Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Star Trek or Harry Potter. They belong to J.J Abrams, Gene Roddenberry and J.K Rowling.

Warnings: Slash (male/male pairings), threesome, AU, violence, language, MAJOR ANGST, character deaths, some blood, psychological/anxiety disorders, sexual situations, etc.

Pairings: Spock/Harry/Kirk, hints of Sulu/Chekov and Scotty/Uhura

58. Blood

If Harry was asked what he hated most in life, many would be surprised that it wasn't Voldemort considering the man had been the bane of his existence and the reason his life was such a mess. No, there was one thing that Harry hated more than even Voldemort and that was blood. It didn't make him sick or squeamish, didn't make him faint or light headed. But seeing it made him think, made him angry and bitter, regretful.

But considering his job, it seemed foolish to hate blood and perhaps Harry would revise his answer. It wasn't just any blood that the wizard hated, rather it was the blood of his friends or people he cared for that he hated. Yes, that was the proper answer and the truth. It was the idea of that thick, crimson liquid draining from the body of a loved one; of slowly stealing their life away that drudged up the darker emotions within him.

Spock had been hurt, had been bleeding before Harry went on his rampage slaughtering and destroying everything around him, his magic as wild as his emotions. He lost control and everyone seemed to suffer for it. When he finally snapped out of his chaotic haze, Harry had immediately gone back and tried to heal Spock. But it seemed fate liked to mock him and spit on him. Despite his impressive display, his magic had gone back to being fickle and useless. All he could do was press his hand to the wound and pray that he lived while Jim managed to find their communicators.

They were beamed safely back up, but it was a flurry of motion after that. Harry felt dazed and out of sorts as he watched Spock being carried away by the medical team, McCoy's voice issuing orders while Jim yelled at the wizard, screamed and blamed him. And it was his fault, Harry knew it was. He had enough magic to kill off a whole village and lay waste to their lands, but he couldn't even heal Spock.

He vaguely remembered being escorted to Sick Bay, barely getting a glance of Spock on the operating table before he was placed on another bed. There was a whirlwind of colors, sounds and movement going on around him as many worked on trying to save Spock, but Harry felt numb. He glanced down at himself realizing that he still had Robbins blood on him and now Spock's as well. His body was a morbid canvas smeared in green and red that dried and stuck to his flesh, burned into him so that he could never forget.

Nothing registered to Harry, not the nurse who was checking him over and cutting away his ruined uniform or Chapel asking him if he was okay. It was like he wasn't even there, he could focus on nothing but the blood on his hands. The flakes of red and green that were crusting over as it dried. And even when his body was cleaned, his skin once more visible and spotless, Harry knew better. He could still see the blood, still remember Robbins' face before his throat was slit; remember Spock's rage and Jim's screaming. He would never forget, not matter how long he lived. Harry hated blood because it was like acid, scarring him for life.

Short but to the point. Reviews are appreciated! Thanks!

~Seth