(A/N: I saw this quote-
Friends ask why you're crying...Best friends (and boy/girl friends) already have the shovel ready to bury the person that made you cry
-and immediately thought of Huma. Thus a ficlet was born.)
Uma raced down the pier, her braids flying wildly out behind her, both hands pressed to her face, her shoulders heaving. People scrambled out of her way as she passed; those that didn't were jostled roughly to the side.
"Hey, Uma, what happened?" Gil yelled after her, but she ran on, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun.
"Uma," Harry said quietly, the Scottish accent thickening and his voice softening as it always did when he was angry. "Tell me the scum that made you cry, and I'll hook them and throw their bloody carcasses overboard before you can say 'sea witch'."
In spite of herself, Uma smiled tremulously.
Harry removed his lacy (and rather filthy) handkerchief from his pocket, twirled it suavely between his fingers, and handed it to Uma with a deep bow and a flourish. She wiped her face and blew her nose with a sound like a goose honking. A nearby group of girls giggled.
With a ferocious snarl, Harry whirled on them, his hook point flashing evilly in the sun as he brandished it in their faces. The girls screamed and ran. Harry took two menacing steps toward them, then turned back to Uma, one eyebrow raised.
"Impressive," she said approvingly. "I'm glad I kept you all these years."
Gil came rushing up.
"Hey, Uma, what were you so upset about before?"
"Does it matter?" Harry interrupted. "Or should I say, does it matter and do you want a hook through your guts?"
"Never mind," Gil said hurriedly.
Uma had to laugh.