swept over the crowd and sent a collective shudder through the attendees. The twelve aurors leading him in strapped him down in the chair, specially carved and toiled with more runes that flared to life as they locked him in. It was only then that the figure threw his head back to reveal a hauntingly familiar lightening scar atop his forehead.

The crowd was quiet as a potion master stepped forward. Half of the aurors forced the man's mouth open as not one, not three, but seven drops of potion were trickled down his throat- Veritaserum. One drop encouraged truth, three and one was compelled to tell the truth. Seven would have a normal person babbling their deepest, darkest desires for all to hear. But this man was not normal, had never been normal. Not since he was singled out over eighteen years ago.

Kingsley raised a weary hand and banged a gavel to call the trial to order. It was not needed to silence the court, yet. "This trial of the Wizengamot is now in session." He turned dark brown eyes to the man in the center of the room. "What is your name?"

The man's smile got wider, more vicious. "I am the Savior."

As the crowd jeered and sobbed and raised its collective fist, Kingsley banged the gavel again, this time for quiet and order. He didn't bother raising his voice, just kept banging the tiny hammer until the crowd settled to a soft murmur. "That is not what I meant and you know it. What is your birth name?"

The green eyes flashed, a cold fire burning in the depths. "I was born Harold James Potter."

Sharp raps of the hammer had the crowd settling in again. "Are you aware of why you are on trial?"

"For love."

One woman stood and screeched out, "Liar! Traitor! You murderer!" The figure didn't even blink- the woman's husband pulled her down with a small hush, his eyes sad and tearful. Their bright red heads of hair disappeared back into the crowd, watching their once-almost-son stare at them like they were maggots in his food.

Kingsley continued. "You are on trial for crimes against the wizarding world." He pulled a slip of paper down in front of him and read off of it. "Twelve-thousand, eight hundred and twenty-two counts of murder, fifteen-thousand, one-hundred and eighty-three counts of torture, seven-hundred accounts of arson, conspiracy to overthrow the ministry of magic, and inciting dangerous beasts to rebellion and destruction." He slides the paper forward and continues, looking up at the once-innocent boy. He didn't even know what had happened to the boy he had met at his relatives' house ages ago. "We are not determining guilt or innocence- we are determining truth. If, through your own words, you have been found to willingly participate in these crimes, you will be sentenced at a later date. If, by your own words, you are found to have been influenced or controlled in any way, you will be released."

He waited again for the crowd to settle. The boy-who-once-lived didn't utter a sound- the sedatives would last well over eight hours, and the veritaserum half again as long.

With the crowd finally quieting, he spoke again. "Rumors were printed in the paper that you had a connection with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Is this true?"

"Yes."

"Did they cause visions?"

"Yes."

"Did they influence your behavior?"

"Yes."

Kingsley paused to allow the crowd to murmur and consider whether or not to hope that the Savior was a figment, that their boy-who-lived hadn't done everything of his own free will. Then, he spoke again. "How did it influence your behavior?"

The figure considered for a moment, then spoke again. "He taught me his side, why he was doing what he chose. He explained the difference between pureblood and mudblood. He accepted my preferences, encouraged me to love." He smirked again at the whispers taking off again, blinking as Shacklebolt called for order again.

"How did You-Know-Who communicate with you?"

"Through my dreams."

"Did he force you to obey him?"

"No."

"Did you ever resist him?"

"Yes."

"What changed?"

"I fell in love."

The crowd whispered and shifted uneasily, and Kingsley gave them a moment before beginning the string of questions that would unveil the death of Harry Potter, boy-who-lived, and the birth of the Savior.